The Rocker Block is the famed feature on Moonlight Buttress that marks the
beginning of the hard climbing. Below this pinnacle, a perch the size of a mere
café table, are 400 feet of relatively tame climbing above another sweeping 200-
foot drop to the Virgin River. As I stood on The Block, I looked directly into the
wildly intimidating crux corner above. The small rack of micro cams was perfectly
appropriate if I wanted to send, but it still felt wildly insufficient as protection
against the looming layback corner above. I knew some of the worst jams, even
stuffed to the hilt, would leave my fingernails still partially visible. The four
additional pitches of 5.12, each invisibly stacked above the crux, weighed on me. I
thought I would need to sit down. It even occurred to me that I might burst into
tears.
Over the past year, I’ve been trying to push my climbing limits. I want to be safe and
reasonable, but those longer, more demanding routes now seem like pressing goals.
My attempt at freeing Moonlight Buttress in May was the most recent expression of
this bold hope. The experience left me utterly in awe. While I was standing below
the crux, my perspective shifted from first person to third. It seemed like I was
watching my life as an outside observer, and it made me so happy. Sure, there are
people who climb WAY harder. But comparison to those with more isn’t the point.
I’ve found what works for me. I’ve got the right amount of Gong Show in my life, and
the results have left me feeling in balance, and motivated for more.
I’m talking about a Gong Show of the climbing variety. The Show takes many forms
- the guy on his cell phone losing his shit in the Starbucks line, for example, but
that’s not exactly what I’m talking about. The Gong Show in climbing, at least according to my definition, is the Zone of Proximal Development. These are routes at the limit of my personal abilities. I’ve got to completely seduce with my own wandering mind, but in even attempting to
do so, I’ll find success. I’m finding so much value in the routes, pitches, or trips that
are as much about quality climbing as they are about pushing these limits. Some refer to this sensation as engaging the enemy. As much a battle cry, it’s a plea to sit with the
inherent discomfort of the moment, while allowing everything else to fade into the
ether.
When I was standing on The Rocker Block, it occurred to me that I was fully in my
own Gong Show. I was hanging out on what Mike Pennings calls “the best free climb
in the world.” Mike has crushed more standard bearing climbing than just about
anyone, and a route that draws praise from a man who has sent the entire planet is
good enough for me. It wasn’t about the quality of the pitches (though many of
them are so good that they define the "Q" word) so much as it was about the power
of the place and the magnitude of the mission. I felt tiny, but at the same time
confident that if I could just keep my shit together and rely on lessons previously learned,
I’d be fine.
I didn’t free the Moonlight on my first attempt. In fact, I fell on several pitches.
Before I had a second chance, Zion’s torrential spring rains chased me out of the
soggy campground and out towards my flight home from Vegas. That’s life. I’d like
to get an opportunity to get back and try again, but who knows? At least I know
that I tried. Sure, I took a bit of a beating. I fell, I took. Everyone wants to believe
that they’ll send every route, on-sight and without the slightest hesitation. If that’s
indeed the goal, you’ll never fall, you’ll never fail, and you’ll never grow. You learn
the greatest lessons when the routes you attempt push you back. When they’re just
hard enough to leave your mind expanded in time for the descent, you’ve got the
right amount of Gong Show.
