A Hero's Journey

On Sunday, I slogged up the hill to The Industrial Wall with my buddies Dan and Kate. The forecast was enormously optimistic, calling for partly sunny skies and temps near 50. That sounded like a Spring Break foray to Cancun after the sub zero ice-fest we've recently had in Boulder. Dan wanted to work on a route called Vogue and I was game to get outside after being resigned to the gym ever since returning from KY. Kate didn't necessarily want to climb, but she'd been out of town for the past 10 days and was psyched to cheer her boyfriend on the super-project.

I had talked to Dan on Saturday night so we could make plans. I was optimistic, and knew that the wall only got sun from roughly 11:00 until 3:00, so we'd have to make the most of the warming daylight. I asked him, "Should I should swing by at 8:30, 9:00?" We planned for 9:30 and a full day of rock climbing. I went to sleep with my bag packed, and a building excitement for climbing at one of Boulder's premiere crags (just after Movement Climbing and Fitness). Then I woke up at 10:00 on Sunday morning.

Goddamnit. There are few things worse than waking up and already being late. There's no relaxed cup of coffee, no patient review of the headlines. There's running. There's rushing. There's poor sandwich making. And there's me, looking at my phone, volume turned to "Silent" in an attempt at restful sleep the night before, shaking my head.

I suppose the cold that I'd been fighting explains the fact that my body demanded, and ultimately received, a full 11 hours of sleep. At least I didn't require 13, because then I'd have really been late. My Subaru raced towards Dan and Kate's place in Eldo while I worked the Blackberry. I'd be there soon, I told them. Thanks for waiting, I apologized. Look, it's Blake, I exclaimed.

Blake was driving out of the canyon, away from the climbing. We waved each other down to a stop and our cars managed a full road block on the highway. No one else was driving there at the moment, so there were no fatalities, nor even honked horns. Blake was pissed and complaining, in large part due to two particular stimuli. First, he couldn't find anyone to climb with, Boulder being filled with such soft wankers. Second, that's what Blake does. It's almost endearing in its predictability. Gym ropes suck. Weather sucks. The job market sucks. I suck. Oh well.

I tried to alleviate his first source of irritation by inviting him to head up the hill with us. He figured it might be worth a try, and turned his car around. We met Dan and Kate, they seemed perfectly unfazed with my (and now our) late arrival, and we started the hour-long slog through the snow towards the train tracks high on the mountain above.

The Industrial Wall is about as remote a sport climbing destination as I'll visit. The first part of the hike is a road, and then there's some stomping through a meadow, and then you've got to head straight up the side of a mountain to some train tracks. That sounds easy, but after a couple of weeks of snowy weather, the path was anything but clear. Fortunately for me, I came armed with gaiters to ensure I looked like a jackass, and approach shoes with a tread as bald as Telly Savalas' head. These ensured I'd slip-slide my way in the general direction of "up" without much discernible progress. On the bright side, I only lost my footing and hit the ground once. Sad, thought, that this tumble ended with me in a yucca plant, blood oozing from three precise holes in my left palm. In their own sanguine language, they said three words:

Get. New. Shoes.

When I finally arrived at the train tracks, I smiled in the satisfaction that ahead was only a short train tunnel (one can just see the light coming from the other end), and then the crag. (Yes, there was the minor detail that I'd have to survive this dark walk, as trains have the unpleasant propensity to barrel through from time to time.) Dan and I waited and talked for a moment, each happy to wait for Kate as she, too, slogged up the final stretch. Blake had already come and gone, his general annoyance manifest as rabbit quick steps up the hill, his new boots allowing grip. Just as Kate was about to pop over the final steep bit and arrive for the home stretch, Blake walked back towards us, appearing like a ghost out of the tunnel.

He'd been through to the other side, looked up at the crag, and decided that it was too windy, too cold, and that the sun, in fact, had given way to snow. The weather man was a goddamn fascist prick bastard, and he was going home. Adios. On the bright side, an hour prior while we were still at the car he had seen my ski poles in my trunk, and used them to ease his ascent up the hill. I asked for their return to ease my pending descent, thereby completing my transition from Magnificent Bastard to dork. With my full regalia of backpacker nerditude, I waved Blake adieu and started through the tunnel, Dan and Kate just behind.

As we made our way up the cliff, it became apparent that in spite of the predictability of Blake's disdain, his observation was 100% correct. It was COLD! And snowing. And windy. And what-the-hell-we-shoulda-just-gone-to-Movement-this-really-does-suck. Watching the snow flakes come down with ever increasing ferocity, the three remaining rock pioneers resigned to finish our tea and call it a day. Dan held out some hope that the clouds were breaking, but Kate and I looked at each other and shook off his optimism. Our psyche was gone, and we were ready to throw in the towel. We headed back through the tunnel, risking literal train-wreck a third time. As soon as we popped out into the light, though, Dan looked up towards the hill and saw sun instead of snowflakes. "Guys!" Vogue looked like it might, in fact, be viable if only we'd believe, only give a little more. What was in it for Kate and Me? An allusion to JFK and McNamara, we'd come this far...why not throw a few more bodies at the problem. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Dan and I both tried to do the warm up pitch with wooden toes and numb fingers, and Kate just slumped into a heap. An artist, her original plan was to sketch, but her fingers were too cold to even grip the pencil. Remember the light that was in such short supply? Well, it was fading. Nonetheless, Dan booted up and went to work on his project. He was in full Rifle mode; working the moves and taking an understandably-yet-painfully long burn. I was bundled in goose down, but even still, as he lowered to the ground after his climb, I was finished. Dan was roundly thankful for the team's sacrifice, and for that I'm appreciative. I don't mind giving up a day to a buddy, but it's nice when he notices.

With that, we slid back down the hill into the growing dusk. We threw a few snowballs and shared some stories of mountain lion attacks as we walked through the woods, eventually arriving back at my trusty steed, Abby the Subaru. Dan and Kate then had friends to their house, and any sacrifice I might have made during the climbing day was repaid in bourbon, ginger bread, and roasted chicken. The scales were fully made equal, and I smiled at the interesting friends I've made.