At roughly 9:00 AM, I blink my eyes in a state of semi-catatonic
awareness. I crawl out of the back of the pickup to tinkle. Julie
yells at me for fluffing the covers. In a nearby tent, our friends
Wally the Promising Novice and Gwen the Big Fraidy Cat cuddle
annoyingly. I think "It's their fault we had a nice time last
night drinking wine and eating barbequed flesh instead of retiring
at dusk and hitting the trail in the wee hours for a grueling
forced march to a distant spire," and proceed to tinkle.
At approximately 11:00 AM, after much coffee and many donuts, we
bid farewell to our gentle friends and start up the trail towards
Goat Dome, a pleasant spot with numerous short bolted face climbs.
We reach the cutoff to the dome at about 11:30, and I pop the question.
"How 'bout we go do Orbit on Snow Creek Wall? We're almost halfway
there, and it's only 5.8, and only about 5 pitches before it
starts to get easy?"
And, silently, to myself:
"And besides, there's a full moon tonight, and it's been consistently
warm and clear for many weeks, so that in the very possible event of
a nighttime descent, we won't need headlamps or long-sleeve clothing."
Julie foolishly agreed to my request, and we continued up the trail
and up the climbers path to the base of the cliff. I took the large
coiled hissing rattlesnake that briefly blocked our passage as a
good omen; Julie was not quite as psyched.
We roped up with my two 10mm single ropes - overkill, but not a
serious handicap since I climb about a grade or two harder than
she does so I don't mind the extra weight. The first pitch involved
general 4th-5th class farting about to reach a tree. Next came the
5.8 chimney pitch. Mostly easy, but Julie had to take the pack off
and attach it to one rope so I could simultaneously belay her and
lug the pack (which she periodically dislodged from the chimney).
The third pitch started with a traverse up a huge blocky ramp
under a bulge, and then finished with a short but very clean and
pumpy (for 5.8) set of parallel vertical hand/finger cracks. It
was here that I finally came to understand the beauty of double
ropes. The pitch had "rope drag" and "rope chopped in half by
sharp rock edge" written all over it. But with two ropes, I was
able to climb the meandering pitch in confidence, with little
drag, and with pro at chest level when I needed it.
As Julie finished the third pitch (no falls on what I thought
was pretty strenuous), a party we had seen earlier on the climb
passed below us on their way out, yelling helpful hints as they
sauntered off to safety. We only had two pitches to go before
the topo indicated that things got easy, and we were climbing
at a reasonable if not blinding pace, so I proceeded calmly
upward on thin crack and face moves in search of the next belay.
Unfortunately, the best belay spot I could find was a teeny,
exposed stance with two rusty spinners and a so-so nut placement.
I pieced together an anchor and Julie started up. But the previous
strenuous pitch had taken its toll on her dainty biceps, and she
didn't have the oomph to get over one small overlap. Time passed.
Julie stopped having fun at this point, and I started cranking
in the tension, happy that we were surely near the top. She reached
the stance in a state of disarray. Since I had run out of slings on
the last pitch, I did not have a good place for her to clip into,
and when I did, she was all twisted around, and time continued to
pass in large gulps and swallows. Evening was getting nigh, and
I relieved her of the pack, disentangled myself from the hateful
belay, and proceeded up, toward what I presumed would be the easy stuff.
Not one but two pitches later, we were at the beginning of the
easy stuff, marked on the topo only as a vague sea of chickenheads.
Evening was even nigher, and I realized that we would certainly not
be back at main trail by dark. I led up through mostly easy but
occasionally mossy chickenheads for three more pitches, each time
realizing that I could have used more rope than I did if I had only
been able to maintain audio contact.
We were at a sandy ledge amidst much assorted topography as all
colors turned to greys and blacks. The belay anchor was a single
cheesy Camalot. The proscribed route was nowhere to be found. I
started up, placed a friend low in a dirty crack, and contemplated
a difficult step onto a steep knobby slab. Then the accident report
passed through my mind: "Fall, off route, poor protection, poor
anchor, climbing after dark. . ."
I backed off and instead traversed right toward a steep dihedral/flare.
I found some solid protection at the base and proceeded up, pack and
all. A bomber hex over my head, a bit of grunting, and I was at the
top at last. Julie cruised up it (to my great pride and joy - she
hates "big blocky things" over her head.)
We snuggled briefly [mushy stuff deleted] and carefully assembled
the gear into descent format. It was a clear night and we could see
somewhat, but the moon had not yet appeared. Complicating the descent
was the fact that I was dizzy with thirst after giving Julie most of
the water on the way up. Also there was the little problem that Julie
moves pretty slowly when in a sea of sandy loose third-class talus.
But I had been down the descent gully once before in the daytime,
so I at least knew we wouldn't get lost.
We started down the wrong gully, a fourth class rock chute into hell.
Sixty meters or so down, I subconsciously realized my error, but
figured, in my weakened, wobbly, dehydrated state, that we could
get back on track by continuing down another 50m and traversing
onto the regular path. Kind of dumb, in retrospect - we should have
just backed up and done it right. So we roped up, and Julie led
down, placing her first ever piece of protection at the one spot
where we each started to accelerate towards the looming abyss.
Following, I grabbed the piece to arrest my fall, and continued
down to join her at her marginally stable stance. With the abyss
seriously looming, I decided to try traversing over to where I
thought the descent route should be.
I passed the ridge dividing the true descent gully from the gully
from hell, sat amongst some trees, and belayed Julie over. I was
really parched and wobbly, and a bit chilly in my tank top. We
shared another tender moment, I closed my eyes to relax and attain
a touch of mental clarity, and we pressed on.
As we started down the true "path," we were greeted by the Goats of
Snow Creek Wall. A beautiful omen. Ma, Pa, and Baby goat came up to
visit, moving in and out of the rocks and up and down the trail. I
was so thirsty that I wanted to suckle at the breast of Ma goat, and
I pondered the thought deeply.
The moon finally appeared, lighting the entire landscape. We moved
slowly, with Julie crabwalking the entire way. The goats might as
well have been unicorns - it was that cosmic a moment.
Halfway down the gully is a sidetrack to a steep stream which flows
down from an inaccessible trail-less ridge. I decided that the risk
of Giardia was minor in comparison with the hazard of negotiating the
upcoming exposed sections in my current state, even if it meant that
the cool unicorns would probably turn back into goats. Julie wasn't
dehydrated, and she chose to hold out until we reached our water
stash at the base of the climb.
After drinking my fill, I was finally confident that we would be OK.
The night was warm, the moon was full, and there was no need to hurry
or push Julie faster than she could safely crab-walk.
All along, the goats moved up and down the trail to show us the way.
At one blind corner before a brief exposed rock traverse, Pa goat calmly
stood ten feet above us, making sure we did not miss the cutoff. Later,
the goats ran down a section which we chose to rappel, and descended an
awkward 4 meter chimney in brilliant form. Our initial fear of them
pelting us with rocks gave way to sheer admiration and gratitude.
We reached our cache at the base, picked our way slowly through the
shadowy forest to the maintained hiking trail, and walked the easy 2km
out to the truck just in time to see the sky brightening in the east.
We decided not to try and make it into work that morning.
[This article was originally posted on rec.climbing, and later on the Climbing Archive website. It is reprinted here with the author's permission.]
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