Try Hard

Lunch break part way up Moonlight Buttress

Working as a carpenter I swing a hammer all day, move lumber, run heavy equipment, and generally abuse my body. On a big wall climb, I mangle my hands and feet, get roasted by the sun, and generally work real hard against gravity. My body gets wrecked in either scenario. At the end of the day, however, the way I feel about myself is very different. After a long day building a roof, I can barely bring myself to take a shower, eat dinner, and watch an episode of Parks and Recreation before going to bed. After a full day of climbing at my limit, I feel energized, and can't wait to plan my next trip. The source of my energy is not a sum of calories consumed and level of fitness. The ability to keep going has more to do with an energy that is outside the physical body. Tapping into this wellspring allows us to push beyond fatigue and redefine our limits. There is an emotional vessel that holds more power than we can understand. When I am engaged in the things I love, my physical energy expands to meet new demands.

My favorite cartoon is a Japanese series called Dragon Ball Z. The story line deals with the idea of finding hidden energy as the heroes fight to save Planet Earth from evil forces. Now this analogy may seem like a stretch, but bear with me. The main character Goku, is a pure hearted warrior who always manages to overcome impossible odds to defeat aliens, cyborgs, and magic creatures for the sake of the people he loves. What makes Goku special (besides having a tail and being able to transform into a giant ape) is that every time he is beaten to within an inch of his life, he thinks of his wife, child, friends, and family and his power grows. Obviously, this is a cartoon, and not a source of great spiritual insight. However, the message of personal growth, plays off an archetype that resonates with any quest to overcome impossible odds. When we are emotionally engaged in a challenge and go beyond what we thought was possible, our power grows to meet the demands.

150ft finger crack on Moonlight Buttress

The true power of ultra-marathon runners, explorers, climbers, and cartoon warriors is rooted in the belief that their goal is worth fighting for. It is the motivation to try hard, to train, to take risk, and to accept the possibility of failure. On my 29th birthday I was asked what my goals for the year were. Without hesitation, I said "I want to climb El Capitan, free climb Moonlight Buttress, and send a 5.13." These are all climbing goals. Saving for a home, having kids, or traveling to Mongolia didn't make the list this year. It is not that I don't want other things, but it is not where my heart is. If I try to pursue goals that I am not passionate about, it will simply drain my energy. I thought long and hard about enrolling in a graduate school program, but if it kept me from climbing 1,000 foot sandstone walls, I would not have the drive to be successful right now.

Last fall, I completed the first item on my list, and overcame significant challenges to climb El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. This winter, I left Bellingham and moved back to Utah to live and work near Zion National Park, where I am setting my sights on the second goal. To free climb (climbing with a rope to arrest a fall, using only my hands and feet to move up) the Moonlight Buttress would be the most difficult climb I have ever done. It is a special climb, because when I first moved to Zion it was the route that inspired me to begin big wall climbing. That year, Alex Honnold free-soloed Moonlight buttress in 1 hour and 23 minutes (climbing without a rope, using only his hands and feet to move up). In comparison, I aid climbed the route during my second season in about 15 hours (using equipment and rope ladders to move up the route). Now, 6 years later Moonlight Buttress is a benchmark to measure my progress. This climb pushes me to be stronger and more fearless than I ever thought possible.

High point on day 3, 2/3 of the way to the top

This project has consumed a great deal of my thought time, and excites me in a way that borders on obsessive. I have spent three days in the past two weeks on Moonlight Buttress trying to unlock the sequences and progressing slowly up the wall. On each attempt I reach a high point, fatigued, bloodied, and outclassed, and decide to go back down to the ground. On the one hand it feels like a defeat, but on the other it is exciting to see an opportunity to grow stronger. It wouldn't be nearly as gratifying if I simply went up, sent the route, and ticked it off my list. The way climbing El Capitan expanded my limits of durability, this climb is training my endurance and ability to overcome fear. There is a very real possibility that I may not complete this climb in good style. I willingly take that risk, because regardless of the outcome, my vessel of energy is growing, it is overflowing, and fueling me to try harder.

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.

Agile Climbing

The climb "Rebel Yell" is complete when you yell from the summit block. Standing on the Chianti Spire in the North Cascades, you might as well be on the wing of an airplane.

 fun,

 exposed,

long.

When I was a young climber, photos of a hidden climbing area called Trout Creek inspired me to learn to crack climb. Climbers worked together to resolve access issues with land owners were, and after years of anticipation, I made a visit this fall. It was everything I imagined, and then some.

 eat,

 sleep,

 climb.

I have never felt so strong or so accomplished in my climbing. The desert has an interesting effect on a person. In it's harsh way, the desert makes you tougher and more focused. I finished my ROCKtober with a week of hard climbing in Utah. When it is all you do for days at a time, one can reach a refined level of fitness and rhythm in their climbing.

My excitement and curiosity is piqued when I think about my time in the North Cascades and how much fun it has been to simply get outside. Looking forward to next year. My goals are to climb "The Nose", make an international trip, and begin guiding in the Cascades. My intentions for the latter can be seen on the still unfinished website agileclimbing.com

Cheers!

Solid Gold

Prusik Peak in all its glory

High up in the Cascade Mountains near Leavenworth, WA, is an area called "The Enchantments". Before this summer, I have heard about and seen pictures of the area, but have never actually pierced the veil and seen it myself. The name "Enchantments" conjures up larger than life adventure, spectacular beauty, and something magical. My experience climbing in the Enchantments did not disappoint.

Plans began when my friend/coworker, Trevor, suggested getting out in the mountains for some tough climbing. Finding someone with a similar appetite for difficult climbing, a cheery disposition, and a willingness to suffer is not easy, so I was thrilled about the opportunity. I have worked for Trevor doing carpentry for a few months, have shared some good climbing stories, and even bolted a route with him, but we had never actually roped up together. Never one to do things halfway, we decided to climb Prusik Peak in a day. Reaching Prusik Peak requires a 20 mile roundtrip hike, and just to be sure we would get full value out of our excursion we decided to do a difficult five-star route called Solid Gold. Solid Gold ascends a series of cracks just wide enough to fit my fingertips for most of the initial 450 foot face. After that, it follows the more moderate ridge line for a couple hundred feet to the summit. My girlfriend, Megan and her best friend, Erin, would join us for the alpine adventure, choosing to climb the classic West Ridge route.

The cleanest mountain goat I have ever seen

We had a little warm up day in Index, WA on the way to Leavenworth, which provided a good chance to assess where Trevor was in his climbing, and see how our chemistry was on a short multi-pitch. As usual, the climbing was hard (standard for Index), but Trevor, Megan, and I had a blast climbing Godzilla / City Park / Slow Children. Despite what the name suggests, there were no children harmed during our climb (disabled or otherwise). After a jump in the Skykomish river and a pasta dinner we sorted gear, packed food, and went to bed prepared for a 4am start.

So close, yet, so far

What can I say about the hike in? It is breathtaking, and wild, with goats, and alpine lakes, and heather meadows, and lots and lots of hiking uphill. Just to hike in would be a great workout, but after nearly 7 hours, standing at the base of one of the most amazing pieces of granite I have ever seen, we were not even halfway done. I felt about as good as I could expect, and as always, Trevor had a big smile on his face. As we racked up to climb, Trevor's excitement was palpable. He was like a golden retriever about to go for a walk.

Trevor following Solid Gold 5.11a

The moment I started to climb everything faded away. The weight of our hike, the chatter of my thoughts, it all left me as I worked my way up the delicate finger cracks taking easy breaths and moving from one stance to the next. I lead the first couple pitches and worked myself up to a little nook where I could bring Trevor up while sitting in the shade. Perhaps it was the fatigue, but I had a surreal sense of peace as I belayed. When Trevor's head came into view, I was so grateful for his company. I was even more grateful when he plucked a tick off my shirt and flicked it off the mountain. Trevor lead through the next few pitches which provided a consistent challenge and phenomenal climbing. When Trevor reached the top of the wall, I heard him yelling out to Megan, who was on her way up the final pitch of the west ridge, and I was thrilled to see her and Erin, in good spirits and on schedule for a long but reasonable day. We all congregated on the summit, where Megan ended up providing a bit of a rescue to some climbers on another route who were out of gear and in a bit over their head. After belaying the shaky climber to the top, we took our summit photo, ate gummy bears, and got ready for the descent. We made a handful of rappels and were back on level ground with no time to spare. Trevor and I bid the ladies farewell, and began bounding down the trail. We managed to make it down the steep rocky trail from Asgard Pass without any injury or rockfall, and made great time reaching the main trail. As we hiked back below the tree line, past campsites, and around lakes I felt surprisingly light and full of energy. Early on I suggested we might make it back to the car before dark and started talking about cheeseburgers and french fries. I was a bit optimistic. We weren't even close.

We got back to the car at 9:00 pm after a full 16 hrs of hiking and climbing. As if that weren't enough, there was still over three hours of driving to be ready to work the next morning. With a short stop for caffeine and potato chips, we pushed on through the night. Returning to Bellingham, safe and sound, is the most important goal of the trip. Back home, after a quick shower, I lay in bed, and felt a wave of gratitude and satisfaction. It is amazing what people are capable of when we push ourselves. One can't help but wonder, "What else can I do?"

Summit party with Megan, Erin, and Trevor

I already feel like 16 hrs wasn't so hard. For a few days following the climb, I had difficulty bending over, or moving quickly, but I look forward to tackling more big objectives with Trevor, and climbing in the Enchantments with a more generous time frame. Few places captivate me like the North Cascades and I suspect there is no amount of exploring that will break their spell on me. Hopefully, I can get out there again before winter settles in.

Until next time...
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Rock Craft

Used up, rusty, old climbing toys

Without the hard work of many inspired climbers, climbing would not be a "sport". After nearly a decade of climbing, today marks the first route I have bolted on my own. In between work and rain, my last two weeks have been devoted to this task. The fact that it is new, that it is my own, and it can be whatever I want it to be, is very exciting.

My perception of route development has been glorified by climbing books and movies. The old stone masters established routes in all the most spectacular areas of the country, and made climbing what it is today. As pioneers of the sport, they hold a mythical status in my mind. Yet, dangling in my harness with legs numb from lack of circulation, and my hands vibrating from hammering, I began to understand why they did it. Not for glory or building the sport, they established routes for the same reasons I was alone hanging on some forgotten rock in the middle of the woods. I was bolting because I saw a line that I wanted to climb. The payoff is a single moment when I can connect all the moves, and see my vision become a reality. Regardless, of who will climb the route after me, I pour myself into this project so that I can play. That is the only reason needed.

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