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oldtopangalizard
Social climber
ca
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Yeah, I remember Goliath in the 70's. In '76 or '77 I led that with only a handful of gear. We did not have friends yet but it looked like no problem. I remember a piece 15 feet up and then running and running and running. All I had was some large hexes and this classic old Simond as big as your fist. I put it in at what seemed like about 60 feet above the last one. It was total psycho pro but it worked for just that. I felt good and kept going, got up but was gassed. I think the fatigue was more mental than physical, well I know it was, I was only 18.
Those days were the best of times.
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donini
Trad climber
Ouray, Colorado
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Steve, were you a history major?
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Klimmer
Mountain climber
San Diego
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Thanks for this look back. Makes me smile and think about how things were.
It's hope for the future.
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 2, 2009 - 12:02am PT
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Biochemistry actually. I love the roots and personalities of climbing and would happily take on another subject.
I have certainly been swinging a hammer long enough. Much more to be learned poking around in the past!
A glorious day adventuring at Tahquitz is essentially the same for us all, as LongAgo pointed out earlier!
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donini
Trad climber
Ouray, Colorado
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Keep it coming! History is important to me, I have more past than future.
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TGT
Social climber
So Cal
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Not really history, just an old trip report. 71? maybe 72.
I posted this before on the Heart Route thread but it really belongs in a more Tahquitz centric location.
The adventure started before we even left. As we went thru the exercise of stuffing a rack, rope and other gear into my saddlebags, Andy realized he’d left his wallet and keys in his room. A quick ascent of the drainpipe to the third floor was followed by a long reach and step across to an open lobby window. He quickly appeared at the front door with wallet and keys in hand. I told him I’d been impressed. He demurred that he’d done it often. I wondered what I had myself in to.
We hit the 10 freeway and I was in my own element. The BMW hummed along thru the patchy pre dawn ground fog as if powered by a giant electric motor. By the time we passed the airport, I could tell I was hauling dead weight. Andy was slumped down, sound a sleep. The best part of traveling by motorcycle is that it is about as close to flying in an open cockpit aircraft that you can get without leaving the ground. We flew thru Colton and San Bernardino, and were soon climbing over the pass at Redlands. Then, that pass marked a true demarcation between urban and rural. Not much but open fields as the freeway undulated over several drainages stretching down from the San Bernardino Mountains to the north. Dropping down a reverse slope, pushing for 90 mph. in the dim dawning light I caught a flash of movement to my left and instinctively ducked. The intensity of the slam to the top of my helmet startled me. It took a second or so to realize that a dove had chosen my head for the location of its self-evisceration. There was a smoke ball of feathers rapidly receding, dissipating in the rear view mirror. Then the flash of panic, I was armored with a helmet, Andy only in a balaclava to ward off the chill. A quick glance back and I couldn’t help but grin. He was still sound asleep, unharmed, but his balaclava had been turned into a bizarre primitivist headdress decorated with feathers and bloody flesh.
As we dropped down the last down hill run to the long flat plain that extends from Beaumont to Whitewater, the bike gave a slight shake. The shake amplified into a violent wobble. The final outcome of a speed wobble is often a wrecked bike and a case of road rash at a minimum. The proper response is counter intuitive. Slowly close the throttle. Relax the grip on the handlebars. Keep the body relaxed. And, above all, stay off the brakes. Andy was now wide a wake and wild eyed. As our speed bled down, the oscillations dampened until, we got down to about 35 mph. At that point, the bike reached a new resonance and again began to lurch violently from side to side. We finally coasted to a stop on the shoulder and hoped off, feeling like dismounted bronco riders. The rear tire as flaccid as a drunken man.
Andy reached up to pull of his balaclava and felt something sticky and wet. As the hat slid off his face, his expression was one of confusion and shock. He reached for his head, feeling for a wound that wasn’t there. As I explained the earlier incident with the dove and how he’d slept through it, he relaxed. I got to work on getting the wheel off the bike. Andy began plucking pieces of bird from his hat.
I had the wheel on the ground and began to attack the task of removing the tire. The five-inch long tire irons that came with the toolkit were completely inadequate for the task. As I struggled to remove, the tire there was a reflection of flashing red lights in the high gloss black of the bikes rear fender. A CHP pulled up behind us. The nature of the situation was obvious and Andy had plucked his hat clean returning to his normal civilized appearance. The officer quickly insisted on giving the wheel and me a round trip to the nearest gas station. He opened the trunk, in went the wheel and I slid into the front seat. With the small talk on the ride he told me that he’d recently transferred to Beaumont, then, considered a plumb rural assignment. Close enough to the city for the conveniences, but far enough away to avoid most of the urban law enforcement problems. After a couple of miles, we pulled off the freeway and into the gas station. The officer tapped on the office window and woke the dozing attendant. He was visibly annoyed at being awoken that early, but the presence of the law inspired him to get on with the job. Ten minutes and five dollars later we were off down the freeway to the bike and Andy. On the way, back the cop got a radio call on an accident so it was a quick exit and a wave at the bike and he was off with lights flashing. The tire went back in place, the tools were packed back up, and the whole incident had cost us less than a half hour, still time for breakfast.
The Banning Denny’s was a regular stop. Both my regular climbing partner and I had only motorcycles and a chance to warm up before heading up the hill was always taken. Denny’s was really the only convenient place and was consistent. It didn’t mater what you ordered, no matter the time of day, it always had that tell tale hint of bacon grease. At least the coffee was hot and acceptable to our unrefined pallets. The earlier shot of adrenaline had my appetite up so a big breakfast was in order. Andy just ordered oatmeal and Postum, (weird?) and laid out his plan. He’d received a Rhodes scholarship and would be headed for Oxford in early summer, but had arranged to go for the second ascent of The Heart Route on El Cap during the spring break in a few weeks. Then, the second ascent of a big wall was only slightly less prestigious than a FA. There were only ten routes then that went to the top of El Cap. The gods of Yosemite had put all except The Heart up. Andy was to get the free leads and wanted to get as much mileage in as possible beforehand. As midterms were still to come, this was going to be his last tune up day, and he wanted to make the most of it. He laid out his list. It was at least three times more climbing than I’d ever done in one day. I answered that I would do my best to keep up and hurried to finish eating. It was going to be a very long day.
We took off into the fog and were soon on our way up route 243. We climbed into the thickest parts of the marine layer and the fog became a light drizzle collecting on the bikes windshield, dripping off the trees by the side of the road. At Poppet Flats, we finally broke out into brilliant morning sunshine, the low clouds spreading to the horizon like a giant bowl of Andy’s lumpy oatmeal, the wet smell of the fog replaced by the sharp scent of pine. We were late enough that there was no threat of icy spots on the road, so now out of the clouds, it was time to drop it down a peg and roll the left wrist forward.
In less than half an hour, we were pulling into Humber Park. It took a few minutes to reorganize the rack and the rope and store the jackets. I walked across the street and filled my bota bag from the tap fed from the spring. It was left running until late spring to prevent freezing and ran down from a holding tank that was higher up at the end of the road. We took off down the trail. Reaching the white post that marked the Riverside/San Bernardino county line made a left and started the hump up the hill. We soon reached a landmark I always detested on the way up and looked forward to on the way down. A log crossed the path and was recognizable in that both an oak and pine sapling grew directly through a split in its center. It meant you were almost down to the trail. It always seemed to take a long time to get to this point on the way up as it was about here the body warmed up to the effort and altitude. The second wind kicked in. It wasn’t long and we reached a more welcome landmark. We slid over a large slick log and Lunch rock was only yards away. We changed into Klettershuh and Andy quickly racked up. It was only a mater of flipping the gear and slings over the head and shoulders. I grabbed the rope and cinched the bota up tight under an armpit with an overhand knot in the string that passed for a shoulder strap. We headed around the Maiden Buttress to our first objective.
Andy pointed out or route, The Illegitimate. It certainly looked like it lived up to its name. From a large mountain mahogany, a crack that stood out as a green stripe of plant life shot diagonally up for 150 feet into a corner. The corner was caped by a large roof about 80 feet farther up. I couldn’t visualize at all how this obstacle was to be overcome. At this point, I was proceeding on pure faith. We scrambled up to the large tree and tied into the rope. Andy tied into his swami, threw a figure eight on a bight in the rope around the tree, and asked me if I’d like the first lead. Hubris overcame common sense as I enthusiastically answered, wrapped the end of the rope around my waist three times, tied in with a bowline on a coil, and grabbed the gear sling. Andy threw the rope around his hips and called. “On belay”. After about twenty feet, the crack narrowed and contained a large chock stone. A threaded a sling around the rock marked the beginning of the serious climbing. I swung out on to the face to begin the long hand traverse. The crack was filled with ferns, flowers, and moss but there were clean spots conveniently positioned to allow progress in graceful apelike swings. The Flora actually forced graceful efficient technique. The eye level view was of a miniature Tolkienesque landscape tilted to the vertical plane. When exposure brought back reality there was always a convenient foothold and place for a piton. To soon reaching the belay, this was the kind of pitch you wish went on forever, I had a problem. There was a large flake just to my left, the obvious anchor. I didn’t have enough rope to reach it, let alone tie off a big enough loop to sling it. What now? There was still the four-inch bong on the gear sling and I still had a double length sling over my shoulder. Looping the sling through the lightening eyes on the small end of the bong turned it into a four-inch nut. A couple of flips and it jammed behind the flake with a satisfying clack. Just enough slack remained to clip a carabineer through the loops of rope around my waist, not enough for a proper tie in knot. I called out, “off belay.”
Andy grinned when he saw the anchor and thought it ingenious. That made me feel a little better about its efficacy. He collected the rack and started up the crux pitch, a dihedral that led to a rather large overhang. Sixty or so feet and one piton later he was at the overhang driving a pair of Lost Arrows to the hilt. He then down climbed about fifteen or twenty feet and promptly disappeared out of sight around the corner of the dihedral. One more piton, and then the rope began to quickly run out.
Now it was my turn. The first piton protected the crux of the pitch and had been placed from a good stance. It was quickly retrieved. Soon I was at the headwall and the two
Lost Arrows. The stance was bad; both hands could not be free. Both pins were overdriven and the prospect of a fall with the rope now descending twenty or so feet and disappearing around the corner into the unknown, unthinkable. After what seemed like an eternity of crimping with one hand and pounding with the other, the rock released its hold on the last pin. Careful down climbing led to a quick move around the corner and another pin. Now another traverse and smooth friction, still not my forte, and certainly not then with stiff Vibram soled Kletershuh. The whining commenced and after a little encouragement from Andy I was across to easy ground, thankful that, the rope was finally going up and not sideways. The belay was a large comfortable ledge with a tree.
“Have you ever climbed moving in coils”? Andy asked shortly after my arrival. The answer was obvious without speaking just from the puzzled look. My answer was I’d read about it, but never done it. After a short refresher on the procedures, we both coiled about one third of the rope over our shoulders and I put Andy on belay on the abbreviated cord. It soon went taught and he told me to start climbing. He moved fast and occasionally had to pause to allow me to retrieve a sling around a tree or chockstone. There was only a piton or two placed in the next four hundred or so feet. In no time, at all, we were at the final exit moves of The White Maiden and I put him back on belay as he made short work of the last sixty-foot pitch. A quick hit of water from the Bota and we raced down the Friction Route to the next climb.
Didn’t take long and we were standing at the base of The Inominate. A ramp led to a steep dark and dead vertical, if not overhanging dihedral. Andy offered the first pitch, and once again, I accepted. Shortly, I had a good belay set up on a pedestal below the steep dihedral, this time two firmly driven pins. The bong sung as Andy drove it home, a quick couple of moves and he was moving fast over easier ground. One more easy short pitch and we were again headed down the Friction Route.
The south side of Tahquitz is marked by an unusual distinctive feature. Two parallel cracks about eight feet apart curve gracefully through an overhang and down a bucketed face, the appropriately named Ski Tracks. I’d led the left one the summer before. It was the obligatory next step after Angels Fright for the novice leader. The first pitch is dead vertical with the only real difficulty being an initial move to get established on the face that is so featured that it has been described as , “vertical third class”. The crux, at the end of the next pitch is a handhold-less committing step with huge exposure that still belies its lowly rating.
We were headed for the much more difficult Right Ski Track. The first pitch is pretty much the same as the left. The right crack continually thins and steepens until it disappears into the smooth face several yards from a flake that forms a bottomless chimney under the same platform that creates the step across of its easier sibling to the left. Once again, I drew first pitch duty and was off. It went quickly, familiar territory. Andy took off on the next pitch, occasionally swatting in a pin. At the end of the crack, he placed one final pin and with a call of, “watch me here” started the thin traverse across the face to the base of the chimney. Once he was in the chimney, it was clear that it wouldn’t accept any pro without an unreasonable amount of effort. The sounds of shoes rack and body parts dragging on rock mingled with the grunts of great physical effort. Finally, the sounds of a relieved leader gasping for air and the song of the belay anchor pitons driven in. The crack itself was difficult, particularly cleaning the pitons with one hand and avoiding dropping them. The traverse and the chimney went much easier. With the security of the rope, the worst of the chimney could be bypassed with lieback moves. At the belay, we squeezed the little water that remained from the bota. An easy pitch and we were off down the Friction Route again.
As we rounded the corner under the Traitor Horn and past The Open Book Andy announced that he thought we had time for one more. Just past the start for Fingertrip was an ugly looking crack that slanted off to the left, The Slab. Not a slab climb at all, but a short excursion up the left side of a slab distinguished by runout liebacking between good rest stances. He polished it off in short order having done it before several times, the only climb of the day that wasn’t an onsight. A quick rappel and we were at lunch rock just in time to gather our gear and thoughts by the last of the suns’ rays.
We made a stop at The Charthouse for a beer. Well, at least Andy had a beer. I would not be able to buy one legally for another six months or so. The ride home was pleasantly warm for that time of year. Only an appreciated wakening chill when the road would dip through a canyon that funneled the cold air descending from Mt. San Gorgonio across our path.
I never climbed with Andy again. He went off to the valley, got The Heart, and left for Oxford. He became the town doctor and ice guru of Valdez Alaska and ended his own life with a shotgun in a strange effort to engineer his own disappearance. It’s solid city now all the way to Banning and the CHP isn’t nearly as friendly. Riding a motorcycle in Southern California is now an equivalent risk to free soloing. Tahquitz has changed also, although not nearly as much as the encroaching city below. I do not remember seeing another party that entire day. It was a weekend, so there must have been others. The experience of having the place to your self is now reserved for those that can make it on a weekday. No one has driven pins for decades. I don’t miss anything about them except the music a well driven one made.
There are also physical changes that remind me of the relentless advance of time now every time I’m up there. The water tank and spigot that ran all year are gone, the county line marker stolen so often they gave up on replacing it years ago. The first pitch of The Illegitimate has been “gardened” to aseptic standards. The log that was the first landmark slowly disappeared over the years. The pine sapling died and the oak has now reached tree status. The trail now goes under the log we polished going over. You don’t even have to bend over very far to clear it even with a pack on. I doubt it will be there all that much longer.
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PhilG
Trad climber
The Circuit, Tonasket WA
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I agree Jim. It seems the older I get the more interesting/important history is.
I have to add that reading these articles that Steve contributes brings back great feelings that that rock would invoke.
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SteveW
Trad climber
The state of confusion
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Bump another climbing one
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2009 - 11:03am PT
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Glorious Tahquitz bump!!!
How many solid 5.8 routes existed anywhere in 1937!
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2009 - 11:37pm PT
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A classic Dolt shot from the Wilts guide.
Gotta love the hat and footwear! Anyone recognize the stylish second?
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Largo
Sport climber
Venice, Ca
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Jun 27, 2009 - 01:33am PT
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During my first year in grad school my girfriend was Janet Wilts, daughter of Chuck Wilts, author of the Tahquitz and Suicide guidebooks. I used to spend a lot of time over at the Wilts' house and was always prying Chuck for tales about the old days.
In his office at Cal Tech he had a big blow up pic of him topping out on the Lost Arrow after making an early (2nd??) asecnt of the LA Chimney. Janet was a fantastic athlete and got up El Cap a few times. She's now a ranger up at the Tetons I believe.
JL
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dogtown
climber
Cheyenne,Wyoming
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Jun 27, 2009 - 05:54am PT
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Same shot different shoes (circa 80’s ) What a Classic line ! But then again all the lines on the south side are Classic’s. NO?
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Aug 2, 2009 - 03:34pm PT
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A couple of weeks ago, DR and I interviewed Glen Dawson. He had several notebooks put together that were rich in biographical and historical information. Doug got very excited when he got to this one and looked at the cover.
Not many folks have seen the original Tahquitz guide but there it was! Just a handful of routes in 1937. Glen probably was the primary author since he was writing the Sierra Club Bulletin at the time.
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Patrick Sawyer
climber
Originally California now Ireland
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Bump for a very good thread
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TGT
Social climber
So Cal
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The 1918 talus dump is quite an eyeopener!
You always tend to think of that as an ancient relatively unchanging landscape.
I'm still trying to figure out what route the "Super" corresponds to. It sounds like most of of Fools Rush finishing up on the White Maiden.
When I started climbing there in 70 or so the RCS was still active. We didn't interact with them much and that's something I've grown to regret. There was one of them that seemed to be the ropegun of the group at the time. He was short with a laconic expression and always had a Camel Cigarette going. You could tell if they'd proceeded you up one of the routes as he had a habit of constructing ash trays at each belay. From all the old photos I've never been able to identify who that was.
Anyone Know?
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Aug 8, 2009 - 01:56pm PT
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That would take some digging but the local chapter would have noted the group leaders if they were still keeping climbing outing records.
The level of detail in the Sierra Club Bulletins while Glen Dawson was involved makes research a breeze. The yearly Sierra outings alone could involve more than a hundred participants for a weeks climbing.
I wonder how the information was recorded? I imagine Glen wandering from tent to tent with a clip board in the failing light...LOL
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Patrick Oliver
Boulder climber
Fruita, Colorado
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Rick is a good man, and he sent me all that information
and all the other stuff he had gathered and researched,
when I was doing my history of free climbing. He was
one of those great spirits who really stepped up and
helped me in that monumental task. Thanks again, Rick.
Included were various interviews and things that never
showed up in the Summit article... gold...
I'm re-writing the book now, making improvements, if anyone
has any thoughts for things I can make better or that
I left out. Send your thoughts and suggested revisions
to me by email, pat_ament@live.com
Pat
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Aug 8, 2009 - 05:40pm PT
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Also from Glen's notebook, the first mention of Tahquitz in the 1938 Sierra Club Bulletin in a James N. Smith article.
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Aug 16, 2009 - 01:57pm PT
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What a Bump!
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 7, 2009 - 01:58pm PT
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Calling all Barbarians! Bump for the tale of Fitschen's Folly. Still the longest fall at Tahquitz???
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