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?