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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 6, 2009 - 03:56pm PT
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OOOps what if I say Pat Bowlen sux?
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 9, 2009 - 11:16am PT
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17; LOST IN SPACE.
When Jim and I returned from our storm cancelled first attempt to finally complete our early repeat of the Forrest/Walker route on the Painted Wall so few hands had pawed over that rock that it still acted like a virgin on prom night eve. We travelled perilously light. One small pack with just enough stuff to survive if all went well. If it didn't, well then...??? We travelled so Spartanly because our aim was to free everything we could and only aid when no other free climbing alternative was possible. To that end we managed to whittle the aid moves of this major wall down to well less than fifty. Free climbing moves up to 10+ & 11- and pulling aid moves, impossible given the nature of the rock to rate the difficulty of.
Two thirds of the way up the wall in the relentless and debilitating blaze of the noon day sun we pulled out our secret weapons. Two cotton shirts soaked in the frigid Gunnison River earlier were pulled out of their stashed stuff sack. I remember they were still dripping wet so we wrung them out. The greedy stone accepted our gift one rapidly evaporating drip after another. We pulled them on, flinching and chirping with every new square inch of hot skin touched by cold cloth. Once the shock of transition had passed it was tremendously luxurious. Like a portable air conditioner. Life returned we continued on.
It fell to me to lead the terrifying pitch through the Dragons jaws. Standing atop successive fins of pegmatite like wobbly boogie boards on end. Wishing with all my might that there would be some real pro before reaching the good rock in the roof still forty feet above. Finding nothing but the strong urge to survive. Actually hearing friends, observing with spotting scopes on the Southern Rim, hoot and holler up a storm when I stretched one of my monster splits stemming to the good rock of the roof over my shoulder and placed pro. I was a dancer in those days and had tremendous flexibility so I guess from afar it looked cool. But up close I was sweating urea and just relieved to step on anything that didn't move.
We continued to progress apprehensively further up through Death Valley which was rapidly becoming a one way avenue.
The 21st pitch of the route, where Stratosfear escapes stage right, was my onus as well. While not hard at all by todays technical standards this second to last pitch took all I could muster and everything I knew. Stratosfear came into being because this pitch was not free-able. It is also not entirely aid-able either. It is a devious and dangerous mixed experience that menaces you at every opportunity particularly when in transition between free and aid moves. As everything up to bus sized bits moved when touched no gear evoked confidence, no hold provided assurance. Security was a fallacy of the mind created to engender a momentary sense of calm and normalcy to an otherwise lunatic endeavor. Sure that piece is good. Yeah I can high step up on it. What ever it takes, right!
I was destined to lead this nightmare. It had been graphically described to me repeatedly by Tom and John who had done the coveted second ascent. I was supposed to do the 3rd ascent of this test piece route with my regular partner Scotty. And this was always to be my pitch. But Scotty perished tragically in a Canadian avalanche before we could rope up. Now here with Jim, the strongest most compatible partner I have had, I prayed to Scotty's spirit that I had what it would take. One of the chilling delights I was told to expect in the midst of those enormous roofs was a block of particular kinetic potential. The consequences of which were so "grave" that I was implored with the mantra of, what ever you do "DON'T TOUCH IT"!
There I was mixing it up. Sparing with the choss of entropy. Peering into the seemingly endless black maw of the crack in the back of the roof, I suddenly became small and insignificant and felt thoroughly vulnerable. I looked and looked searching for the "death block". I was too timid and fearful to look too deep into that overhanging abyss for fear I would have to travel that way. I didn't see the warned of and dreaded "death block" boulder any where. I led myself to believe, as would be reasonable to assume, that it had just fallen off, like so much other mass now scattered about the base of this steep and imposing fortress of a wall. I didn't recognize the warned of and dreaded"death block" boulder...till it was almost too late. I thought the big bad boulder was supposed to be "in" the roof not on the face beneath it. I led myself tenuously across the edge of infinite gravitational force towards an inviting looking piece of bright white webbing fixed around a monster flake.
Three things happened, almost simultaneously, as I reached the sling and started to use it to balance up on. The first was Jim yelling "TEN FEET" from out of sight below. Hmmm, looks like I still need twenty. The second was the sling disintegrated in my hand teetering me backwards. I saw bits of my life flitter away chasing after the liberated tatters of someone else's security. Portions of the terminally distressed sling from behind the behemoth flake were still bright red. The rest nothing more than a crunchy grey powder. Thirdly, my sphincter cinched up, as Jim was fond of saying, tight enough to cut washers off of. From the time I instinctively lunged for the corners at the base of the flake to steady myself I remember the disconcerting sound of rock grinding and not much else. At least until saying "OFF belay" at the anchor. I honestly cannot clearly recall that last stretch of deviously blank stone perched so high above the roaring Gunnison river. I was spent, wasted and out of it! The delirium of survival, no matter how fleeting and temporary, allows you to cool the mind enough to carry on. I must have made it as I doubt I am simply imagining myself now writing this on this mortal plane. I just don't know exactly how I made it. Neither did Jim. When he arrived at our anchor perch he looked dazed and baffled.
Lauhingly called a "semi-hanging" belay because there are some 5.9 footholds there somewhere. Most of the belayer's time was spent in a futile attempt to increase adhesion by uncomfortably crushing one hip or the other into the smooth slab. A smoothness in space that seemed more akin to a slide towards oblivion over more than 2000 feet of atmosphere than a secure stance. The belay was an odd assortment of somewhat questionable gear comprising a shallow knife blade, a grumbly bugaboo, a buried rurp and a bashie or two. All cobbled and spider webbed together to give a passable sense of "yeah that'll work".
Jim got the next and final pitch. While technically harder it at least had substantially better rock and occasionally real pro. In fact this final challenge sprouts the routes only bolt. A peculiarly placed beefer complete with date stamped washer from when the MadMan convinced Newberry to descend and retrieve Forrest's abandoned haul sac. A story to it's self, it left behind an incongruous but gladly, if not awkwardly, clipped memento. Where as before I had been seemingly entombed in the cool shadows of enormous corners and horrendous roofs. Now I was splayed in the full swelter of the arcing Sun's last efforts at desiccating my very soul. Jim was somewhere above methodically facing the unknowns of the future. I was belaying robotic-ally. Dying by the sweat drop.
I couldn't remember how long ago we had run out of water. Judging from the thickly swollen nature of my tongue, that I tried so hard to not notice, it had been a very long time. From the edge of the universe came the long anticipated call of "OFF belay". Now the Jumars that I had so vehemently cursed earlier for being sticky and annoying, owing to the layers of hastily applied duct tape I had foolishly wrapped on the grips, became my best and only friends. Melted by the scorching Sun and reflected heat the tape had become a nearly inescapable goo without which I seriously doubt I would have had the guns to hold on. Spinning helplessly in the relentless blistering heat above the angry froth of erosion occurring a world away and a life time ago I heard disembodied words drift to me from above and behind. It was surreal and other worldly. I was sure I was hallucinating. Either that or I didn't really make it to the previous belay station and this was my own personal Purgatory.
As the unwinding of the rope brought me around to gaze languidly and unfocused outward across to the canyon's other rim I heard the ghosts of my simple naked humanity call to me once again. Expecting angel wings and the divine, the sounds eventually directed me to the incongruous sight of grime and exhaustion. Jim was calling to me from eighty feet behind and a hundred feet above. There he was standing on the lip of the giant prow that juts out over the empty space below. Greedily slurping down the last sniff of one of the gallons of water we had earlier stashed. I am not sure but I think he downed it in one desperate draw. What I do know for sure, because my visual acuity had snapped back to focus at the first sight of water, is that he didn't spill a drop.
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 9, 2009 - 01:46pm PT
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Eeyonkee I went all the way back through this thread from from the original Tarbuster thread. I really loved the "Fly in" Flakes story, what a way to travel. The multiple head first falls story gave me the wiggly willies. I don't think I ever had the Casabas to take more than one head dive at a time. Sheesh of all the nerve.
Cheers man and Happy New Year to you all.
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eeyonkee
Trad climber
Golden, CO
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Well, Leonard pointed out the obvious. It was that friggin' descent smear that lead me astray on Sistine Reality. I've learned my lesson.
Philo, maybe you didn't go back to the first thread, which I started, called Black Canyon Stories. It's got some good ones. Happy New Year yourself. Love reading your stories.
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 12, 2009 - 09:40pm PT
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Well I certainly need to. Maybe you could re-post a few.
At least give me a good reason to shy away from the political threads.
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BrassNuts
Trad climber
Boulder Colorado
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Jan 16, 2009 - 10:56am PT
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The old pics in "Climb" of Air Voyage and 8th Voyage always piqued my interest, but it was easy to dismiss the routes due to a lack of wide gear on my rack and a lack of the required cajones... But, in May of 1994 I was able to scrounge up a #7 Big Dude and a partner, so there were really no more excuses - it was time for some Black Canyon adventure! Dave and I decided to do Air Voyage up through the crux OW and then continue on the wide cracks and corners of 8th Voyage to the top.
I can't remember for sure, but I think this was Dave's first trip to the Black, so it was pretty ballsy of him to sign up for such an adventure, but I did say I would lead the two crux pitches... what was I thinking?? A few years earlier I had come down to do Air Voyage with another friend, armed only with 1 #6 Big Dude (having heard there were fixed tube chocks in the OW pitch), but we were weathered out that trip, which turned out to be a blessing as I found out on our '94 ascent that there were NO fixed tube chocks on the OW pitch and I would have been soiling my trousers had I only had one big cam on the crux!!
Awaking at about 4:30am on a crisp May morning, Dave and I headed down the Cruise Gully - like hiking, but different... Along with us, Cameron Tague (RIP sadly) and his partner were also on their way down to do Astro Dog, a route on the other side of the canyon. On the descent, we agreed to harass each other across the canyon walls when possible - hopefully we would top out first as I had some special harassment in mind...
The climb went quickly up to the first hard pitch, a combo of 5.11 fingers in a corner going to harder 5.11 overhanging fists - a fine way to prep for the crux OW. Dave led the traverse pitch over to the base of the OW:
Once I arrived at the ledge at the base of the OW, I tried to get psyched to struggle my way up the crux... I looked up, got that nasty Black Canyon nervous stomach thing, and took inventory of the large cams on the rack:
After nearly chucking on several occasions and having to aid maybe 15' of the OW due to less than stellar technique, I arrived at a stance under a roof, maybe 150' out from the belay. I was pretty wasted and was happy to turn over the lead to Dave for the final section to the top. Dave had a good time leading the "womb fight" as I could tell from the strange abrasive sounds wafting down from above... Meanwhile, Cameron and his partner were making good headway on Astro Dog.
Once we finished the final scrappy climbing to the rim, we did the Black Canyon dash to the campsite and the COOLER! There we grabbed a couple of cold Tooth Sheaf Stouts (in honor of Derek Hersey who sadly died the year before...), some munchies and my prized 5' long POTATO CANNON. Now, for those of you males who enjoyed a prolific pyrotechnic phase, a potato cannon is nothing new. To you tater cannon noobs out there, these things are the ticket and you can have tons O fun shooting your favorite spud up to 1000' thanks to PVC pipe, hairspray and a piezo igniter... So, we gathered our swill and vegetable ammo and headed out to a quiet point on the rim. Here we enjoyed our libations and primed the tater shooter:
Across the canyon, Cameron and partner had just topped out and were sitting on the rim, waiting for their shuttle ride to show up. We exchanged visual greetings as I prepared the first potato salvo salute... With a muffled "booooofff", the first flying tater makes it's way maybe halfway across the chasm - Cameron and partner are wondering what the hell we're doing and heckle us appropriately. After adjusting the launch angle and the air/hairspray mixture, we are able to launch a few taters quite far, with the response from the other side being "aaalllmmoooosstt..." After a few more tries and some more Sheaf Stout, we painfully recognized failure in our attempt to reach our friends on the other rim with a flying vegetable :-)... We watch the sunset over the magnificent canyon and toast a fantastic day. There is no place like "The Black"...
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 16, 2009 - 11:05am PT
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Woohoo that was a hoot o fun! Thanks Dave for that hilarious story.
I can picture the two boulder bivy fouled with mashed potatoes.
Het at least it would be free bivy food. HAhahahahahahhhhh!
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BrassNuts
Trad climber
Boulder Colorado
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Jan 16, 2009 - 11:17am PT
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We even used "Cannon" brand potatoes! They fly better ;-) Sadly, I disposed of my last tater cannon years ago after hearing about a Boulder SWAT team response to someone shooting spuds in their back yard...
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 16, 2009 - 11:20am PT
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You could always build a mini canon and fire tater tots.
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J. Werlin
climber
Cedaredge
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Jan 16, 2009 - 11:29am PT
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Great post Brass. I can see the SAR potential of that cannon as a rope delivery system.
Cheers, JW
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BrassNuts
Trad climber
Boulder Colorado
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Jan 16, 2009 - 11:46am PT
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Actually, I think the "Carrot Rifle" would be a fine addition to any big wall adventure... those little peeled baby carrots are aerodynamic, lightweight and slippery! You could downscale the potato cannon to about 2' long x 2" diameter.... hmmm, maybe a trip to the hardware store today!
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Rhodo-Router
Gym climber
Otto, NC
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Jan 16, 2009 - 11:48am PT
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Sadly, this sort of horseplay would only get you cited for 'illegal air delivery' or some such nonsense around here.
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Crimpergirl
Social climber
Boulder, Colorado!
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Jan 16, 2009 - 11:56am PT
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Oh man. Carrots? I was wondering why BrassNuts headed to the hardware store so early this morning.
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 16, 2009 - 11:56am PT
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Newberry is a trifle miffed at me for spilling the beans about the bolt on the FW. Up until my essay only about 8 people knew. Now he is afraid the whole world will know. So SHHHH don't tell anybody OK.
To clarify Jimmy was opposed to the bolt as Forrest didn't place any bolts on the route.
But MadMan is not easy to say no to.
A carrot cannon LOL I like it!
Do you remember the Popiel Salad Shooter?
Could it be modified for carpet bombing?
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scuffy b
climber
On the dock in the dark
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Jan 19, 2009 - 01:54pm PT
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Dave, I read a potato gun story in a trade magazine about 10
years ago (Plumbing and Mechanical, the emphasis if not the
actual title).
The magazine's columnist was visiting some contractor, I'm
pretty sure in Boulder, who was way into potato guns.
This guy seemed to think lighter fluid and hairspray were a
waste of time. He liked a nice oxy/acetylene mix.
So one night they go out to launch some spuds, where the
legalities had been worked out, and have a great time.
Until the police arrive.
Apparently the scenario had played out on various previos
occasions.
Ultimately, the police couldn't figure out a way to get the
contractor into any trouble, but they felt obliged to confis-
cate the cannon for "evidence" and left with it.
The contractor says to the columnist, "Another cop's kid is
going to be very happy."
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BrassNuts
Trad climber
Boulder Colorado
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Jan 19, 2009 - 08:28pm PT
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I didn't quite get to the oxy-acetylene mix for the P-cannon. But I did find 3M Spray Adhesive provided excellent horsepower, far better than hair spray... :-) However, in younger years we found that acetylene balloons provide quite an explosive punch!!
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 28, 2009 - 02:24pm PT
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And here is a parting shot. Me looking back in after retiring from climbing (I thought for good). Gingus and I had just done the Hallucinogen (Route) and survived the mother of all electric blizzards on day six. In less than two months I was in the hospital having my twelfth knee surgery in ten years. Fortunately that time they gave me a shiny new one to play with.
I call it
Looking Black In
or
Lycra Lad in LaLa Land
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Steve Grossman
Trad climber
Seattle, WA
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Mar 15, 2009 - 01:44pm PT
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While you're hallucinating...
FA of the Hallucinogen Wall. Les Choy photo.
Two from Vertigo Games.
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philo
Trad climber
boulder, co.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 15, 2009 - 01:56pm PT
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Nice Steve G. I love the rack of old school gear behind the Newberry's Store hat wearing Hobbit. Old grey jumars, slung hexes, tubes and a lone cam. A bit of a rarity in that they were not widely available yet and were considered a bit of a cheat.
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Olihphant
climber
Somewhere over the rainbow
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Apr 27, 2009 - 10:53am PT
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In 1976 when (Tom) Pulaski, (Jimmy) Newberry, (John) Rosholt and (John) Pearson set off for the First ascent of Journey through Mirkwood of the Painted Wall they were some of the first souls to ever set hand and foot on the big psychedelic stone. Day one had them do the early morning approach with full wall gear down the virtually untrod SOB gully. Then awkward climbing and brutal hauling of their otherworldly load up to the first scree field took the rest of the day. They decided to bivy there at the upper edge of the ledge system.
While re-racking and pulling out gear for the night a rogue gust of wind caught Tom's new ensolite pad and kited it all around the sloping field of chossness. Tom, having already lost a few other pads was apoplectic at the thought of losing another one at the start of a multiday adventure. Off he went running after it like a kid chasing a butterfly. It took the other three laughing ropemates a while before they realized that the mischievous pads current flight path was going to lead Pulaski right off the edge and into the Gunnison River far below. TOM, TOM, TOM! they screamed in panicked unison. Pulaski was, like a Lab retriever chasing after a tossed stick, totally focused. It was only at the last moment when Tom either finally realized his peril or finally heard the desperately barked commands to SIT, STAY! BAD DOG,NO FETCH! He skidded to a stop and watched his precious ensolite pad flutter down to the river and away. Glumly trudging back to their camp 1 he knew it was gonna be a butt cold night but at least he would be there to suffer through it in proud Polish style.
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