Learning to Fail, part II

     






When I first began climbing, I thought the things I was learning would help me succeed; to reach the summit. It took awhile to see I was really learning to fail; because I’ve failed more than I’ve succeeded. In fact, some seasons, some years, were downright humbling. Let’s get one thing straight right off; although it held my attention for many years, I was never a world class climber. I rarely, in fact, ever got out of my armchair. I haven’t done Everest (I'd rather try Gasherbrum IV), never even climbed the Eiger, although I once looked at it; maybe that’s why I didn’t climb it.

      The fall on the north face of Gunsight affected me for awhile. My journal, late August,1999 - I'm having a hard time erasing the vivid, mental image of my mother collecting all my stuff, if I were to ever die unexpectedly. She, of course, is sad and teary eyed; questions unanswered, unspoken; seeking reasons. Wanting to understand, knowing she never will. I fear not so much death itself, beyond the primitive instinct that gives us fight or flight, but how my death would adversely affect others; namely her...and my father, who would, of course, view it as a waste, senseless...grieving nonetheless.

      Our next objective that month was the classic Liberty Crack on the east face of the Liberty Bell, obvious there on the way up over Washington Pass. A fair grade V; one long day, even with an early start. I had an obvious horse to get back on.

      August 16, a few days before Ken and I attempt the Liberty Crack. More than a dance with death, or of being cavalier, it is a re-confirmation of the soul, of the spirit of life. If I don't climb this one and more to come, how will I ever face myself? My spirit will die before my body and that to me is unacceptable. I fear more the long, agonizing death of complacency and luxury or comfort...the death of the spirit. I love facing challenges, hardships and fears. Not that I deliberately seek them; the nature of the things I do is enough.

      Friday, August 20, just back from the Bell. I think they're starting to leave spare change lying about...they know I'm broke. Kenny footed the bill for the Bell trip. Last Tuesday morning everything just seemed outa-sync. The previous late afternoon we had driven up from Mazama (after spending the day sorting, packing and resting; did I also mention hydrating and peeing an awful lot?), to suss out the approach and glass the route one last time.

      Fixed lines hung from the top of the second pitch of Liberty Crack and a couple guys were hanging it out on the Thin Red Line. We did supper while feeding the mosquitoes, yakking with the tourists (scored some free O.J.), and watched the fellas on the T.R.L. break out their port-a-ledge. After food we went and found the trail up to where we wanted to go and returned. Darkness came and we finally retreated to our sleeping bags in the back of Ken’s car. A 2:00 am wake up call was agreed on, giving ourselves a generous 1 1/2 to 2 hours to the base and girded.

      3:27 am sharp we awoke and stumbled about, sorting and packing and eating again, blinding each other with our headlamps and generally making no headway, until Kenny suggested we drive down to the trailhead and sort it out... damn! I thought I did all this yesterday! It seems I'm never done sorting and organizing and packing. We park along the road near the trail and do a shortened version of what went on earlier. Pre-climb jitters and nerves. I had them anyway. Ken watches me with virgin eyes; he'll learn.

      My headlamp seems fuzzy as we bounce and weave our way up the steep hillside, blundering around a bit; I was just here a few hours ago. Locate the trail... another. We stop and rest mightily towards the top of the talus, realizing how futile it is to try and make up the time. I slowly become aware of rocks and boulders the size of automobiles and small structures and the Bell looms above in the pale morning dim. I am humbled.

      We reach the foot of a short snow section and finish gearing up. Soon, we're scratching our way up the cupped snow to the very base of the cliff. Wow, what a moment!  So full of anticipation, fraught with anxiety. The fixed lines hang there, teasing us. Ken, who gets the first pitch, decides to have a look at the left-hand start (there’s two options), so we go out and up the snow a little ways. The day is beginning to dawn and the valley sweeps out from our vantage in fine fashion, giving pause to consider the 1st ascensionists.

      We decide against the left-hand start and begin working our way back down to the right-hand start. We hear voices; there, below us, two guys working their way out of the trees and up the snow patch. Must be the guys with the fixed lines. We're about 20 feet above the start, clearly heading in that direction, and up they come, without hesitation, and hop in the moat right in front of us and begin gearing up, putting on rock shoes, breaking out ropes...what? Just like that, we got the classic bump; dissed. They hadn't even asked us our intentions. Well, that tacks on a couple hours to an already late starting day, seems like we're right on par here. We drop our gear and hang out on a flat place in the snow. I throw a mental temper-tantrum and resign myself to a longer day...what else can we do? I roll a smoke and we wait for the guys with the fixed lines to come jump in front of us as well. Ken feels bad because he's the one who wanted to check out the left-hand start or we'd be up on the 1st pitch by now, ahead of the claim-jumpers. I tell him not to worry, some things you just can't foresee. Shortly, we hear other voices down in the talus; sound Russian. They gear up and start up; I move down by the start in case they're not the ones' with the fixed lines. Man, I'm not used to such a traffic jam.

Note: following a series of errors, we got a seriously late start and ended up bailing after getting to just below the Lithuanian Lip. Kenny wasn't feeling right and I didn't feel like pushing him. We'll be back.
Sep. '99, N. Idaho

(R) rating litany, part II

        RATING LITANY - PART II

      August 12, 1999. Late Thursday evening; we’re home early. The gravity of it all has yet to hit me.

North face, Gunsight Peak. The Roskelley/Castle route; somehow becoming a true nemesis; what am I paying for? No matter. After a gear laden approach and a starlit bivouac, Todd had led off in an almost constant fog. Occasionally the sun broke through and threatened to warm us; but it soon passed the edge of the face above and I stood shivering, balanced on the lip of snow up against the shadowed stone wall. The climb starts off at an easy angle but quickly calls on your full attention as the rock steepens and the crack flares frequently.

      I watched him moving up, alternating free and aid moves. At the end of the crack system he moved right out around the dihedral/roof system above him, onto a bulge involving some very bold face climbing with faint promise of a way above. He reached an acceptable belay stance and decided to bring me up.

      It felt good to get going and I soon warmed up. I found easier climbing than on my first attempt, possibly because I was belayed from above. I got up under the roof and slid over left to collect the rappel gear from ‘96. I wondered just who the other party was and how many years prior they had been here. I traversed back out around right, grabbed a lowered aider, and climbed up beside Todd. He had a strong anchor set up on a small, precarious ledge. He also had that distant look, my own angst reflected in his eyes. I moved around up past him, clipped to a high anchor, and leaning back, eyed the overhang above. It looked like a couple of aid moves could get me up and over right, towards a promising crack system a few meters out of reach. I sort gear; rev up my denial.

      I first tried a pin, but could find no sound placement; the rock all around above me seemed shattered, perhaps from a recent, hard impact. I ended up slotting a small nut at arm’s length. I tested it well, watching it seat itself. I completed the setup and, unclipping from the belay, moved up onto it. One more piece and I may be able to free a couple moves over to the crack. I slot another nut; it seats okay, but I can make this better. I lever as high as I can and try again. I’m messing around trying to locate another nut when the piece I’m on fails. Instant weightlessness and an odd silence alerts me to the fact that I’m falling.

      There was no time for denial; this was sudden and real and demanded my attention. I tried to twist around and then slammed into Todd a few feet below, the impact taking my breath. I was glanced outward, and then fell, upside down, the cliff becoming a blur in front of my face. I had time to think that something wasn't right; something in the system should've caught me by now. My body brushed the steep wall hard once or twice, tumbling me, and I began to dread the final impact.

      Then I slowly elevatored to a stop, again upside down, various gear and ‘biners ripped from my harness hitting the snow and rock at the base of the cliff, not very far below me now. Confused, I re-righted myself, hollering up if all was okay. I quickly moved to my left and dunked in a nice, fat cam, clipped to it and got off the rope; Todd said he had me, but not for long.

      After he tied my lead line to the anchors, I began ascending the rope. When I got near, Todd's subdued manner told me he was hurt. Then it all poured out of us. He had lost control of the belay when I hit him and when I went past, he heard the awful singing of the rope; he tried regaining control of the belay once, twice, and then finally grabbed the lead line and squeezed, somehow slowing then stopping over 200 lbs with his bare hand. After committing the ultimate climbing sin, he redeemed himself by accomplishing the impossible save.

      We were effectively done with the climb but not the retreat; never have I had that much trouble focusing. All told, I had just fallen a good 70 to 80 feet. At one point I began shaking uncontrollably as the realization of what could have happened swelled over me. It took us about an hour to sort it all out, assemble a new rappel anchor (backed up), get him over and down to me, then us down. His left hand was useless, but he was strong all the way through it. His hand will heal, but not right away; it was a lesson hard learned, but learned nonetheless.

      When we arrived in Coeur d’Alene eight hours later, we went to the Immediate Care facility. The doctor expressed amazement over the 3rd degree burns in Todd’s hand. His middle finger got the worst of it, a wide swath of skin and flesh gone from the base of the finger all the way to the tendons and bone. He sat stoically through the cleansing as I felt pain wash over him time and again. I owe him one.



Sep. '99

A Connoisseur of Complexity; A Lover of Simplicity. by Todd Hesse, Dec. 10, 1999.

A Connoisseur of Complexity; A Lover of Simplicity. by Todd Hesse, Dec. 10, 1999. For S.A.L.

        I have a story that must be written. As with many of my stories, this is one of a special person that has led me on many journeys. These are guided expeditions of soul, heart, and the basic fundamentals of being a participant in life. I like to surround myself with people who make me think. Perhaps they see things differently than I, or perhaps  because of the similarities. Scott Alan Lewis has wandered into my life and proven to be both.  

     
        Upon meeting this man, a hasty judgement may bring you to see a middle-aged man who has done nothing with his life. A lost soul that wanders the planet in search of instant gratification. One of many who will die and disintegrate as anonymously as he entered this world. But, as with many judgments, this is wrong. You must bear your soul to even get a glimpse at his, and in this vulnerability you will never be the same.

        On the floor of my first Idahoan home sat a man of unrivaled odor. He had a bushy beard and wild, uncut, unclean hair. He donned just poly-pro long underwear and shorts on his lower half and over a grisly, chiseled torso was draped the torn remnants of a poly-pro top, classic blue of course. Near him was an obviously hand-knit turtleneck sweater of hidden meaning and a Swiss carpenters hat. He sat not on the furniture but amongst it. Before him was a pair of well worn but state-of-the-art mountaineering boots, encrusted with mud from his latest journey. He bares a gift, a gift of story and adventure. However, in a clash of modern technology and old school practicality, this story is not told by mouth around a campfire, but as we huddle around the television and a very expensive video camera.

       This was my first meeting of this prodigal son. It was brief and memorable, just long enough for him to empty our refrigerator and fill our hearts with a passion for the mountains. He had just returned from climbing a peak that was unknown to me, Gunsight Peak of the Idaho Selkirks. He had made many visits to the Selkirk Crest area, and it was obvious in his eyes that this land he was describing was the playground of his youth. He had just climbed the Bergman-Miller route on the north face of Gunsight. There were, however, two more  established routes on that face; Oka-Bates and the scary Roskelley-Castle.

       I would have the opportunity to get to know Scott over the next few months. He would frequent the house and take my already soul-mate, Ken, climbing. Ken would come home after their adventures and tell me of the things he learned and places they had gone.

       Soon, on a cold October morning, we were to go on my first traditional, multi-pitch climb. I woke early only to find that Scott was already up and making something that resembled pancakes, but they had things in them. I was new to the west; in my childhood it was something special to put blueberries or apples in our pancakes, but nothing more. Scott had already included huckleberries and bananas and granola and vanilla and cinnamon and, this one really got me worried, cream cheese! He instructed me to open a can of peaches and find some honey. I was just being polite, but was rather disgusted. I learned that this was unusual, even for him, but his pancakes were famous so I should let him be.

       The day brought some exciting climbing and lots of learning. It was Kens' first time leading and, proving to be quite cautious (slow), this provided some good bonding time between Scott and I. You never really get to know someone until you spend a couple hours sharing a six inch ledge two hundred feet off the ground. I experienced the exposure to not-so-subtle renditions of Jimmy Hendrix. We spoke of jobs, women, money, and of course, climbing. He is really an excellent teacher that is willing to teach at any level of competence at any time. He shares mistakes and triumphs and is always interjecting with the little wisdoms of seniority and yet will still allow his students silence to make their own mistakes. Soon we were on top and I shared my first summit with two timeless friends that had somehow grown closer in our latest endeavor. The day brought my first lesson on the human aspect of climbing and I found the recipe for the worlds best pancakes.

       Scott would soon take from me all that I had in Idaho. He was making his annual pilgrimage to work in Japan and had invited Ken to join him. They left for Japan and this was the time I realized how much Ken meant to me. So I remembered them the best way I knew how; I went climbing. I took with me the new tools I had acquired and the thought of my friends in a land far away. I honed my skills so that I may continue to play with them when they returned.

       Upon their arrival I had a list of climbs to do. Scott took me to the Selkirks and Ken took me to McCall. Ken and I had moved to a little house on 3rd street. After a couple months Ken and I realized Scott had been sleeping on our couch for a very long time. This was the first time that I knew Scott to have a real job. "Taxi by Hall" was ringing throughout the house on a regular basis and the vagrant climber had moved in. That summer was one of hard work for the entire house of five bachelors. We shared in everything and ate dinner together most evenings. We were a family.

       Scott had erected a wall made of cardboard in the living room and now had some degree of privacy. That wall became the outlet for our emotions and artistic expression for the next two months. We wrote inspirational quotes and pinned pictures of goals and drew sketches of our thoughts all over it. This was a lesson of Scott's artistic intelligence.

       Climbers don't tend to keep jobs very long and the restlessness was beginning to show. We planned it out. I would quit my job and go home to a family reunion. When I returned, Scott would have quit his job as well. We would then climb the Roskelley-Castle route on Gunsight Peak. Next we would hike in and do the unclimbed north face of Hunt Peak. Then we would travel to the North Cascades to climb the finale of our month, Liberty Crack on Liberty Bell. The first of the climbs began our epic: Roskelley-Castle, III 5.9 A1 R. This route was an inspiration for Scott. He talked of the climb with respect and enthusiasm. He had first attempted it in '96 with Joe Lind but had been thwarted. It was originally climbed in '69 and has never been repeated. Scott had even begun writing a litany of just what an R rating consists of. Soon the preparations had ended and it was time to climb.

       I had much trepidation regarding this route. I recognize a difference between fear and anxiety. I have been anxious about climbs before but it was nothing more than "butterflies". This level of stress is productive and increases your level of awareness. This was, however, the first route to scare me, to induce a fear response. Fear is bad. It means the level of stress is so great that it impacts efficiency and limits your awareness. I had seen the fear building in restless nights and in growing anticipation.

       We packed our bags entailing a gargantuan rack and two ropes ready for anything, and we were on our way. The approach was through the Hunt lake watershed and up the west slope of the Gunsight-Roothaan ridge. Just before dark we arrived at one of the best campsites in the Selkirks, high on the ridge overlooking the Pack river drainage on one side, and Priest lake on the other. The apparition of Gunsight peak loomed above us and continually distracted our attention while we prepared for the night. I caught Scott at the edge of camp, peering up at the north face. As he turned to me I could see he had no idea what tomorrow may bring. In all actuality his thoughts would turn out to be nowhere as horrifying as what reality would present.

       We woke early and proceeded across a snowfield to the base of the cliff. I started leading up the first pitch. Finding the climbing to be greater than my abilities, I aided a good portion of the pitch. I came to the high point of Scotts' first attempt, marked by a #8 Chouinard stopper, and traversed right to flank the overhang that was suspended above me. The cracks were incipient and ill-located, not offering good protection. So, believing I was in over my head, I set an anchor and Scott came up to join me. Upon inspection of the blank bulge above us, Scott thought that with a few thin aid moves he would be able to reach a crack providing good protection. He went for it.

       The aid was slow and I was not watching him. But it is a very distinct sound that gear makes as it rips out from rock. I realized that Scott was falling. From this point the story gets a little blurry. I know that he hit me as he went past. I know that I could hear the sound of the rope accelerating. I knew that I was not stopping his fall.

       I could see him falling head first below me. Once, I tried to obtain the brake line, but to no avail. I did not have much time. In a matter of seconds, if Scott continued to fall, he would impact the snowfield in a fatal crater. I grabbed the moving lead line with my left hand and squeezed. Even if I had time to think about it I would have realized that I had no choice. After a few burning seconds he slowed and came to a stop.

       With wide eyes Scott yelled to check if all was okay. Without looking at my hand I told him to anchor himself as I did not have him well. He placed a piece of gear as I tied him off with my right hand. He began to ascend the rope.

       I peeled my hand off the rope. The charred remains of my fingers resembled nylon webbing after a rope has been pulled through it. Deep burns and large blisters were present. There was no pain yet, but I knew it would come.

       Scott approached and we assessed the situation. His calm demeanor was contagious. We discussed what had happened and he began setting up an anchor for our descent. He performed with genius even though he had just taken a major whipper and I was now dependent on him. He lowered me down and soon joined me safely on the snow. We reached camp shortly and Scott cleaned and dressed my wound for the long hike out. We broke camp and left with a new vendetta to return and finish this delectable route.

      Nine hours later we reached the hospital where the doctors scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. Scott, always supportive and very curious, stood behind me with one hand on my shoulder and a camera in the other. I was released and knew that I had a long time without climbing ahead of me.

       It was two months before I grabbed at rock again. Even then my newly formed skin and scars were easily ripped and I had to be careful. There was a lesson burned into my mind as well. As I climb, Scott is no longer in the back of my mind but is always in the forefront. I am a safer climber now. Climbing is a sport that offers few nonfatal mistakes. I am one up now and I don't want to press my luck.

       Scott is as good of a friend as they come. He knows when his advice is not needed and when it is, he gives it freely. Questions are considered and answered thoughtfully and honestly. He is loyal and trustworthy. From him, I have learned as much about life as I have about climbing...if there is any difference.

       So as I write this, I realize that Scott Alan Lewis will possibly be the only one that reads it. So, to those two lonely eyes that bare down on these words, thank you. Thank you for being my Sidhartha, my Galileo, my Votek. I may not aspire to be your mirror, but your reflection will always be present in my image.

(R) rating litany, part I

      This climb has got me a bit psyched out; good maybe, keep me on edge. I think I’ve looked at it too long. The best and only way is to go and see.

      With a rating of III 5.9 A1 (R), the Roskelly/Castle route on the north face of Gunsight is not to be taken lightly. Just what constitutes an (R) rating in climbing? (R) means runout; the very word sends stabs of fear down the spines of us mortals.

      For part of the answer I will consult my ever changing and hopefully expanding collection of reference books. My library, such as it is, does contain a dictionary; two actually, maybe more.

      Runout. My 1959 Webster’s New Handy version does not contain the compound term. Instead I offer, separately; run: to move rapidly; to flow. And, out: without, on the outside. My 2001 Random House Webster’s does include the compound; to become used up. From these literal explanations we can realize that to climb a section of a route that is rated (R), we must move, and apparently the more rapid the better, without; we’ve exhausted all our possibilities. This is pertaining to protection or lack of with respect to roped climbing. Runout means at some point the leader had to go for it un- or marginally protected.

      I next turn to my mountaineering and rock climbing literature. An explanation of the rating and grading of climbs is usually included in most guidebooks. Tucked away at the end, almost without exception, is a sometimes casual mentioning, like an afterthought, of the (R) and (X) ratings. (X) I won’t even go into.

      Since it is the R/C route on the north side of Gunsight that’s spawned all this written anxiety, it seems Randall Green’s ancient Idaho Rock is an appropriate place to begin. I quote: “The letter (R) means conditions are such that the leader may take a serious fall, possibly pulling out intermittent points of protection before the fall is stopped.”

       John Harlin III states in a guide of the Needles, long notorious for sick run-outs; “... the definitive difficulty of Needles climbing is largely psychological; the runouts here can be frightening. Typically an (R) pro suffix denotes considerable runouts between available pro, with potential for serious injury in case of a fall.”

      Rock Climbing Utah, by Stewart M. Green offers, “Both (R) and (X) ratings indicate more serious routes with possible serious injury, ground fall, or even death as a result of a fall.”

      Referring back to Idaho Rock, Randall Green writes of R/C, beckoning, ”..and the route does not protect well. John R. led the whole route and sometimes encountered several unprotectable down sloping slabs that were devoid of cracks. This climb has never been repeated. More info and details are unavailable.”

      Over the past few years, I’d developed an obsession with the north face of Gunsight, here in North Idaho, the Roskelley/Castle line in particular. Since the mid 80’s I’d been making serious probes into the upper reaches of the Selkirk Crest, ascending peaks and smaller formations, discovering rock walls and hidden paths; learning the approaches.

       Summer of ‘96 came the first serious attempt at R/C. I was partnered with Joe Lind, a well built local with a taste for hard routes. I couldn’t get us up to where he could do his thing and we were driven down at the first crux.

      The year after, Joe and I teamed up again for Bergman/Miller (III 5.8 A2), the classic of the three documented routes on the face, for possibly the second or third ascent. Whenever possible I looked over, trying to spot the R/C line; what I could see did look hard; in more than one place.

      Now, Roskelley and Castle first climbed this, my nemesis, back in 1969. In the intervening years there have been no known repeats. I personally knew of two known attempts; on our first, I found a rappel anchor at the first obvious crux. In the spring of ‘97 I had a chance to speak with Mr. Roskelley, and I shamelessly asked him his memories of the route and what might be expected further up. He thought for a long moment (one serious resume his), then regarded me with that hardened and amused squint.

      “Go right.” he said. “When it gets difficult, go right.”

      The summer of 1999 finds Joe and I involved with different projects. I team instead with Todd Hesse, a strong, young climber. He has never seen the north face of Gunsight. In two day’s time, we intend to make the third known attempt to repeat the R/C route.

(To be continued)


Written @ late 90's, somewhere in North Idaho.