The Road to Yosemite

I’ve neglected the blog lately, it’s true. I’m back though, trying to do a better job with Abaluba from the road. That sounds like a losing proposition. Adventures through the Colorado Plateau, SugarHouse area of SLC, Reno/Tahoe, and finally, Yosemite, are going to leave me with less steady internets, and we all know how I’ve done over the last few weeks while I was still in Boulder. A man’s allowed to try, though, so bear with me.

I’m out on the road until mid June with my buddy Josh. You might remember that I applied to grad school at the end of 2009, though in February or so of this year, found out that Berkeley didn’t desire my academic services. Immediately at the time, Josh accepted me into the Finkelstein School of Granite, and classes have just begun.

My first course in this prestigious area of study took place in Eldorado Springs. Imagine my surprise when I was climbing the towering Naked Edge with Josh. Here I thought I’d be climbing exclusively on that stone who’s grandeur was once described as “King Daddy,” and the first thing we got on was sandstone. Good thing it’s one of the best routes in the country. The Naked Edge, towering over the entire Front Range, snakes up a perfect arête for six pitches, and delivers move after move of memorable exposure. I managed to do it without falling, though there were times when the insecure climbing left me feeling like I might be dangling from the end of our rope at any moment. Josh had done the route before, so he was content to give me the lead on the starting pitch, a remarkable finger crack just five feet from that namesake edge. I also got to link that into the second pitch, a bit of a wandering arête/slab pitch that culminated 140 feet or so with a committing move above great gear, but with the threat of a big fall if I didn’t dance the required dance.

After one more lead (a wild stemming chimney) and two other leads by Josh, we were standing on top of Boulder County, planning our descent down the East Slabs while locking eyes with a proud peregrine. Back down to the ground, we headed for the house to pack his van, and then took off Westward for a trip down into the intimidating Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

Hades. If Yosemite is that King Daddy, Zeusian stone, then The Black is made up of rock straight from the lithifying river Styx. A gash, straight down into the Earth’s mantel, and the only way in is down a loose, tick-infested gully. Don’t worry, everywhere you step, there’s likely frothing poison ivy. Once you finally make it down to the start of your climb, whether that’s at the shore of the thundering Gunnison River or on a buttress higher up the gully, the walls look down at you and ask if you’d like a beating. No option but to take it like a man and get your whooping. The rock is loose, the protection occasionally scarce, and the routefinding difficult, we managed to tick off a classic called Comic Relief and then get so hopelessly off route on another that we then just tucked tail and headed for Grand Junction.

Perhaps the best story of our time in the ditch was as we were realizing our mistake on a route called Debutante’s Ball. We found ourselves on a sloping ledge, loose blocks all waiting to cut our ropes like daggers if even looked at crookedly, and the only way up was out an exfoliating pegmatite band that looked deadly loose. Retreat! We managed to find other people’s bail stations, so we only ended up leaving a little cord, one nut, and a biner, but no sooner were we back to where we’d started the climb did we realize that now we had to walk up and out that same S.O.B. gully. Normally, you at least get the glory of just topping out the climb and waddling over to your camp for a beer. Insult to injury, I suppose, except that no one was hurt in the making of this adventure.

And now we’re on I80, Reno in our sights, but without AC, the van is cooking us. The Death Star is high in the sky, and we’re just hoping to race it to the state line before we’re turned to leather.

Crew stagnation. It’s a thought I’ve been toying with a lot lately. Last year was my best year of climbing, by far, and I almost entirely ascribe credit to my friends. They were the ones who got me motivated to train in the gym harder, to get on routes that might have felt over my head, and who patiently belayed me as I made the slow and necessary progress to break into the 5.13 level.

Josh is a similar motivating force. He’s focused near singularly on the granite, in his mind the holiest of stones. I’ve opened my mind to the possibility of long free routes done on gear, and on stepping up to those classic routes that comprise so much of our lore. The generation behind us laid a foundation for visionary routes, and though the culture now emphasizes the hard sport routes, I’m glad to be getting back to my roots. I feel that I’m straddling a good balance at the moment. I’m trying to get out and do those seminal lines that have stood the test of time, but at the same time, embracing the fact that hard sport climbing is where we out our marbles these days.

Right now, I’m in more of a classic phase, but I realize that the two play in harmony. Shit. It helps to be strong. To know that you can put a harder to bed without as much fuss. And I’m hoping that the balance I’m feeling, one toe on either area of focus, stays with me as I try to tiptoe up the great white walls of America’s climbing Mecca – Yosemite.