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Not Every Project Goes Down Easy

Not every project goes down easy.

Sometimes a route takes two tries. Or three. Sometimes more. Sometimes it’s days, or weeks, or months.

Then there are those that take years.

I remember the first time I read about Astroman. I was 19, only a handful of leads under my belt. I’d never been to Yosemite, or anywhere really. I’d grown up climbing on scrappy crags on the coast of Maine, made my way to the Gunks and Adirondacks and now was out in Colorado for my second try at college. But the plan was really to climb—Eldo and South Platte rock, ice in Ouray and Vail. School was an excuse to play in the Rockies.

That’s where I first I read about it, “The best rock climb in the world.” 12 clean, hard pitches up the steep east face of Washington Column. The Enduro Corner. The Harding Slot. First ascent by the Stonemasters. Freesoloed by Peter Croft. This was the land of legends.

Yosemite Valley

I, meanwhile, climbed 5.8. I carried around a rack of hexes like cowbells, and if there wasn’t some kind of sling running bandolier-style across my chest I wasn’t leaving the ground. My rope had never seen a leadfall. Astroman was a dream, a myth shrouded somewhere in the distance. I had no idea what such a thing truly meant.

15 years, however, has a way of changing things. Some projects, afterall, take years.

My first swing at the legend was six years ago. My partner Jim was an old school hardman, the kind of guy you want on an over-your-head mission. I’d climbed a lot of Valley moderates, long free climbs up to 5.10 or those with short 11 cruxes, and put few walls under my belt. Now I wanted the prize.

We warmed up, got ourselves reaquainted with the physical nature of Yosemite climbing, and then got on the Rostrum, the supposed training-wheeled version of Astroman. The route went, with Jim and I onsighting pitch after pitch of perfect crack. The 11c crux fell quickly, a few pulls on fingerlocks. The only ugliness came on the offwidth, which I grovelled up pulling on cams. It was a good reminder that in Yosemite the wide is often the crux.

We topped out and over pizza made plans for the main event: rest, then Astroman.

If only things always went according to plan…

We started early knowing the route might need a long day. Jim strung together the first couple pitches. Soon we were below the Enduro Corner, a shimmering dihedral of overhanging thin hands. I racked up.

It started well, I felt solid on the jams, stuffed gear as I climbed. But the Enduro doesn’t relent: 40 feet later I was still in small hands, then still 30 feet after that. Then it pinchs down. The feet were small, the rock so clean it felt like glass.

I fell. I fell again. And again.

Soon I was aiding, so gassed I could barely bare to shove my fingers into the crack. I was miles from the anchors. I shouted “Take!”

Make a move.

“Take!”

Make a move.

“TaketaketaketakeTAKE!”

And again. And again. The pitch felt went on forever. Barely a jam or a stance revealed itself anywhere.

Astroman. The stuff of legends.

By the top I was dry-heaving, my skin was in tatters. My tremendous rack was gone. I built an anchor and just sat down, dejected. This would not be the day.

When Jim made it up he looked at me. “Let’s do another pitch or two and get out of here,” he said. I nodded, still too tired for a discussion. We climbed two more pitches to the base of the Harding Slot and bailed. The greatest rock climb on earth would have to wait.

Fast-forward six years: February 2016. A group of friends are planning a climbing reunion. We met climbing in the Caucasus Mountains of Armenia and Georgia, and now our Armenian host was coming to the States to sample American rock. I called my friend Andre: “Yosemite. Will you meet me? I want to climb Astroman.”

It’s funny how an idea can endure, how it can stick in your brain through tremendous changes and come out unscathed. Barely out of high school, more a hiker than a climber, I first fell across Astroman, printed myself a rudimentary topo. Now 15 years later, just off trips to Cuba, the Caucasus and Scotland, I was itching for another swing. This, I figured, was my shot.

We met in Indian Creek, started the tour with sandstone splitters. From there I took a detour to Castle Valley and a quick run up the North Face of Castleton, then on to Red Rocks, where the Armenian (his name is Mkhitar, which he helpfully shortens for Americans to MAH-heek) and I ran up the nine-pitch Texas Hold Em. Things felt good. Astroman was waiting.

Erik Eisele Texas Holdem

But the Valley is not the desert, as Yosemite would soon remind me.

We crossed through the tunnel into Yosemite Valley at midday. We were packed and ready: I wanted a shot at figuring out the Enduro Corner moves, to treat it like a sport climb almost, so at 2 p.m. we started up.

It was hard, but not impossibly hard. I found feet, and rests, and places to jam. But I still took. A lot. The pitch would go, but it would be no easy feat.

The next day we came back, Andre wanted his shot. We were fired up for the top; after the rehearsal the day before we thought it might go. But it was to no avail. The Enduro spit Andre out, left him as smoked as it had left me. We climbed to the Harding Slot and descended.

No big deal. We had time.

A few days later we were back. We eschewed the second rope, got an early start, sprinted up the first few pitches and were soon looking at the Enduro once again.

“Go,” Andre said. “You’ve got this.”

I started up. The jams felt solid. I dropped in a cam, climbed, then dropped in another. I punched it, placing less than I’d like but enough to be safe. The clock was ticking. The first rest was 40 feet up, a handjam with a stem. I had to get there. So I went.

Erik Yosemite 2016

Over our repeated missions I’d discovered enough jams of substance to know I could hop between. It meant running it out a bit, but cams in amazing granite kept it safe. I jammed, placed, then punched it. Again. And again. Soon the end was in sight.

Then my foot popped. I was off, flying through the air.

“CRAP!!” I yelled as the rope came tight. “I wasn’t even pumped!”

It was a lie, I was pumped, but I wasn’t out of gas. Inattention that caught me, poor technique, not a lack of forearms. I yarded back to my last piece, got back on route and climbed to the anchor.

Andre was next to me a few minutes later. “Well,” he said, “what do you want to do?”

“Keep climbing,” I said. “I want to send that pitch, but we might as well keep going up.”

The fall, however, broke my resolve. We climbed to the Harding Slot, which I started up, but when things started turned physical I backed off.

“I want to send this thing for real,” I told Andre back at the anchor, “not hangdog my way up it. I want to go down and come back later.”

“Later?” Andre said. We had one day left, and neither of us would be in shape for a second go tomorrow.

But some projects take days; others, weeks; others, months. And some last years. The best climb in the world would have to wait.

“Later,” I said threading the rappel.

Priceless

Let’s run the numbers.

Replacing the key crux stopper, 4 times: $36

3 ropes beaten to worthless fuzz: $450

Gas to drive from my home to the trailhead (I’m guessing at least 20 times): $150

Visits to my physical therapist to undo the damage of repeatedly thrashing myself on the powerful fingerlock crux: $640

6 months of gym membership strictly to train for one route: $480

And then there are the costs beyond the financial:

  • the hours spent beating my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit my fat fingers deep enough into the crack to make upward progress
  • the sleepless nights, discouraged that I wasn’t good enough and then, when it seemed in reach, fretting about a perfect execution of the moves
  • the meals and massages I offered to my wife for not climbing where she wanted and instead belaying me, again, and again (and again)
  • the shreds of skin and drops of blood
  • all the other routes I could have climbed instead of falling off the same one over and over again

The calculus of a rock climbing obsession is tough to equalize. We give up all kinds of things for what amounts to little more than monkeying around, silly games on a high-stakes playing field. We ask a lot of our partners, both in climbing and in other aspects of life. They sit silently tethered to the end of our rope while we swing around hoping to sketch together a series of usable holds, or patiently rewarm dinner when we come home late and dejected from not making “progress” and swallow the worry that our tardiness was an omen of something worse than failing to stick the crux moves.

But our obsession also reflects our commitment to a goal, an ideal. We strip everything down, chisel our life to a precise myopia. The minutia, finding just the right position for a foot jammed in the crack or combination of crystals on which to hang the skin of our fingers to generate upward movement, becomes the lever to lift our spirit. And if we focus, obsess, fret, and dream about that one thing, we might get lucky enough for it, for a fleeting moment, to be our universe, when the next breath, making one move higher, becomes all that is.

That moment, when we let that beast of obsession out in a long guttural scream and look down to see that we just did what we thought we’d never be able to do, is, you know, priceless.

Entering the crux of China Doll (5.14a). Photo by Noah Gostout

Entering the crux of China Doll (5.14a). Photo by Noah Gostout

Retrospective: My First Trip to Yosemite

In 2006, I made for first pilgrimage to Yosemite Valley. I had big dreams and was pretty humbled. I wrote about my trials and tribulations in the 2006 edition of the Colorado College Alpine Journal. You can find it in the link below, on page 33, called “Face Down in the Ditch with a Slice of Humble Pie.” There are also lots of other great stories in the edition (and the even more excellent recent editions).

Today, I leave for yet another trip to Yosemite, this time with even bigger goals. I’m sure it’ll also be a good learning experience.

CCAJ2006

http://issuu.com/erikrieger/docs/alpine2006final

The Hail Mary

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW4w1uLLPY8

The Hail Mary play is nearly mythical in the football world. It is an act of heroism: glory or failure, all or nothing. I mean, just imagine if Florida State’s receiver had actually caught the ball. The Hail Mary isn’t about optimizing, hedging bets, or playing it safe. It’s about putting all the chips on the table and seeing what we’re made of in one singular effort, even if the outcome is as much dependent on luck as it is on prowess. In climbing, I think we also have Hail Mary plays, and I think they deserve a similar mythical status – for better and worse – as they do in football.

I should start by distinguishing a Hail Mary attempt from other climbing tactics. In my definition, one could throw a Hail Mary on any route for which the stakes (whether physical or emotional) are high. Sure, it could be trying to onsight a hard route, but it could also be an end-of-the-trip, go-for-broke attempt on a project. Or maybe it’s a place-a-good-cam-and-climb-like-a-badger-to-the-jug or hike-up-your-feet-and-dyno-and-hope-it’s-a-good-hold. What these all have in common is that in each situation (and other variations), we balance the pendulum of success against a universe of unlikely odds, then put every shred of our being into trying to get it to swing our way.

There are some other criteria for a Hail Mary attempt. First, the game has to be close. If my team is, say, on track to set a record for one of the greatest point spreads in Super Bowl history, a Hail Mary would seem absurd at best. Likewise, I won’t be making a Hail Mary attempt on the Dawn Wall or La Dura Dura. Telling my belayer I’m going for it and then skittering off just above the first bolt demands criticism for grandiosity.

Second, the stakes have to be greater than in the individual act. For example, if I am hangdogging up a route and decide to try a huge dyno rather than crimp through a sequence, I’m just dynoing. But if I try to redpoint the same route, and because I’m so pumped I can’t grab the crimpers and desperately leap for the finishing jug, that’s a Hail Mary.

I go into all this because I’ve recently had some experience with the Hail Mary play. My wife and I drove west in early March for a grand desert adventure – nearly four weeks on the road, a good, old fashioned American road trip which took us back to our younger days as dedicated dirt bags. How the various vectors of our professional lives had crossed (or diverged?) to allow for this month of few enough responsibilities for this trip is a whole different discussion.

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We first headed to the center of dirtbag gravitational pull, Indian Creek. The Creek was once the place my wife and I went to feel good about ourselves. The cracks once felt friendly, straightforward, and satisfyingly positive. Now, because we’re older and softer, the Creek just hurts. We spent several days wincing, taping, retaping, gluing the tape to our fingers, changing shoes, avoiding gobies from certain size cracks, and complaining. Basically, we got totally shut down.

My Creek experience over that last eight years or so has been tethered to one particular line: Air Swedin. At 5.13 R with unavoidable forty-plus-foot falls off the crux, it is a definitive Creek testpiece. The splitter crack and arête that make up the route loom over the approach trail to the Battle of the Bulge Buttress – one of the Creek’s most popular cliffs. In 2006, I got the wacky idea in my head that I could climb this thing. It suffices to say that at that time, it was well above my pay grade. But because of its position, basically the gatekeeper into Indian Creek, it captured me. Over the years I’ve put in several attempts, often trying it multiple times over a season, getting close to sending it, only to have uncontrollables get in the way and having to leave it behind. The last time I tried it, in the fall of 2011, I climbed all the way through the crux, only to have a foot slip higher, and fell. What should have been a mild 15-footer turned into a nearly 50-foot fall when the small cams, blindly placed in a pod, ripped. I badly bruised my foot in the fall and hobbled away discouraged and shaken.

Fast forward to this March, and our return to the Creek. I decided – after much fretting – to try Air Swedin again. After a few attempts on top-rope, which only served to make me feel more doubtful, I decided to lead it. This was no Hail Mary; it was arm-wrestling a demon, not trying to win but hoping to make a good showing. I managed to climb further than I expected, but slipped off the last hard move of the crux. The fall, while big, was fine. As I hung on the rope, I told Becca, “I think I’m done with this route. I just needed to take that fall one more time.”

The day after, as we took stock of our wounded hands and feet, we decided to leave the Creek. It was all for the better, as I already felt the lingering call back to Air Swedin, but I knew that asking Becca to go up there again would tax our partnership (and maybe our marriage) too much. So we headed to Red Rocks, NV, and enjoyed much more forgiving cracks and plenty of sport climbing. We even rented a house through AirBnb for part of the time. It was luxurious and reminded us that we are not the dirtbags we used to be.

We took a guide course in Red Rocks and had a few days off before our next engagement. We decided to go to Zion to try Moonlight Buttress. Becca and I have wanted to try Moonlight for years. It’s unparalleled for its aesthetics (one crack for 600 feet!) and quality. More importantly, it’s a big, hard route that we could do together as the nature of the climbing plays to both of our strengths.

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Our initial plan was to work the route over a few days. We’d start to climb from the bottom, redpointing each pitch as we could. If we needed, we could then rappel in from the top to focus on climbing the upper pitches on a second or third day. Then we checked the weather forecast. We had one day before the rain set in. We opted for the Hail Mary and set our alarm for 6:30am.

After the exhilarating foot-soak crossing the Virgin River, we scrambled to the base and started climbing. The first several pitches, a range of cracks and face climbing from 5.10 to 5.12, all went easily. Even though we still had many hard pitches to go, our confidence increased and the gitters subsided. I started up the crux pitch, and the next forty feet of power laybacking sucked away all the confidence that the prior five hundred had provided. The crack, banged out from years of nailing pins and prying on stuck cams, offered great fingerlocks, but I struggled to blindly place good cams in the smaller crack between the scars. Midway through the crux, I tried to stuff a small cam, and the crack refused it. Desperately, I tried a smaller one, only to have this one rip out of the crack when I tugged on it. Pumped and discouraged, I sagged onto a lower piece.

I managed to find better gear and climb through the crux with a few hangs and then climbed the rest of the pitch without any falls. I knew that I could send the pitch if I tried it again, but there were four more 5.12 pitches above, and so we decided to continue up rather than burning up energy and our one good day of weather on one pitch. Becca followed the crux pitch cleanly and with confidence. I managed to onsight the rest of the pitches of the route, which felt like a huge accomplishment on its own. We topped out in the late afternoon and sauntered down the Angel’s Landing trail, deeply tired and satisfied with one of the best and most challenging days we’ve had together.

I chewed on our Hail Mary on Moonlight for a while afterwards. We hucked the ball down the field, dove into the end zone, and watched the ball bounce off our fingertips. While it was a truly incredible experience to climb the route onsight in a day, technical speaking we didn’t get the touchdown. I hung at the crux, and Becca hung on a higher pitch. It was a mythical attempt, the stakes were high, but we came up just slightly short.

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But, it rained, and so we didn’t try it again. We went back to Red Rocks to meet friends and climb smaller rocks. A week later, it was time to drive home. Some other friends were in Indian Creek, and we decided to break up the drive by stopping there. It wasn’t totally on the way, and we were road weary, but I couldn’t help but want another go, a Hail Mary attempt, on Air Swedin.

We arrived in the evening, and it was easy to persuade our crew to climb at Battle of the Bulge the next day. I knew I had one good attempt, so I spent most of that day relaxing, only climbing enough to stay warm and fresh, and encouraging others to try hard. Around 5pm, the crux arête of Air Swedin went into the shade, and I tied in. This was a familiar ritual: wait for the shade, tie in, climb the crack, pull out to the arête, fall, untie, walk down, drive home. 

But this time was different. I pulled on the arête. I didn’t feel confident. My feet slipped a few times, but I stayed on the slopey sidepulls. I paused just before making the final throw to a jug. I reached for it, years of failure weighing me down, but I grabbed the hold. I desperately tossed my other hand onto the hold and pulled my feet up and stood into the rest. I’d made it through. The rest of the route, maybe fifty feet of odd 5.11 climbing, was surreal. Untying was surreal. Driving home was surreal. Most of the time, the Hail Mary play is one that makes people smile and shake their heads: “That would have been cool.” And sometimes, every once in a while, it makes you feel like a champion.

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Part way up the arete. Photo by Craig Muderlak

The Anti-List: The Top Ten Things I Didn’t Do in 2013

End-of-year lists are so clichéd that making fun of end-of-year lists is, at this point, equally so. I suppose there is something reassuring to us about distilling an entire year of ephemeral experiences, however unrelated, remote, and insignificant they may or may not be, into a succinct and far less complicated list of items, preferably that fit onto a single typed page (or a computer screen so folks don’t have to scroll down). It’s even better when, like those on the tablet God gave to Moses, they happen to fall into an erosion-resistant number, like three, ten, or one hundred.

The climbing world is inundated with similar distillations, from personal posts of “What I Did This Year” to the headline piece on the January 1 Rock and Ice email blast. In the non-climbing media, end-of-year lists contain a variety of significant events, from things people did (say, an NSA contractor leaking a bunch of secret files) to things that just happened (like a 1000-year rain storm). Climbing’s lists, on the other hand, almost entirely focus on accomplishment. They’re all about what someone did. Sure, many of these successes are worth celebrating, but for every success, there are many more failures. For every dream climb or trip we do, there are many more that we don’t. So that’s what my list is about, a celebration of failures, of the things that didn’t happen in 2013.

Thus, in the great tradition of end-of-year lists, I would like to submit mine:

The Top Ten Things I Didn’t Do in 2013

10. The Arete Project at Nathaniel’ Boulders. Little rocks don’t compel me that much. I’m not slamming bouldering here, but it’s hard for me to care enough to try as hard as many of these little gymnastic challenges require. Still, falling off the last enormous dyno at the top of this arête over a dozen times turned this little chunk of rock into a big obsession. I never stuck it from the sit start, and there it remains, in obsession.

Dyno

Coming up short, again.

9. Onsight Burden of Immortality at Tensleep. I’ll preface this one with noting that making excuses about failed onsights invites scoff. Still, I’m going with it. This failed attempt represented the culmination of a string of failed onsight attempts over four days up there this past August. It happened the same way each time: climb up into what I thought was the crux, confidently stuff two of my fat fingers irreversibly into a pocket, pull up, then quickly realize I had exactly the wrong hand in the pocket. Here’s to second try.

8. Ice climbing. I got a pair of ice tools last winter, just before I hurt by arm, so they hung in my garage unused. While I don’t have some grand idea of even becoming slightly good at ice climbing, it seemed like a good way to give my tendons a break from grabbing tiny holds. Still, I never made it out. It’s so easy to find other things to do than go into the cold, slam your fingers against an even colder surface, hang off a face that could collapse at any moment, all while doing something you are certifiably incompetent at. I guess winter has just begun, so maybe I’ll get a chance.

7. Climb in Turkey, China, southern France, Italy, Australia. Sure there are tons of places around the world that have spectacular climbing, but these are the ones, potentially for very arbitrary reasons (like particularly pretty pictures in a magazine article years ago or something), that are on my list. And I didn’t go to any of these this year.

6. Redpoint a certain somewhat secret project at a not-so secret area in the South. Yes, I’m being vague, but years ago I tried an unclimbed line that was everything I love about climbing: hard, scary, and beautiful. It is a plum line up the biggest, proudest section of the wall. And there it waits. Living out West, it’s hard to justify such a long commute for one pitch. Trust me, this one is worth at least one more visit.

5. Surfing. Though I did manage to ride one proper wave this year, I’m still about a 5.5 surfer. I say surfing is at least as cool as rock climbing and probably much more so, especially to the rest of the world (the movie Blue Crush being strong evidence; imagine the same premise but with climbers – not that cool). At this point, I’m not about to move to the beach nor trade a trip to Yosemite for one to Baja. Still, surfing gets at something transcendent in the same way that climbing does. You try hard, deal with fatigue and fear, and every once in a while, your brain shuts up, your body and soul work together, and you get a breath of perfection.

Waiting for the perfect wave, or getting attacked by Flipper.

Waiting for the perfect wave, or getting attacked by Flipper.

4. Climb Fitzroy. I didn’t even make it to Patagonia, which would have been the whole point of ice climbing in the first place. I’d written this place off years ago, saying, “I can’t travel that far to sit in a tent and watch it rain.” For several reasons (a new, beautiful guidebook, primarily), I’ve changed my tune. Fitzroy is a massive chunk of some of the most aesthetic rock in the universe. Added to the bucket list.

3. Climb for the first eleven weeks of the year. I got biceps surgery on January 4. By April, I was back to climbing and even able to climb kind of hard, too. But there was a big chunk of time that I didn’t climb at all. There were also a few weeks over the summer when I was backpacking and didn’t climb. Then there was the week at the beach (see #5). Oh yeah, and there were the two weeks in November when I got pneumonia. In total, I spent about fifteen weeks away from climbing this year. Without climbing, I had a lot more free time, which (once I exhausted my Netflix “Watch Instantly” allowance) gave me the opportunity to explore some other really great ways to spend a day. I also learned a bit about how not to be a climber, how to find satisfaction, physical challenge, adventure, among other things, without climbing.

2. Free climb the West Face of the Leaning Tower. But man, was I close. I freed the hardest pitches, but a fall on each of the last two pitches (trying to onsight them) cost the true send. After pulling on about eighty bolts up a blank wall just to get to the free climbing, it became a bit easier to excuse myself from a “perfect” ascent. Quibbles aside, the West Face was a big deal for me; it was on my list (my lifetime list, not my end-of-year list). Having to reckon with the fact that perfection was more work than I was willing to give wasn’t easy, but the experience eventually settled into something I could stomach. Now, it is an accomplishment, with an asterisk.

1. Try Realization. Nor will I probably ever. I’m not ashamed to freely admit that it’s out of my league. Anyone who watched climbing videos in the early 2000s can remember the original Dosage. The indelible footage of Sharma’s attempts and eventual redpoint of the climb came closer to true climbing porn that anything before, with visceral details of the difficulty of the climb and a candid look at what it took for him to climb it.

So why would a climb that I’ll never even try be on my list (and why, of all the climbs that I’ll never try, this one)? There are climbs that capture climbers’ imaginations, and Realization was the one that captured mine. Realization is a gift because it stands as evidence that there is no ceiling to the challenge that climbing can offer.

That’s what this list is about. Of course, we should celebrate our accomplishments. I certainly do, usually with chocolate chip cookies. But what if I didn’t have a list of failures? What if I earned myself a Golden Piton for being awesome and managed to do it all. I often philosophize about the lessons climbing teaches us about life, usually with a bit of an eye roll from my wife. But I think this one is useful. We get more out of our struggles, our bumps into weakness and limitation – our failures – than we do from our successes. Besides, if climbing were easy, we’d call it “golf.”

The Send: Success and Failure in the Red

I’ve often said that one of the great gifts of rock climbing is that it teaches us to deal with failure, but when climbing serves up heavy doses of failure, it can be harder to stomach. I spent the last three weeks in the Red River Gorge, ostensibly rock climbing, but what I was really doing was failing at rock climbing.

I don’t mean to sound pessimistic here, but the reality is that we can romanticize about failure as part of a process toward success. But when it is only failure without a pay off, it is hard to feel much other than disappointment. Disappointment’s edge is only sharpened by the accomplishments of others, especially when they’re under five feet tall. What did I do wrong?

At least failure in the Red is a fun ride.

Here’s how it went down. September: train. Long sessions in the gym, laps on routes and boulder problems, then hangboarding to failure. Sometimes this all occurred after a day out climbing. At the same time, I spent nearly as many hours undoing the damage this training did to my joints. Loads of icing, massage, visits to physical therapy, stretching, fretting over when my tendons might just give out entirely.

Then, I led a two-week backpacking trip for Colorado Mountain College. Yep, I worked, as crazy as that sounds. Really, this was a great set up. I spent two weeks in the mountains and canyons, truly magically beautiful places both, teaching excited and fun-loving students how to live in the woods comfortably. And I got paid for it. The added bonus: I rested my body. My tendons restored, knotted muscles loosened, and psyche increased. I was ready for the October throw down.

And throw down I . . . tried. That’s the kicker. My lack of “success” wasn’t for lack of trying. In fact, I was really close to sending lots of things. I’d have to use both hands to show how many times “success” was only one more hand hold, one more attempt, or one more rest day (and then one more attempt) away. But, at the end of it, I left Kentucky empty handed.

There are a lot of ways that you can perform well as a climber. You can climb something first try; you can almost climb something first try. You can link hard moves together; you can make easy moves harder by not doing them efficiently (which is only marginally cool as long as you don’t fall off). You can make hard moves feel easy. You can climb a lot of hard stuff, or at least try to. You can climb things in bad conditions like heat, rain, snow, high altitude, whatever. You can place less gear (or, more apropos to the Red, clip less bolts), or place more. You can climb something without warming up, or when you’re really tired. You can get on routes that are too reachy/scrunchy/crimpy/awkward/wrong style/wrong size for you. When it comes down to it, the challenge in climbing is highly circumstantial, and good performance is couched within a wide gray area, but we as the climbing community – well, the sport climbing community, at least – have distilled success and failure into one dimension: sending.

Call it what you want, onsighting, redpointing, doing, climbing, ticking, projecting, blah, blah, blah. It all revolves around one thing: sending. The send is what we all seek, albeit at varying levels of commitment and obsession. The send is climbing the route, bottom to top, by means of the climbers’ physical ability and without unaccepted artificial aid. I say “unaccepted” because there are plenty of artificial aids that everyone uses to make climbing easier. My point here isn’t to critique style in that way. You can send a route using a kneepad, which is fine, really. Or you can send a big wall with lots of nailing and jugging ropes and such. Sometimes we just need a bit of chalk, sticky rubber, and a patient belayer to hold us while we work out the moves.

Most climbers have goals of some sort or another. These goals are defined by some combination of standards (like a grade) and a style (like redpointing). We usually pick the standards based on our previous performance, like “The hardest I’ve ever climbed is 5.__.” Then, we adjust our current goal based on our relative fitness, the style required, and what standard would still challenge us. There are plenty of folks out there who choose to climb really tough styles, say on a remote high-altitude big wall, or who sport climb without ever working moves. They tie in, leave the ground, and let the adventure begin. Some folks don’t give a shit about the standard; they just want to go out and have fun, and their style is whatever is the most fun. Some folks just want to achieve the highest standard they can, and they approach routes (usually boulder problems or sport climbs) with little worry about style. The send is all they are interested in. The point here is that a goal is about a special mix of standards and style that create a challenge for us. In one way or another, we seek a sweet spot of challenge – something to stretch ourselves into unknown ground – that just might still be possible.

When I went to the Red, I had goals in that sweet spot. I had some standards (well-adjusted for the fact that I hadn’t spent much time there in the past and that I’d spent most of my summer climbing granite cracks), and I was ready to commit to a style that would lend itself to the send. I wasn’t greedy; I was really hoping for one or two “hard sends” with several easier ones. This is why I failed. I got really close on several hard routes. I climbed well; I had fun. But I didn’t send.

The vision for the Trango athlete team is to find climbers who embody our brand’s values and support them in their climbing endeavors. We focus on the character of the climber, their passion for the sport, and their desire to contribute to the community.

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