The First Trad Lead

I've been meaning to write about this since it happened. The circumstances that surrounded the whole situation were nothing short of magical. The story begins with me sitting behind my desk, eyes dried and tired from editing countless social media posts. A knight in shining armor, in the form of a text message buzzed on the glass desktop. It was from my friend asking something like, "Dude, you going to Red Rock Rendezvous?" I promptly googled Red Rock Rendezvous and registered immediately for two traditional climbing classes, some yoga, and community service.

Nuts. Wedge them in to cracks.

For those who may not be acquainted with the term "trad" climbing or "traditional" climbing, it means placing your anchors as you climb, with the goal of taking them with you when you have finished. In other words, these anchors are not bolted to the rock, they consist of cams and nuts that the climber wedges into cracks and constrictions. The guiding principal is to leave the rocks (and nature) as unblemished as possible, like the hiker's "Leave No Trace" mantra. What is so appealing to me about trad climbing is that the emphasis isn't about just getting to the top of the pitch, it's all about how one gets there. Google Yvon Chouinard if you want to read more about ethics.

Jon placing a cam on Soupy Sales 5.6
There may be a dog photoshopped into this picture.

Red Rock Rendezvous is an incredible experience for any level climber. Maybe I'll write another blog post specifically about it further down the road, but for now I'll focus on one class. This class was lead by an Outdoor Research Athlete, Nancy Jackson. It was titled "Trad for Beginners" or something similar. I went into the class having read the John Long and Bob Gaines Book Climbing Anchors, so I figured some of the same material would be taught. I knew it would be a hot one as we hiked down from the second pullout; I was already thirsty. 

We gathered in the shade beneath creosote bushes as Nancy went through every piece of climbing protection she owned and explained the details of how each worked. She had a story to go with each one, discussed using the gear in various scenarios, and explained how it could be misused. Climbers have an inexplicable bond with their gear. When Reinhold Messner solo climbed Everest, he wrote of having conversations with his backpack and ice axe. Even when I snap the gate of the carabiner on my car keys, I feel a fraction of what it's like to clip the rope a hundred feet up. Nancy's climbing gear was an extension of herself, and that came through in her stories and lessons.

Creosote Bush

I spoke with her about my experience and told her I was ready to lead, even though the thought of actually racking up and stepping off the ground was still unfathomable. She offered to let me use her gear on the left-leaning flake 5.4 ish route, but the buses were already waiting to cart us back to our campsites. On the dusty hike back, Nancy told me she was staying in Vegas for another day or two after the event. She offered to take me climbing so that I could give leading a try. The night was filled with hilarious shenanigans, just the right amount of beer, and the anticipation of a new door opening.

After a lengthy approach in the desert heat, we rested in the shady corner of a crag called Romper Room and took our packs off. Nancy waved to a few climbers she knew who were several pitches up the adjacent wall. We started with the first crack named Guise and Gals 5.4. Nancy tied in and it crossed my mind that I had better be on point with my belay skills. She lead with impeccable technique, flow, and confidence. After she set up the rope, I climbed up on top rope and looked at where she placed her gear. The next lap, still on top rope, I mock lead, and placed the nuts and cams myself. Nancy climbed the route again, and critiqued the pieces. Some were good, a couple could have been better. Back on the ground she said she thought I was ready.

Guise and Gals from the belay. Photo Credit: Sherilyn Valencia

I could have climbed this route a hundred more times on top rope. I wanted to. Instead, I pulled the rope and racked up. My mind was swimming with advice, overanalyzing everything; I forgot which pieces of protection I would need to use. What size nut was that again? I stepped off the ground. None of that mattered. I climbed past wherever I had placed the first piece on the mock climb, and arrived at a better stance a few feet higher. I placed a cam, readjusted it, readjusted it again, and then clipped the rope. I felt safe, I felt excited, but I still didn't want to fall. The route follows a dihedral for about eighty feet. On the top rope laps, I laybacked the crack, but on this lead climb, I could not get enough of my body inside the crack. A few times, I picked the wrong cam, and had to comb through the rack for a different size. I was too focused to feel afraid. My focus was so laser like, I don't remember most of what happened between stepping off the ground and clipping the anchors. I was truly living in the moment.

When Nancy lowered me back to the ground, she asked how I felt. I said something goofy like, "I want to feel like this all the time." I was trying to play it cool in front of her, but she saw through it and warmly congratulated me. She knew exactly how excited I was. That day I lead another route called Buzz Buzz 5.4 and experienced the same feeling as before. On the hike back to the car, I felt like a different person, mentally stronger, and much more confident. Each pitch I've climbed since has added to this feeling, and it's all due to Nancy. She could have spent that day climbing Red Rock classics with her friends, but instead ran laps on short easy routes with me. I'm forever grateful.

I try to think about this day from time to time. The freedom I felt from climbing and Nancy's kindness remind me of what it means to be human, and a climber. I hope I can give someone the same experience some day, to pay it forward, and by doing so, say another 'thank you' to Nancy.

Looking at the second pitch of Physical Graffiti 5.6
Photo Credit: Greg Jackson 

The Mind

In the shoddy, unconventional way I've learned to research, (see: reading random shit on the internet and a couple books here and there) I've found that the climbing 'gods' successes become less and less about the routes or mountains, and more about devotion to the mind as they age. Could it be that we all just get crazy as we age? Have you ever not claimed your elders or parents to be crazy? Aren't they?

Jon Gill is one example. He was doing one arm front levers before he could even get likes for that kind of shit on Instagram. Krakauer quoted Gill in his book Eiger Dreams:

"I don't know how much of this I should talk about, because I don't want people to think I've wigged out, but I believe that all the years of mental and physical preparation that I went through in developing both my climbing and mathematical skills- concentrating for long periods of time on a single crystal of rock or getting very deeply into a difficult mathematical problem- made it very easy for me to have certain kinds of mystical experiences."

According to Krakauer, Gill was always focused on these mystical experiences, but only brought them to the public later in life. Should we climbers who aspire to be great go in search of such experiences or do they present themselves when we just fucking let go of fear and try hard?

As I sit in my car in front of my apartment while it airs out from a flea-bomb, (thanks, dog) I think about how enlightenment, or mysticism will never reach me from here. Then again a Buddhist monk could probably sit in this very seat and generate alpha waves faster than fleas reproduce. I climb so that I can meditate, albeit involuntarily. Occasionally, I think I've been close to whatever Gill felt or what numerous other climbers and mountaineers have described, but never close enough.

Mistakes at the Gym

The art of making mistakes is what rock climbing is all about. I'm not talking about 'death' mistakes, like not tying a stopper knot at the end of the rope, but the more subtle mental and physiological mistakes we often overlook because of the 'send.' Tonight was one of the worst of my short lived climbing... career is the wrong word. Infatuation. Here's a bit of background: I'm in my late twenties, floundering through life, enjoying the legality of certain accoutrements too often, and completely convinced I must climb 5.12 by 2017. To keep things honest, I have roughly a year of outdoor experience on the sandstone at Red Rock in Vegas. My crowning achievement as a climber has been falling after the crux on a soft 5.11d because I was too scared to make a big move.

Since then, I've moved to a small city in the Pacific Northwest that lacks access to great outdoor climbing. Also there's rain. Forever. So I've been holed up in a tiny gym, trying to 'get strong.' Tonight, I just wanted to have fun, and that's what I said to my girlfriend as we slid our shoes on. It was way more crowded than usual, especially on the bouldering walls, so I spent not even close to enough time warming up on a juggy circuit. With my forearms pumped and fingers feeling like they'd been caught in the garbage disposal, I asked my girlfriend for a belay on a 5.12- route. She obliged, harnessed up, and I tied in. I told her something like, "You might have to catch me on the second bolt." That was mistake #1. I was ready for failure, already going against the advice Eric Horst offers on pretty much the first page of his book How to Climb 5.12. To her that meant, keep it tight so he doesn't hit the ground. That's what I hoped it meant. So I climb to the first draw, clip it, and take. I'm way too pumped already. My breath is heavy and I overgripped the pinch. At this point I'm so pissed at myself because I cruised through this section the other day. My mind goes back to the V5 I worked for a few moves before getting on this stupid route, how I should have flashed it- but I'm climbing again, and decide to clip from a hold far below the second bolt. So I say, "clipping," and yank on the rope. There's not even enough slack to get me half way there. I pull again. There's a bit more. Again. More, but not all the way yet. At this point I yell, "C'mon dude!" in anger before putting the rope in my mouth and finally clipping the draw.

My right forearm is toast. Forget the rest of the route, it's over, and the person I taught to belay, infected with the climbing bug, lowers me and says, "I don't want to belay you anymore."
"Good," I said, "I don't want your belay anyway."

We talked about it and I apologized for being such an asshole, but I don't think she's as upset about it as I am. When did I become this climbing douche so concerned with sending a three bolt route at a rinky-dink gym? Mistake #2 was multifaceted. First, being mean to the person holding your life in their hands is pretty stupid, especially when you love that person and hope that he/she wants to climb more often. Blaming my own shortcomings on her was the other aspect of this mistake. I was so frustrated with my lack of progress, and still am, but must look for another way to channel the frustration into success. This mistake has forced me to examine the question, why climb at all?

A certain Messner quote comes to mind: "Thereby I sought a goal which not even climbers understood. When would I finally be able to live without goals? Why did I stand in my own way with my ambition and fanaticism?"

Did Reinhold get there? Will I?