A second day of snow in the Gorge. Its green canopy betrayed spring but on the treetops and valley floor, a rare accumulation of snow had carved out a winter paradise. Perched near clifftop, we gazed into the eroded landscape around Indian Staircase. Faraway valleys alternated in mist and murmur. In sporadic intervals, our shy sun pierced through the clouds so that the shaded vegetation, clinging under rock cracks and caverns, appeared lavender against the brilliant snow. We huddled around a steamy pot of meltwater ready for hot cocoa. Moments like this make me wish all of civilisation would cede to this colossus of sandstone and coniferous pine. I remembered a poem from Heaney.
When you have nothing more to say, just drive For a day all round the peninsula. The sky is tall as over a runway, The land without marks, so you will not arrive
I have never arrived at the Gorge. Arrival presupposes intent. Rather, the busyness of the semester usually brings my mind to a stop and leaves it a blank slate. So when I visit the Gorge and the pleasant lawn at Miguel's, I visit as a pilgrim — dwelling in the elements to resurrect a truth-seeking enterprise. Climbing, with its characteristically instinctive fear and guarantees of safety, is a chisel by which the mind burrows into rock to find out what is on the other side of fear.
But pass through, though always skirting landfall. At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill, The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable And you’re in the dark again. Now recall
We had one good afternoon of climbing at the Red before snow set in. When the first flakes began falling, Prezi and I were busy matching the guidebook to the Great Wall in Muir Valley, setting up what we thought was a 5.6 or a 5.8 on the right side of the crag. The route had the distinctive illusory mark of a Red climb: an abundance of seemingly robust pockets concealed the pump of protracted vertical climbing. This style of ascent spurred the rapid development of what we coined the siege tactic. One extended alpine sling attached onto the next bolt served as an intermediate clipping point between two draws, reducing the distance between clips and providing a makeshift bolt for taking and resting.
Against the thickening downpour, I spent a good three quarters of an hour on the wall, building from Orange's first three bolts to besiege the route steadily with Kneecap on belay. The thin ledges were marred by sediment and wet with weather. Two great virtues kept me on the wall: pride and prejudice. Pride, because I'd been taking the mick out of Kneecap for not having led on the trip (she had in all honesty), so getting lowered on her rope was not an option. Prejudice, because I was convinced the climb couldn't have been harder than a 5.8 — it was in fact a 5.10d by the name of Muddy Waters (which could have been a name for any climb that day).
In the back of my mind, however, I was anxiously searching for something harder to prove myself on. So two days later at Phantasia Wall, I found my whetstone. There was this exhilarating line of bolts ascending a slightly overhung sequence of jugs and crimps on Count Floyd Show, 5.11b. The exposure of the route promised adrenaline and clean falls. It would be my first 5.11 outdoors. Something felt tangible, close, as if the route were breathing on my skin. I could sense the cold, sharp steadfastness of its rock face, upon which my fingers pressed like blade against whetstone.
I stick-clipped the first two bolts and faced my baby demon. The initial moves were relatively straightforward, but after the fourth clip, my right forearm started giving out. I closed my eyes and exhaled an acidic breath. I was in the dark again.
The glazed foreshore and silhouetted log, That rock where breakers shredded into rags, The leggy birds stilted on their own legs, Islands riding themselves out into the fog,
I felt the rope go slack, and I rode it into the fog. During that brief weightlessness, I understood that when I landed, I would find a renewed attachment to the rock. It would have saved me. In darkness, all memory sharpens. Those seconds of slight panic had etched moves into my head. Right foot on a tiny ledge, hands on the left rim of the crack for tension, face right and shuffle, then left hand out onto a tiny crimp above the head. My quickdraw caught me two and a half clips below on the other side of fear.
I knew then, winking at the 5.10 climber whom I was at the Red last year, that the elusive 5.11 was now within reach.
And drive back home,[1] still with nothing to say Except that now you will uncode all landscapes
On our final day, my fingers were in rebellion. Chief among the insurgents was my right middle finger, where indiscriminate bashing against rock had cleaved open a tiny gap between the flesh and the nail. With copious amounts of swearing and sweating, I managed to lead Donor (5.11b) and made it halfway up Stephanie's Carbaret (5.11c) on Volunteer Wall, both with Orange on belay. In an epiphanic awakening, I realised that the cold sandstone surface of a crag delivered the same effect as ibuprofen.
In pursuing truth in words, Heaney found veracity in peeling back language from perception. I guess I, too, am at a loss for words to summarise this Spring Break. I'd already known how much I would enjoy being at the Red, and how it would stir me. I'd already known how fear is this waterline that waxes and wanes with the tide, and never really leaves me alone. But Heaney was right. The mountains have their own character, their way about fear, their special propensity to beauty. Our truth is not so much to conquer and decipher as to observe and befriend —
By this: things founded clean on their own shapes, Water and ground in their extremity.
The touch of rock waters and grounds me.
[1] Prezi and I are glad to announce that we made it back, free of accidents, with Glitter, Kneecap, Musical Saw, Orange, and Pizza. My heart stays with Celerina. May Trango rest in peace.