Return From Hell

American Fork, Hell Cave

When Haggle & I first started climbing together a rule was established: that route was terrible, she or I would say. To which the other retorts, “what did you like about the route?” We started forcing ourselves to find something, anything we could muster, beautiful, fun, different, exciting, anything positive about an otherwise subpar (or terrible & negative) line. A great example of this can be found on Bad Faith, 5.9, in AF, Utah, A Bill Boyle FA, w/ terrible (w/ the exception of 1 or 2) moves. Bolts that follow no flow of rock or line, & anchors horrendously placed, leaving one clipping w/ frightened reaching & heavy breathing. After a long while setting up a rappel & cleaning the horrid route, I descended back down to Haggle, cursing & complaining about everything under the hidden sun. ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘what did you like about the route?’ I thought hard & earnestly about her question, having difficulty in coming up w/ something. It could have been a lot better, I said, but I guess, between the 3rd & 4th bolt, there is 2 consecutive moves that were brilliant. I lost myself while making them. I stopped & took stalk in what I had just said, & realized that it was true. I had fully lost myself in a couple of moves, & that they were enuf to make me forget about the dirt-worth of the rest of the climb. I’m happy we did this one, just for those two moves, I told her w/ a smile. I was being honest. The idea was (& is) to find peace & contentment wherever you find yourself. To be happy w/ where you are, not where you want to be. To accept that which is – the present & the unfixable. It has been a ‘rule’ that has been floating about my existence ever since; one that has taught me great things & more importantly, one that continues to teach me great things…

Half Acre 5.12a

…Monday, April 16, Mark & I step out of his Eurovan. Fucking great weather, I exclaim excitedly. ‘Yeah. It’s fabulous.’ The sun is out, burning wildly, & despite the early hour of the day, it feels warmer then it probably is, & can only get warmer. It is a day I have been waiting for. Seemingly perfect weather promises help on another attempt on a .12 for Project 31. I shoulder my pack, & wait for Mark. Despite having had a slow prior week – slothful training, & even a more indolent diet, I am feeling strong, confident. Today is going to be the day I finally get to have a crack at Half Acre. It’s been a long time coming, each former ‘attempt’ has ended in no attempt at all, due to the wetness of the route. Today is going to unfold exactly how I want it. I can feel it…

…The problem that arises from the constant desire to be somewhere else, to be doing something other then what you are doing presently, to attempt to fulfill a present hole by perpetually striving for whatever the future may hold, is a rapaciousness that becomes a habitual bite – jaws that won't unlock until you're shaken out of your mortal skin. It teaches a running complacency, & the wanted destination gets farther & farther until finally you forget in what direction you were even headed initially & it becomes a mirage of a pin-point somewhere out on the curving horizon; you begin to wander endlessly to & fro, thirsty for that oasis, passing by all the little streams trickling easily under foot... Rehab is such a desert. A dry, almost lifeless desert – devoid of anything you could ever want, if you choose it to be such a place. Which most do. Including myself, until that day where realization quite accidentally cratered the soil of my earth...

I am already pointing out the wet holds – streaks of water here & there – on Half Acre as Mark catches up to me, shedding his pack, letting it off gently as if it were a child. Dammit, I say. 'That last storm must have precipitated a lot here the other day.' Mark points out. He walks up to the route, eyeing it closely. 'The spots that are wet, are they crucial holds?” He asks me. I don't know, I've never been on it, but probably. I say this while pantomiming clipping imaginary draws, dictating each hold from which I would clip. Dammit! As soon as I say this, I feel the frustration slick off me, something feathering the discomfited dust from off my being. 

Half Acre, seeping water

I take off my sunglasses & ask: well, what are our other doable options? We talk about the other routes on my list. Liquid Oxygen is mentioned (going to be in the shade until about what? 2 or 3? The rock will still be plenty cold, &, if this is wet, it too will be wet, just like last time.), Struggling Man (no, not again, not so soon. Not today.), Jitterbug boy (for some reason, I have a bad feeling about that one.). You know, I say, maybe I feel like knock knock knocking on Hell's door. I am smiling. 'Gateway, again?' I know I can get it, man, I tell him. Let's walk up & hang the draws...if you're fine w/ that. 'Yeah, of course,' Mark says, already digging into his pack for his harness. I am already deep into mine, pulling out the rack of clips & such. I know I can get it...today. Feeling good about it. 'Good deal,' he agrees, 'let's get it done.' We start scrambling our way up to the top of the crag to set a rappel, both of us feeling good about our decision. Both of us smiling in the shinning sun & taking the change of plans in stride...

California, in January, is oft times wet, cold, & miserable. The rain doesn’t PLUNK down in dewy drops, but rather razors itself down upon you in stinging torrents. It was like this both when I was there in my late teens for Marine Corps boot camp, & most of the time I was in Rehab. Albert C. & I were standing underneath an awning next to our room, smoking one of the innumerable cigarettes of the day. It was late. We stood there, watching the downpour in a thick air of gloominess. ‘This fucking sucks, man,’ Albert C. said. I knew he wasn’t talking about the weather. I knew also, where this was going. ‘How long have we been here now? 31/2 months? 4? Fucking 5? Hell I don’t even know anymore. I want to go home. I have things to do! Christ, I just want my life back!’ Sick to my stomach w/ all of it, w/ him, w/ the place & situation, w/ myself. I told him to stop fucking complaining. What is it going to get you? Is it going to get you home faster? No, I answered for him. Besides, Albert, I said, flicking my half-smoked cigarette up & out, you did this to yourself. You did! No one else! How about you start, for once in your life, taking responsibility for yourself. You’ll find that shit will start working out for you if you start doing that. Grow up! I walked into our room & slammed the door, & like a mighty tree, felled myself upon the bed, feeling exhausted. In my slumber, as soon as my head touched pillow, I realized what I had said wasn’t directed toward Albert C. That it was myself talking to myself as if in front of a mirror. Such sudden insights are rarely poetic. Mostly, they are ugly, self effacing, paralyzing, because they are always an atomic truth igniting your ego into hot licking flames of fury…

Lewis rapping off the Gateway 5.12a

…As I thread the rope thru the chains, readying myself for the rappel, thoughts of failure (yet again) race thru my mind, but it is just that: simple, fleeting thoughts. It doesn’t bother me. For now, it is unchangeable. It is there & now it is gone. I get onto rappel & slowly begin to lower myself, cleaning Gateway once more. Dangling in space, the day over (I can see Mark shivering from here), I come to terms w/ the fact that another weekend has passed w/out a redpoint & that I am the only one to blame for this. True, time is running out…but…I stare off into the distance, hanging there for but a second & take in the beauty American Fork has to offer me. It is becoming a second home to me. Being out, trying my hardest, finding my personal limits & telling myself the ‘limit’ of me is a state of mind, is becoming second nature. I have made headway today tho, obliterating my initial crux into submission (only to gain another one higher up). Each step, each attempt is a day not wasted. I touch down, smile at Mark, & say, let’s go home. ‘It’s been a good day. It will come together for you. You did great today.’ Yes, I think, let’s go home. As I am packing all the gear back into my pack, I take one last glance around. A swirling memory of someone I used to know, wavers in my mind, almost as if a hologram of myself, out in the distance & it is waving goodbye. I smile once again, & mentally wave back, silently wishing the figure well, but glad to finally see him leaving. Mark & I walk down the trail in silent serenity toward another time, another day, another life.