My Leap into Fame

Why not stop for a selfie?

I became famous in Yosemite Valley during my last climbing trip. Not for climbing 5.15, freeing an old aid route, or performing some epic solo. I did something unbelievable, but not quite impressive or inspiring.

On our third day of climbing the Salathe Wall on El Capitan things were going quite well. Andy and I were in good form for climbing, had our hauling system down, and had the right amount of food, water, and gear to make an honest bid for the summit. Andy had volunteered me to lead the notorious Hollow Flake pitch, and I was happy to punch the hero card and act as rope gun. After climbing to a fixed piton, I lowered and swung into the flake. Over a thousand feet off the ground, I did my best to wedge myself into the crack and begin working my way up. The term I would use to describe my movement is "udging", very physical, awkward, and slow. To minimize rope drag and make it easier to clean, this entire pitch is done without leaving any protection behind. This means a fall would by very big. I carried a #6 cam with me and pushed it up the crack as I progressed, which provided something to pull on as I "udged" my way up the flake. I battled my way inch-by-inch, up the crack until the tipped out #6 Cam no longer fit in the widening crack, and I would have to run out the last 25 feet to the anchor. Frustrated by the mass of cams getting in my way, I decided to reorganize for the last push to the anchor. I pulled the gear sling off my shoulder, clipped it to a sling on my belay loop and let go. The gear went taught on the sling for a fraction of a second, and then it continued to fall. The sound of over 20 cams dropping into the hollow flake was the realization of one of my greatest fears. I yelled, "ROCK" followed with, "that was the rack." I had just thrown a couple thousand dollars worth of equipment, and my chances of accomplishing a major life goal into the belly of El Capitan. Not only that, I was still unprotected for an entire rope length and 25 feet from an anchor. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to cry, I wanted the gear back, but I needed to finish the pitch before I could do any of those things. I fought back the feeling of devastation, and tried to focus on climbing. Beaten, sweaty, and afraid, I "udged" up the chimney, pulled myself over the top and clipped into the anchor. At that moment, the weight of what had just happened, settled on me like an elephant sitting on my chest. I fixed the rope so that Andy could ascend the line to me, and began pulling up the haul bag. I went through these motions, but my mind was a million miles away. All I could think about was the sound of equipment disappearing into the crack, and how I could have let this happen.

Even as I write this, three weeks later, I am sick with grief. I spent hours fishing with ropes and hooks trying to recover the equipment, but the chasm seemed to extend to the center of the earth. Andy, waited on the ledge, certain that our trip was over, dreams smashed, and defeated by El Cap (again). As I lowered and pulled up hundreds of feet of rope, I knew the equipment was gone but a glimmer of hope began to form. Maybe, between the two of us, we could scrape together enough gear back at camp to finish the route. I gave up fishing, got back to the ledge, and told Andy my plan. We would leave our equipment, fix ropes down to heart ledges, and rappel fixed lines to the ground. Without any of the specialty offset cams, and micro stoppers, it would be hard to climb the route, but not impossible. We agreed to not give up just yet. We spent the afternoon descending, and after returning to the car, we immediately took stock of what we had. What we lacked in micro stoppers, and offset cams we would make up for with aid climbing shenanigans and stubbornness.

A quick stop at Sentinel Beach to jump in the Merced River provided some relief from the stress of the day, and allowed us to wash the aluminum oxide off our raw and swollen hands. A massive pizza in Curry Village helped to fill the hollow feeling in my gut, and then we prepared to get back on the Salathe early the next morning. By the time we were finished packing, it seemed like everyone knew what had happened, and thus began my rise to fame as "that guy who dropped the entire rack into the Hollow Flake". I was not ready to laugh about it, yet, so it was mostly embarrassing. Going back up there, with a minimal rack, helped me keep a shred of dignity, but the days ahead would prove a hard row to hoe.

View from above El Cap Spire

Day 4 was a big day. We ascended back to our high point (over 1,000) feet in about 2 hrs. Then we had 7 pitches of free climbing to reach a bivy at El Cap Spire. Besides the 90+ degree weather, everything went really smoothly, and by the early evening, we were cooking up dinner on a spacious ledge and watching the sunset on Yosemite Valley. We did not wake up before dawn, and did not beat the British team to start climbing, so we ended up waiting till 9:00 before we could start climbing. This wasn't a big deal except that we had 10 pitches and a lot of aid climbing to reach the next decent bivy ledge. The free climbing right off the ledge was amazing, and we moved quickly all morning. Then, we got to Andy's lead on some tricky aid climbing, and things slowed down a bit. At one point on pitch 26, Andy reached a spot where it was not clear how to traverse over to another crack system, and the topo recommended cam hooks or micro nuts (two things we didn't have). After taking a fall on a bashie (literally a piece of metal hammered onto the rock that looks like chewing gum), he asked me to give it a try and returned to the belay. I found a very sketchy nut placement, and mustered the courage to make some free moves over a ledge and finish the pitch. Andy managed to salvage his block by leading the next aid pitch, but we were starting to run out of daylight. Now, reaching the headwall, I needed to navigate the hardest pitches, with marginal gear, and waning light. I made many moves off gear that did not match the manufacturers recommendations. Very rarely did I have all cam lobes in contact with the rock, and the need for efficiency demanded some extreme run outs. Just before midnight I pulled a few free moves and arrived at Long Ledge, where we would spend our last night on the wall. I fixed the rope for Andy to ascend, hauled up the bag, and collapsed on the 2'x10' ledge that would be home for the night.

Andy peering 3,000 ft down from Long Ledge

We were visited and photographed by climbers rappelling down from the top the next morning, and as much as we enjoyed our little home, we were ready to finish the climb. I took the lead for the last 4 pitches including a really hard aid crux (I used a couple fingers in a hole where a bat hook would have made life easy) and a phenomenal hand crack that I freed with some significant effort. In the early afternoon, we reached the top, ate the rest of our food, drank the rest of our water, and packed up for the descent. Being the one without chronic knee problems, I took the haul bag, a rope, and a surprising amount of trash, and began the journey down to the east ledges. The bag probably weighed less than 60 pounds, but it was still a challenge to negotiate the downclimbs. We made it to the rappels without incident, and continued down to the parking lot where we were greeted by our friend Leah, and some curious tourists. Leah managed to charm some Koreans into sharing Kim Chi with us, and we swapped stories about pooping, being angry at our partners, and how El Cap always humbles us. With hips raw and chaffed from hauling, kidneys aching from hanging belays, and the still sensitive subject of the lost gear, we took some hard earned rest, and spent the next couple days not climbing. The words of Warren Harding after his first ascent of El Cap are quite relevant to our experience. He said, "It was not at all clear to me who was conqueror and who was conquered. I do recall that El Cap seemed to be in much better condition than I was." This sums up the experience quite well, yet, for some reason I can't wait to go back for more. There was more climbing, more evidence of being conquered, and some pretty spectacular moments up on the granite faces of Yosemite Valley. For now, those stories will have to wait. Thank you for reading, and feel free to contact me to share stories, donate cams, or offer suggestions on how not to lose gear. Signing off as the now famous, Calvin "the guy who dropped the rack" Laatsch

Cheers

On the top of El Capitan, with Half Dome beckoning to be climbed in the distance

The Next Step

You know how you tell your girlfriend she is pretty every day. She is thankful for the complement, but it doesn't actually count, until she overhears your best friend say she is hot.

That is like onsighting 5.12.

To "onsight" is to walk up to the base of a climbing route with no information about how to climb it. Without anyone to yell where your next handhold is, or how to move past the hardest part, it is completely up to you.The climbing is steep, and demands precise movement. If you do not think quickly, you will fall. If you do not move quickly, you will fall. If you make a mistake, you will fall. If you fall, you have blown the onsight.

Falling my way up my first 5.12

My girlfriend like to tell me I'm the strongest climber in the world, but it is like telling her she is pretty. Sometimes, I feel strong and climb lots of hard routes. Yet, the grade 5.12 has always intimidated me. I completed my first 5.12 (with many falls) almost 7 years ago. The route is named "The Incredible Journey" and seems an appropriate title to begin what has been a tumultuous personal quest. In the past few years, I have done a handful of 5.12 climbs without falling, but never on my first try. I have always hung too long, made mistakes, or psyched myself out.

My greatest challenge has been my self doubt, but something changed this winter. I realized I was capable of more. Climbing a few weeks ago, I watched my friend working on a 5.12a. He struggled with a few sections, but it didn't look too difficult. When it was my turn to climb, I remembered a couple of the key sequences, and managed to hold on through the worst of it. Near the top, I was afraid my grip would fail, but I didn't give in. Focusing on moving efficiently and not letting my mind wander, I held it together all the way to the top. This was my first time "flashing" a 5.12. Having seen someone else do the climb, it was not as proud as an onsight, but still a great accomplishment. Next, was a 5.12b. I belayed my friend as he floated up the climb, danced through the crux, and clipped the anchor. It looked so easy. Without much thought, I roped up, and "flashed" the 5.12b. I moved quickly, resting where I could, and focusing on not letting go. At the top, my forearms felt like they were going to explode. It is the type of pain and pressure that makes me wish i could just sever my arms at the elbow. Yet, it didn't seem that hard.

A couple days later on the drive home, I stop for a little bouldering. I climb a V4 on my second try, which roughly translates to 5.12a, and then climb a V6 (5.12c) second try. Again, it doesn't feel so hard. Bouldering 20 feet is not the same as climbing a 100 foot pitch, but I am noticing a theme.

Weekend warriors swarming the desert

The next weekend, we escape the rain and head to the desert with the rest of the Washington weekend warriors. Without a guide book for the area, we kind of just guess at what we want to climb. Asking people to see their books, and browsing the internet, we end up at the base of a route called Red M&Ms (5.12a). Someone is toproping the route, so I grab some quickdraws and make a quick run up the adjacent route. I am warmed up, and I feel good. Looking up at the thin parallel cracks that define the climb, I try to be calm and confident. In an area teaming with beginners, one guy watches me and asks if I am going to lead Red M&Ms. He suggests I take some extra small gear, and offers a handful of micro cams. I feel a bit of pressure, but hold the anxiety at bay. Without wasting any time, I tie in, chalk my hands, and begin.

Megan doesn't usually say anything when I climb the first 20 feet without gear, but she asks me to place a piece after the first 10 feet. The crack is small, and accepts gear sporadically. There is not a lot of good placements, but I find enough. More than anything, I am thinking about not trying too hard. Reflecting on the advice I got the week before, I try to censor myself. If it seems like I am doing a really hard move, I am probably doing it wrong. I move my feet a lot, I keep my arms straight, and I breathe slowly.

Halfway up the route, after some big reaches and very thin climbing, I suspect I am done with the crux. However, there is still 50 feet to go, and the cracks do not get any wider. I never have more than the tips of my fingers wedged in the crack, but by focusing on my footwork, I do not have to pull very hard. Volleying my weight between the two cracks I methodically shift from left to right, standing on small edges or just smearing my feet in the tiny corner. Before I know it, the ground is far below, and the cracks seam up and disappear. Apparently, there is a second crux. Pausing briefly to look for holds, I see a way, and move without hesitation. It does me no good to doubt the last piece of protection down below my feet, or to wonder if I will find another hand hold over the roof. In that moment I know I can do it. Standing on top of the route, I realize I have arrived at my destination.

Clipping the anchor was like overhearing someone point out the 5.12 climber with big curly hair and skinny jeans. I have no choice, but to believe it.

There are mixed emotions when we accomplish something like this. The saying, "it is about the journey, not the destination," took on a new meaning for me. It started with that route 7 years ago, and it has been an incredible journey. Back on the ground I felt happy, but slightly disappointed. It seemed too easy. I have poured myself into this pursuit for so long. What will I do next?

Belling-home

Governor Ernest Lister

My climbing may have slowed in the past couple months, but my excitement for climbing has not waned. I have developed a bit of a reputation regarding my enthusiasm for often overlooked, and, in my opinion, under appreciated local climbs. Bellingham's location between Seattle and Vancouver, BC makes it a perfect spot to visit some world class climbing in just a couple hours drive. The climbing in Bellingham, however, is not the sort of stuff you will see on magazine covers or movie segments. However, being a resourceful individual, I have taken it upon myself to exploit ALL the climbing opportunities at home. I have been slowly developing a local sandstone cliff called "Governor Lister". Perched above Samish Bay in a thick evergreen forest, it is a picturesque example of what makes the Pacific Northwest so special. A plaque commemorating British born Ernest Lister, marks the trail to this rough cut gem. A Washington transplant like myself, Lister, ran a foundry and woodworking shop in Tacoma, WA before entering politics. As governor, he supported civil rights of blue collar workers and helped bring the eight-hour work day to the Pacific Northwest (amongst other things). Truly, a man after my own heart. Developing this climbing area is a way I can give back to the sport, encourage Bellingham climbers to get out of the gym, and do a little blue collar work, all in the guise of recreation.

View from the top of the Governor Lister Wall

I like to think of it as a community building effort, though my girlfriend jokes about my lack of success in trying to enlist partners for the project. It is important to note that I don't have a power drill which makes bolting a much more taxing affair. I hang in my harness for hours at a time, hammering a half inch drill bit, rotating it a quarter turn at a time, until I have an adequate hole to install a four inch bolt with a two part epoxy. With the goal of longevity, and safety for the routes, this painstaking method produces about one bolt per hour. These are thankless events, yet strangely gratifying. Ripping loose blocks off the wall, cutting down tree branches, and scrubbing moss reveals inspiring sections of rock. I have lost track of the hours and days I have spent working on this project, but every time I talk about it my excitement grows. I feel a sense of ownership and pride, but not in a way that is restrictive. During my last visit, on a rare clear winter day, I found a group of people climbing one of the routes I had put up, and they were having a blast. It doesn't matter that this little sandstone cliff will see rare traffic and no fanfare, what matters is that I am able to facilitate recreation right here at home, and share my skills, labor, and vision with the community.

When the project is done, I look forward to documenting and photographing the area to share with the wider climbing community. For now, I am content talking up "Governor Lister" to anyone who will listen, and counting each climber I meet at the crag as friends.