Freerider 2

A week and a half has passed since we got down. Waiting for my elbow to heal and the weather to cool down. We were in no way certain of trying again when we first got down, but slowly the thought grew into an idea, and then a plan. Yesterday I experienced the now familiar dread and ate too much, and then my alarm woke me at 2am. This time we've packed an extra few litres of water and some food, which allows a contingency day if we need more time on any pitch. And most pertinently, the forecast is about 20 degrees cooler. The familiarity of the first pitches helps speed things up, Freeblast goes smoothly and we both manage the 'hardest move on rock' first go, and make it up to the Monster in good time. Unlike on our last attempt we have plenty of time here, so I eat drink and carefully tape the fresh pink skin on my elbow.

On the M.O.

Once again, Dan has lead the last 6 pitches and hauled the bags so that I can be fresh. With a certain inevitability, the time comes. The traverse goes well and hurl myself back into the familiar wedge shape inside the crack. I don't know if it's my memory, or if I'm doing something wrong, but it feels even harder than last time. I'm wasting energy and before I'm even at the first rest the familiar panic sets in. The ratio of udging up versus sliding down passes a critical point and again I fall out of this goddam stupid crack. "This goddam stupid crack!" I vent. "Why am I so crap at climbing this goddam stuid crack!" I lower back to the ledge and we discuss options. We can either aid our way up, I can have another go, or Dan can try and shimmy his way up the Monster. This will be Dan's fifth time climbing this pitch, and he's got it well dialled. My previous highfalutin ideals of leading the pitch myself in order to settle a score can get stuffed. I hand Dan the two big cams and put him on belay. I might have made him do all the strenuous hauling already today, but in spite of this he gets stuck in and wedges his way up in about twenty minutes - pretty slick!



Which means its my turn again already. Oh dear god I hate this. Dan puts me on belay, and I start climbing. The traverse in goes well, and pretty soon I'm uncomfortably wedged at the bottom of the next 50 hellish meters. I look up the length of the pitch and ask aloud "how on Earth am I going to climb this?" It's a fair question I think, based on recent experience. I consciously decide to avoid thinking of anything more than what's in front of me, and climb to the mantra of 'one move at a time, one move at a time'. This frees me of the intimidation and pressure I felt last go, and so slowly I make progress, eventually making it to the final rest. My anxiety is high as I start the final section. My tiredness from the previous 19 pitches, and worse, the last 40 meters catches up with me, and I can see the rising tide of panic is only a few moments away. My ankles are tired, and my feet are slipping. I know what this means... not again. Just before critical levels of exhaustion I lean out the crack, there's nothing for it now... I'm going to have to layback. The passive observer part of my mind can clearly see that this is a stupid idea which will work for al of ten seconds then I'll fall off with no way of getting back inside the crack, but such rational thinking is being overwhelmed by fatigue and panic. Just before I commit to laybacking the crack, with almost comedic timing, Dan shouts down "stick with the technique!". Part of me just wanted to fall of, to put an end to the physical pain, the strenuous climbing, everything horrible about it. But Dan's clear sound advice forced me to keep going. In that moment I despised Dan. The brief pause half out of the crack has rested my ankles. Back in the crack I go, back into pain on my shoulder, elbow, heels, toes, ankles and shins, heavy breathing and slow incremental progress. But given sufficient time, slow and incremental progress is all it takes. Finally the crack gets easier and wider, until eventually I'm on easy terrain, still panting and struggling, having fought harder than I can honestly remember fighting before. It takes me a while for it to sink in, but I'm at the belay with Dan, and Freerider is still on. "Take that El Cap!" I yell, my body full of adrenaline and my mind full of hubris.

Monday morning oats at the Alcove Bivvy

Monday
Today is all about the Teflon Corner, which we've decided to try as an alternative to the Boulder Problem pitch. The first pitches are straight forward enough, and just like last time, we get to the hard climbing just as the sun comes onto the face. Quite unlike last time however, it's about 20 degrees cooler and windy - great conditions. The Teflon Corner is slabby on one side, steep on the other, and unsurprisingly, quite slick. There's not much in the way of pure stemming corners in the UK, but this evidently doesn't concern Dan as he onsights it. This is a brilliant effort, and fills me with confidence that I'll do it in no more than just a few goes. I fall off on my first go, and my second. Then the third, and the fourth. After that I lose count. Eventually I pull on gear past the crux to join Dan and the haul bag for a rest, food and water. I'm starting to get a bit concerned - what if I just can't do it? I borrow a left shoe from Dan. He thinks that it'll help as it's so soft for smearing, but I'm just banking on his shoes being imbued with some kind of mystical McManus footwork magic. I lower back in to the pitch and sure enough, whether its the rest or the shoes, something is working. I surpass my previous high point, karate kicking footholds and falling into presses, lucking out and skidding upwards with my heart in my mouth. Yet again, it's still on!

A dirty pitch takes us back up to the Block. We reminisce about the entertainment provided by Butter Fingers, while Dan makes us liste to political and economics podcasts.

Dan on his way towards the Teflon Corner

Tuesday
The past two days have each had their main event, their big pitch which either makes it or breaks it. Between them I've had to put in a full-on effort, and I've fluked my way up a slippy corner. I've been kidding myself that today is without any major obstacles. Although we're above the two cruxes, the reality is that today still has 7 tough pitches followed by another two more moderate ones. There's a whole bunch of pitches which could give us a hard time today, but fortunately they're all classic bits of granite climbing in their own right, so I decide to think about this instead.

Dan leads us off for the first three pitches. Sous le Toit goes well, then he fights his way up both enduro-corners. I use the time-tested strategy of getting all the beta I can and then leaving all the gear clipped to the rope as I take it out, unable to take a hand off for long enough to put it on my harness. I'm nervous because a slip would mean lowering back down, and the resultant waste of time and energy. I don't normally suffer too badly from a fear of failure, but I'm find every pitch up here stressful. This is what it's all about!

We have a quick break at the Round Table ledge, which I can only assume was named ironically as it is neither round nor a table. This part of Freerider stays in the shade for much longer than most of the face, and up here the wind has picked up from the afternoon thermals caused by the sun. The past 5 weeks in California has obviously left me soft, as I lead most of the next pitch shivering. These top pitches are blighted by fixed ropes from top-roping scondrels who have ab'd in from the top, tick marking each jug and generally getting in the way. This not withstanding, one more short pitch brings us to the most exposed belay on the route, and the start of the Scotty-Burke offwidth. Last time around I didn't even try this pitch, given that my red raw elbow and psyche deserting me.

Dan finishing off the traverse pitch which takes you to the Freerider variation pitches

This is the last tough pitch, it's an offwidth (not again!), and a number of people have core-shot their rope by falling off laybacking the first part. Oh God! There's no way on Earth that I'm laybacking this, I'm too scared. So I get inside and reqacquaint myself with the same technique I used two days ago. But I don't get past the bulging part. This is for the very simple reason that it is an offwidth, and it is overhanging. There's no way on Earth I can avoid laybacking this. Throwing caution to the wind and clipping a long sling onto my cam, I lean back and layback up past the steep part as quick as I can, until at the earliest opportunity to get back inside the crack. Then once again it's time to recommence shuffling. And this is where the fear of failure crescendos. How would it feel to free El Cap to here, then mess it up? I decide against answering my own question. Fortunately this offwidth is more forgiving than the M.O., and with my anxiety mounting I manage to bridge across a three-way chimney system and onto the top. Much to my embarrasment I appear to have picked up some American vernacular, and announce to myself that "Yes! We are sending". Ironically, Dan decides to make a mockery of this statement by falling off the next pitch even though it's the easiest one all day, its 8 grades easier than the Teflon Corner, and he hadn't fallen off at all in the past three days. Needless to say, he got straight back on and within an hour we were topping out as the sun went down.

We bivvied on top and descended the next day, kindly picked up by our own welcoming party. Then we drank beer. Lots of beer.

Dan bivvying on top of El Cap

Freerider 1

For me, free climbing El Capitan is such a horribly obvious big ambition that it has probably been lurking at the back of my mind for the last 18 years, pretty much since I started climbing. Three years ago I had a really good trip to Yosemite with Dan which only made this ambition more immediately obvious. And now I've had the past two months climbing on granite, I'm in the Valley with Dan, and the forecast is for 30c and full sun. Good enough.


Tuesday
Today we pack and pre-haul the bag to Heart Ledges up the fixed ropes. A pair who are also hauling up the fixed lines drop their spare hauling device (who carries a spare hauling device anyway? only people who are likely to drop their hauling device...), and a team on an aid route above us knock off a basket ball sized rock which explodes into gravel just above us, but the trip to stash our bag is otherwise uneventful and we return back to camp 4 for a days rest.


Wednesday
The days rest is actually a days dread. I'm nauseatingly aware that in twenty four hours time, we'll be part way through a rather big day. Our plan is to climb 20 pitches tomorrow. This includes the slick slabs of the free blast, a bunch of chimneys, a couple of long down-climbs which connect features on the wall, and finishes off with the monster offwidth. The Monster Offwidth. That's right, as if a 50 meter offwidth isn't bad enough as it is, it is named to intimidate. As Dan has climbed it three times already he kindly offers me the priviledge of leading it. How can I refuse? (I didn't mean that rhetorically, I desperately searched for a way to refuse but the only words which left my mouth were 'yeah, great'. Idiot.)
In the village store I bump into Andy, one of the pair who was dropping gear whilst hauling yesterday. I ask him what he's doing down here, as they are meant to be aiding their way up Salathe and should be halfway up El Cap. Andy shakes his head and explains that his partner dropped their entire rack down the hollow flake as he was chimneying! Unbelievable. So they have temporarily retreated to collect their spare rack. Yep, an entire spare rack. Who owns an entire spare rack anyway? oh...

Thursday
Today is the day. It doesn't feel like any exaggeration to say that the combination of length, difficulty, and how much I want to do this route will make today the biggest day out climbing I've ever tried. Dan seems much cooler about it all than me, but then he's free'd El Cap twice already and knows most of this route already.
Despite all this talk of dread, as soon as we start climbing at 3am I'm immersed in the fun of it all. The freeblast goes smoothly except for a slip at the crux on my part (bloody granite friction slabs) and we even manage what James Lucas calls "the hardest move on rock". By 10am however the sun comes round onto our face, and for the next 6 hours we get fairly fried, drink more than our ration of water, and climb a lot of chimneys.

Dan leading the Hollow Flake pitch. There's a whole rack wedged somewhere deep inside El Cap there.

I'm surprisingly successful at blocking out the thought of the M.O., and so I feel a little surprised when I find myself racking up for it. My preconception is of its notoriety, but this is to miss out the fact that it is also an incredibly cool pitch. I step off the ledge and straight into a wild undercutting down climb to access the crack proper. Much of the route to here has been slabs, chimneys and grooves, which all offer protection from the feeling of height or exposure. No such protection here though!

Getting psyched just before the M.O. Climbing with Dan is always a serious business, and no pitch should be taken more seriously than this one

I feel so hyped up I just punch out the moves until I reach the edge of the crack and can throw myself as far inside the crack as I can fit. And so it begins. 50m of struggle, broken only by a few footholds. I find the first section a real battle, but Dan tells me to not worry as that's how it is meant to feel. Great. It's a beautiful evening, with the whole West side of El Cap glowing orange as the sun sets. For a short while things seem to go well. Painfully, laboriously, skin shreddingly and slowly, but enjoyable because of this. I get to the final rest foothold, but I know I'm tired. I'm really tired. It's getting dark, the moment of enjoyment has passed, and I'm scared of the possibility of failure. There's no such thing as trying again if you fail at the top of a 50m pitch which has just taken you over an hour already. With the dusk turning to night, I set off on the final few meters. The foot cams which seemed secure when I was fresh start skidding. I over grip with my arms, pushing and squeezing ineffectually. Panic sets in, and I helplessly slide out of the crack. Almost as a passive observer, I see my chance at climbing Freerider slip. I sit on the rope in partial disbelief. The exhaustion, tiredness, pain and dejection mix together. I don't want to be here any more. I hate this stupid crack. I want to be back in camp 4 with Lindy. I want to swear my head off but it takes a while before I can catch my breath and muster the energy to do so, but when I do, I start in earnest: "You BASTARD stupid fucking good-for-nothing piece-of-shit crack!!".
It takes me a long time to frig my way up the final 5 meters, and it's definitely nighttime as Dan seconds the pitch cleanly. One more half-pitch sees us at the Alcove, where we'll bivvy for the night. We eat and go to sleep straight after, but I wake intermittently through the night, usually having slid down the ledge into some rocks. It's a clear starry night, and the moon partially illuminates the Cathedral rocks opposite El Cap. It's a beautiful place to stir intermittently, but I can't escape the thought that I've fallen off the Monster and screwed it up.

My elbow the day after the Monster - ouch!

Friday
The dawn of a new day brings with it an acceptance that I'm not freeing El Cap, a multitude of aches and pains throughout my body, and a dearth of skin on my elbow thanks to the M.O. Fortunately however, today only has 5 pitches to the next bivvy. These are mostly straight forward (although of course, they don't feel it to me given the beating I received yesterday), except for the crux of the route, the boulder problem pitch. Dan flashed this pitch when he was here in May, but today, in the scorching heat, he can't even redpoint it. Dan gives up on his all-free ascent of Freerider and we continue to the Block, where we chill out to the entertainment provided by Team Butterfingers, who are having a tough time aiding the pitch above us. We hear a warning shout of "rock!", but in actual fact it's just another cam being cast earthwards. Later, shouts of "man, why don't we have enough small cams" can be heard. It might be uncharitable, but I can't help thinking that the reason for that is pretty self-evident. Whilst chaos ensues above, we sit out the head wave. Later, as if we needed any confirmation of the suitability of their nickname, Butterfingers drop their hash pipe onto the ledge. The last we hear from them is a distressed shout of "man I don't know how to clean a pendulum, this is the kinda crap I wanted to practice on the ground!" followed by a whole lot more yelling.

Saturday
I'm still dehydrated and my finger skin is trashed, but we'll top out today. I pull on at least one piece of gear on almost every pitch. Free'ing an isolated pitch doesn't really matter to me right now, and my elbow is in a bit of a state. I just want to get down to drink some water. Where Dan is still energetic and pulls out some tough leads, I manage one of my worst ever on one of the enduro corner pitches.
We top out in the late afternoon. Frigrider it may be, but we've still topped out on El Cap, so despite my disappointment at not freeing the route I'm still chuffed.

The Needles

The Needles present quite a dramatic change from the climbing, and indeed being, in Squamish. For a start, they are located at about 8000 feet elevation (I know I know... 2,400m altitude), and nowhere near a highway. Having been at sea level for the past 6 weeks, the altitude had a surprisingly tiring effect. I visited here three years ago, and escaped benightment by the skin of our teeth (which I was soon to make a recurring theme, as I'll come on to).


Thin Ice
Lindy, very much by her own admission, is no bold hero. Indeed, upon being informed that something is 'fairly safe' or 'not too scary', she has been known to reply "well that's easy for you to say, but you don't have the middle name 'chicken'!" This not withstanding, I often find myself fascinated by her internal battles that often play out not so internally (climb up, climb down, curse, climb up, climb down, curse some more...). In reality, I think that even though a lot of her climbing-fears are more overt than say my own, the similarities are greater than the differences. Undoubtedly this would surprise her, but there are probably more universals than uniques in terms of climbing fears.
So, the route Thin Ice, Lindy climbed the first 30m of the splitter crack - steady away. But at the crux these psychological battles became more visibly evident, and obstructive to upwards progress. There was no resolution this time, except to lower off and ask me to finish the pitch for her. A blow to one's confidence if anything is.
The second pitch is a grade easier, but as is often the way on granite, the grade matters less than the price of fish. It's a flared v-slot (I initially intended to elaborate on the difficulties that this entails, but in reality, if you need to ask, then you'll never really know). Upon her arrival at the stance, quickly volunteered herself to lead it. What?! I have no idea where this reversal in her headspace came from; the willingness to put herself back into the firing line of the unknown.

Lindy halfway up the slot. If squirming progress can be measured in calories, Lindy has at least 2000 of energy expenditure left to go (copyright Andy Reeve)

Obviously Lindy had had a word with herself. Her climbing wasn't fast, and it wasn't pretty, but eventually she sqeezed her way to the top of the slot and extricated herself into the upper crack (and thereafter the summit, glory etc etc..)


(I'm not quite a) Romantic Warrior
At the end of my last post I said that we had managed to avoid any drama. Well, to rectify this I badgered Lindy into agreeing to second me on Romantic Warrior. If this route were anywhere else, it would be an oft-attempted testpiece. Much like the rest of Needles climbing however, it still somehow holds onto an air of mystique. As with the rest of the climbing here, information is harder to come by (the topos are sometimes wrong), other than about half a dozen routes the climbs are rarely attempted, and the area feels wild and remote. This slightly eerie feeling is both reflected and enhanced by the names of the individual needles: the Sorceror, Warlock, Charlaton...

Surprisingly, given that as far as we were aware no one had been on the route for the whole week we were there, we coincidently shared the route with another pair (Max and Emma) on the day we chose to try it. We climbed with grace and ease for three pitches (because they're easy, rather than any reflection on our ability), after which progress became somewhat less forthcoming. A technical groove pitch preceeded a steep foothold-less traverse which left me wondering how it can be possible to get so pumped on such big holds? (although I didn't have much time to ponder this question, as I sprinted for the ledge at the end). Lindy informed me she thought that seconding this pitch was "dreadful" and she "hated it", but this was more to do with her British-style aid technique of just yarding on the gear, getting pumped and scared of a penduluming fall, and being on terrain 6 grades above her usual standard. Of course, I had made her carry the bag again as well. A truer reflection of the quality of the climbing would be encapsulated by the word 'flawless'.

Another easy pitch lead us to the base of the 'Book of Deception' pitch. I love it when pitches are given their individual name, especially when it sounds forboding like this. I thought it was a bit of a misnomer however. It looks blank and holdless, and lo and behold, blank and holdless it indeed is. Well, not entirely holdless, as I did make some progress, but the main difficulty came from placing fiddly RPs whilst using a bewildering combination of smearing both feet on alternating walls, crimping the edge of the crack, opposition palming and a variety of other techniques for which I have no words. Pumped, in my arms legs and mind, and unable to hold myself still for long enough to place an RP (the best I could manage was to take them from my harness and put them immediately back again), I stuffed in a blue alien that I knew wouldn't hold a fall. This presented me with the dilemma of whether to try to rest on the cam which might just rip out, or to push on and risk a fall onto the blue cam which would then certainly rip out. Fortunately I did not have the time to become too anxious about making this decision, as I only had to climb one more move before I fell off. The cam popped out (it is, of course, reassuring to know that I can assess poor protection as being unreliable, however, rather than reflect on this at the time I just swore at the cam and swore at the rock).
Sat on the rope recovering, the way ahead was suddenly far clearer and what I should have done became obvious from the comfort of my harness. I finished the pitch with just one sit on the rope. Disappointing in some ways, but there's only so hard I can try.

A regular occurence at the Needles - a fighter jet about to fly over head whilst Lindy sorts the ropes on Romantic Warrior (copyright Andy Reeve)

By the final pitch I was burnt out. Physically and mentally (I wanted it to feel easy, but it wasn't, which in an ironic and peverse trick of the mind always makes things feel even harder than need be). To make matters worse, I hadn't made Lindy carry enough food or water in the bag, so I was parched and felt weak. This, I like to think, is a great exemplar of getting in one's excuses early. Yes, you may have guessed, I fell off again (like I said, I was very thirsty and very hungry remember.) The only reason I continued to the top of the pitch was that it was the fastest way down.

Our friends Max and Emma had obtained their information on the descent from a different source, and so carried all their kit up with them and were now gayly abseiling down the other side of the pinnacle to the trail head and an easy walk back to camp. In a stern rejection of common sense in preference for the information we had read online (I still can't believe we didn't just work this out for ourselves), we on the other hand did some awful pain-in-the-neck abseils back down the route, over bulges and back across the big traverse, all against the clock as the sun was already under the horizon. In a repeat of my first visit here, we barely made it back to the base and our stashed kit with any daylight left (I like to think there is a lot to be said for consistency). This was a much less pleasant a way to finish, with the added anti-bonus of a curse-inducing slog back up the gully. Feeling somewhat less than fresh, the level of coaxing I required from Lindy on this uphill part increased from verbal prompts to hands-on physical pushing me upwards on the steepest parts. Thanks Lindy!.


A few more photos

Two climbers on Atlantis on the Sorcerror (5.11c). Thin Ice follows the crackline about halfway between them and the left edge (copyright Andy Reeve)

Lindy making her way through weird blobs as she follows the top pitch of Spooky (5.9) on the Charlaton (copyright Andy Reeve)

Lindy reading in the tent at the Needles campground in Sequoia National Forest (copyright Andy Reeve)

Squamish 1

And so a new trip begins...

...in Squamish. We have so far avoided any major epics (probably because Lindy's here), which I'm sure most people would consider a good thing. For the unfortunate reader of this blog however, no epics means no stories. As a result this will be a bit light on drama - in return for a few snaps. Until something goes horribly wrong or I get in over my head, when normal procedure will resume (by which I mean having a torrid epic and blaming it all on Dan's ungrounded confidence in my ability.)

Squamish seemed to be a slightly strange blend. On the one hand, the town is surounded by rock. Crags sit all around it. The other side of this however, is that the crags are surrounded by the town. Which also means buildings and roads all around. Surprisingly we became well accustoned to this accustomed to this after a few weeks, so even the noise of the highway and the docks of the logging industry fades into the general background mileau. This is with the exception of the slow bellow of the trains' horn (every 15 seconds, throughout the duration of its slow passage through town, at any time of the day and night), which is somewhat more difficult to become accustomed to. This proximity to civilisation, whilst making for a considerably less wilderness-like experience, brings with it a lot of convenience: supermarkets, friends, a friendly climbing community and 1 dollar samosas.

Climbing wise, the Stawamus Cheif's Grand Wall is the area showpiece. The crux pitches are graded 5.11a (about E3) so Lindy made me lead them. In return, I made her carry the bag (I definitely got the better deal). 

Lindy on the Split Pillar pitch of the Grand Wall

Lindy's big lead of the route was the Split Pillar, a 40m jamming corner which she climbed steadily and confidently. This same level of composure and fluidity was slightly lacking later in the trip when Lindy lead the classic Exasperator. Finding herself psyched out by the crux, only by verbalising her inner dialogue could she muster the gumption to keep going. All I heard from the base of the route was Lindy mumbling to herself; it later transpired that her words were "come on you stupid cow - just get on with it". I suspect that this would not have worked so well had I offered her the same advice.

Lindy seconding Perry's layback. With rucksack, obvs.

My favourite memory of the Grand Wall is the escape across Bellygood Ledge, entirely because of Lindy's shriek when she saw how narrow the ledge gets. Her initial words went along the lines of "Reeve... I'm not doing it". Faced with the stark choice between completing the crawl or staying there for the night... well her choice was obvious, as below

Lindy feigning having fun

and finally

Me on the Scimitar (11b)

Longing for the chains

Having mocked Lindy enough for one post, here's a picture of me in uncomfortable extremis (read: struggling embarrasingly on an E3) to make up for it. As you can see, I found this desperate, but all the same my efforts were put to shame by Lauren, who tried so hard that her shouting even drowned out the noise of the train.

Lauren, not trying hard enough