From: John Byrnes Newsgroups: rec.climbing Subject: Re: Official rule book to settle ethics disputes? Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2000 14:00:40 -0600 September 96 FOUR PROPHETS AND A CATHEDRAL SPIRE *************************************************** INTRODUCTION AND THE SERMON, PULPIT ROCK Preaching by Inez "Gnar-Gnar" Drixelius *************************************************** Last year when Brutus of Wyde put forth an inquiry over rec.climbing to find a partner/victim to climb Astroman, John Byrnes (aka Lord Slime) responded and I was delighted to be able to recommend the two climbers to each other. I had done some of my finest climbing with John and Bruce as partners and couldn't think of two better people to team up at that level. Thus the Evil Twin partnership was formed and Lord Slime became addicted to hard free routes in Yosemite Valley. My role in this partnership has been that of warm-up queen, court jester, minister of transportation, chef a la mode and chair of the reception committee atop summits and on the roadside. This time Bruce and John decided to tackle the Rostrum, a route originally planned in May but falcons bred in their way, so they had careened up the Ho Chi Minh Trail instead (a whole 'nother story). John arrived on a Wednesday in early September and we had two days of climbing set aside just for us. I have always enjoyed climbing with John, who is a solid supportive partner, far above my ability level, happy to lead the hard pitches and happy to follow my leads on the "lesser" pitches, which often have me panting at my leading limit. On Thursday we opted to climb the Pulpit, being that I have a real passion for spires and summits only attainable by technical climbing. John was pleased that "The Sermon" features 3 pitches of 5.10, crowned with a fabulous 5.9 chimney and 10a OW exit. Slime slithered up the 10b start, quite a scary feature of rotten, insecure roof moves into a more positive crack which was lichen covered and pumpy. I followed feeling pretty good thanks to the toprope and the excitement of finally getting up this formation I had been eyeing for years. The Pulpit isn't done much because you have to wait for the Merced to be low enough to cross to the rock. Thus the rotten, licheny quality of the route. Pitch 2, my lead, was a sturdy 10a hand crack in a slot that had me nicely wedged at one time with the rack in the wrong place, forcing me to run out a rather pumpy section. I had a rest before then and was able to manage, scaring poor John half to death as he contem- plated where a fall would leave me dangling. Off belay! John floats up, always amazing me how he can make some- thing difficult look so trivial. But he did, as always, compliment my lead. This is how it works: John usually leads more than he follows and often is preoccupied with how he would have protected the pitch. The King of Stoppers then points out a perfect nut/hex placement where I slammed in a friend. This usually gets me barking: "John, just shut up and tell me it was a good lead...." "Good lead, Inez!" Smile--he means it? Really, he does! Pitch 3, the chimney and offwidth were wonderful. At the start Slime tells me that his least favorite climbing is offwidth, but he still climbs it so well. Then the opera begins. The rope isn't moving. Loud yelping above. What the hell is wrong? Finally, the rope is moving again, fast, faster, real fast. Off belay! I follow and can't for the world imagine what the trouble was, for the little 5.7 exit chimney is so much fun and so easy. What I didn't know was that John had gotten stuck in it and couldn't move. Couldn't move for several minutes. Until he screamed so loud that his lungs deflated and whoosh, he finally eeked through the slot to freedom. The 4th class off pitch has a 5.5 technical section just at the top. We quickly arrived at the knife-edge summit, enjoying the views, being back in Yosemite and climbing together again. We rapped quickly, hopped the river and got back to the car in no time. At Upper Pines #38, our home for the next few days, we set up camp, had some German food (I can't quite resist my old country habits!) and beer and were promptly greeted by rec.climber Barb McCann from Seattle. It was good to see Barb again, for last time we planned a climbing trip we ended up sitting in the tent in the rain for 3 days. Barb and I decided to climb the Higher Cathedral Spire on Saturday. Good, that was settled. With Barb at the masthead, we soon had a nice long line of visitors: "Loose Cannon" Eric Coomer with his wonderful sweetie of a wife Emily, who had forgotten her belt to keep her jeans up and was walking about with her belly exposed. That tight little belly has one fabulous snake tattooed around its button. Needless to say, some folks were glad the belt was amiss.... Allen Steck, who with Brutus of Wyde was planning on climbing his route on the Higher Spire, perhaps freeing the aid pitch??? Need I say anything about the legend? Yes, he is one of my closest friends, a loyal loving person who has greatly enriched my life in the past few years. A solid climber who is good natured, has a great sense of humor and tells a damn good story. Pleasant folk from the Seattle Mountaineers club. McCann protege's. McCann is one hell of a good woman, a great climbing partner and party girl galore. Her sharp tongue and good humor make her one of my favorite people. Poopsie and Gnar-Gnar. We make a good team! Brutus of Wyde. No comment. I love the guy! Karl Baba. There can only be one! Yosemite local, hardman, free-solo master and Karlee the Teddybear who gives burly support when you least expect it. Thanks for hanging out with me waiting for the boys.... George Bell and Steve Schostak. Good to see you again George, good to meet you Steve. Two expecting fathers, wearing full armor for safety. They should be done with the Nose about now. ***************************************************** THE CENTRAL PILLAR OF FRENZY, MIDDLE CATHEDRAL ROCK By John Byrnes, aka Lord Slime ***************************************************** This Spring Inez and I had walked up to the base of this climb to find over a half-dozen parties climbing it, rapping it or waiting for it. It was one of the most amazing cluster-f*cks I'd ever seen, so we walked away to find a route we could do without a reservation. This time we planned to do the route on a "school day" to avoid most of the competition for the route, but Friday dawned grey and cool. Strong downdrafts of cold air invaded the morning coffee ritual. Hmmm... whaddaya think about this weather? More coffee. More procrastinating. Maybe we should wander over and see what happens. So we finally arrive at the base at about 9:30 hoping to do the 8-pitch, 10a variation. Well, no dice. There's a party from New Zealand scratching up the first pitch, and another from Santa-Cruz-via-Jamaica (massive dread-locks) waiting at the bottom. Well shoot, let's wait, we can probably finish the standard 5-pitch variation before it rains. We finally get off the ground about 11:00 (waiting is tough on three cups of coffee!) and race to the first belay. Nice pitch! Wait, wait, wait. Inez fires the second pitch. Super rock, good moves! Wait, wait, wait. The roof pitch succumbs to a stylish undercling/backstep/ cross-through to a perfect handjam. Now for the dreaded offwidth I'd been warned about. But it turns out to be perfect fists for me, and I run it out to the belay. (Inez has to OW it, hee hee, but only a little whining!) Then it's back to the grind: wait, wait, wait. Inez fires up the 4th pitch as a light drizzle begins. The other two parties immediately begin to rap. As Inez is belaying me up, one of the other guys asks her if we're gonna rappel. Inez looks down at me running up the pitch, a look of total concentration on my face, "I don't think he's gonna wanna rap." I'm a pillar of frenzy as I grab the rack. Are we gonna rap? No f*ckin' way! I don't want to have to come back here again! I take off up the pitch in a thickening drizzle. The rock of Middle Cathedral is glacially polished, and with the rain the face holds glisten treacherously. My feet slip several times, so I just jam them both in the crack. In five or six minutes I'm up, and Inez follows at warp speed. DONE! NOW we rap! The rain actually lets up a bit until we get to Housekeeping for showers, when it turns into a wholesale downpour. How come it always rains when I'm here?! We're filled with dread as we drive back to the campsite. All I can think about is sitting in the little tent for hours while it rains. Gack! How much wine will I need to drink to make THAT enjoyable? We'll have to cook in the rain. Maybe we can storm one of the Winnebagos? I imagine the headlines in the Chronicle, "Climbers Hijack Motorhome, Take Hostages -- Demand Good Weather". Now I can't find the site. The spot where our site should be has a huge blue tarp over it, and people standing under it are smiling and waving at us. It's the Cannon and Em! They're dry! They have beer and snacks! We're saved! ***************************************************** HIGHER CATHEDRAL SPIRE By Barb "Katrinka" "Barbley Goat" "Poopsie" and "Hardwoman" McCann ***************************************************** Saturday September 14th and I'm supposed to be getting up at 5:30 a.m. when the alarm goes off. That Gnar-Gnar girl is gonna be by at 6:30, and I very much want to be primed and ready to tackle the Southwest Face of Higher Cathedral Spire. I glance at my cheap, plastic alarm clock...in the early morning light, I see that it's only 5:15 so I can snooze a bit. Light? How can it possibly be light out??? Earlier in the week some of us were stumbling around in the darkness at 6:00 a.m. at the base of Royal Arches - - the clanking Ghosts of Climbers Past who haunt the Ahwahnee Tourons. I scrabble frantically for my wrist watch. "Oh shit!" I scream as I see that it is 6:15, and Gnar-Gnar will be looking for me any minute now. "What? Huh? Mmrrrr...uphm." The sympathetic reply of my tentmate, Margie, who has the good sense to sleep in late. I start thrashing about in the tent, throwing on clothes, grabbing my toothbrush and sticking a wad of Colgate in my mouth. I emerge from the tent just in time for Gnar-Gnar to walk into our campsite - - and what a sight! She finds this wild-eyed critter frothing at the mouth, mumbling "Mmmm shooo shhoooorty, sit! Mer larm cluck wuhn n uhr if!" Gnar-Gnar nods patiently - - somewhere, someone has told this woman that it is important to act calm when confronting a raving psychotic. I spit out my toothpaste and start forming intelligible words. No problemo! Brutus and Allen, who'll be heading out with us to climb the "next route over" on the Spire (the Steck route on the southeast side) are still asleep. Silently, I thank the heavens for every sip of alcohol- laden libation they had the night before. Okay, so we pile into Brutus' truck a short while later (like about, mmm, 9:30 or so), and head for the little turnout which will be the start of our hike in. The steadily uphill hike requires cairn-hunting, boulder- hopping, and a few fights with sticker bushes. I'm eager to "get on with it," so I bounce ahead and am dubbed "Barbleygoat." An okay name by me, but I already have three names that I climb by - - Hardwoman, Powerful Katrinka, and Poopsie Tenesmus. You see, when I climb, I sorta have "multiple personal- ities." I'm rarely Plain Old Barb. Sometimes I'm Hardwoman - - tough, determined (dare we say butch?), and a bit of a poser to boot. Then there's Powerful Katrinka, a big, silent woman of Scandinavian stock who enjoys carrying heavy loads, and speaks in monosyllabic grunts. She pretty much sticks to glacier climbs, so she stayed back at camp. Finally, there is the sweet and adorable, but somewhat timid, Poopsie Tenesmus. She gets pretty wide-eyed on just about everything, but whenever it's someone else's lead, she has an absolutely wonderful time. When she leads, however.....well, you DO know how she got her name, don't you? But today, on the approach, I discover Barbleygoat, thanks to Brutus, who recognizes this critter and bestows a name upon her. We arrive at the base, and Hardwoman emerges. She eyes the route with a mean squint, and sets about fussing with gear and paring down to the bare essentials. She makes some cool calculations and announces she wants the first lead, she can't wait to get on the sharp end. (Of course, this was all calculated rather carefully; the climb goes 5.5, 5.9, 5.8, 5.9, 5.8 -- no fools here!). Yeah, Hardwoman. Gonna lead 3 pitches. Yeah. Dhuuudette! The gracious Gnar-Gnar relinquishes the first lead, and Hardwoman starts climbing the pumpy and technical 5.5 pitch, boldly running out the rope, and basically feeling way cool. She exerts her routefinding skills ("Does it go over this way, Inez? Traverse over there? Then go up? To which tree? Huh? Huh?"). She brings up Gnar-Gnar, who announces that the pitch is probably about a 5.3. Well, poo-poo. Probably right! Gnar-Gnar grabs the rack from Hardwoman, and starts up the (presumably) straightforward 5.9 pitch (which, based on the McCann derivation of the Yosemite expletive system, is actually rated "five-nine-my-ass."). Gnar-Gnar starts struggling up a somewhat overhanging crack ("five- nine-my-ass"), gives up on that, heads left on a tricky traverse ("FNMA"), and climbs up a "bouldery" bulge to the famous bathtubs. All this time, Hardwoman is eyeing the route, and thinking, "Yeah, cooool, Gnar-Gnar! I can dig it! Yeah..."). Hardwoman starts up after Gnar-Gnar has her "on," and works her way over to the bouldery bulge. "Oh yeah!" as she starts the moves, "uh, Poopsie? After you...". Wide-eyed, Poopsie struggles over the bulge, after hanging a bit while collecting herself. She flops on the rock and giggles with delight, then pads up to Gnar's belay. "Oh, such fun!" she exclaims, "I am soooo delighted you led that." Gnar hands off the rack to Poopsie, who startes heading for that area known as the "improbable traverse." Improbable indeed! And such exposure, too! Poopsie basically figgers she'll be traversing out on big juggy holds, but then will have to flail a bit at the air and reach around to gain access to the 5.8 chimney. She clips a really manky-looking relic, and is delighted when she completes the move with ease. Even more to her delight, is the chimney is hardly a chimney at all -- a flaring thing, really, calling for a few basic stemming moves, and easily protectable. Especially given the 4 fixed pins pounded in at the start, which is a secret climber code meaning "many people have soiled themselves here." Finishing this delightfully playful pitch, Poopsie laughs brightly and brings up Gnar-Gnar, snapping pictures of her in the chimney. After another efficient hand-off of gear, Gnar-Gnar heads up the next five-niner. To her delight, it's pretty easy for a Yosemite 5.9 - - and she announces to Poopsie that there is a stuck Friend in it! Like any good climber, Poopsie is a booty-hog, so she starts snorting in delight at the prospect of extracting the Friend. When she gets just below the ledge where Gnar-Gnar is belaying, she asks to be held while she spends a good twenty minutes whacking away at the Friend. Finally, Hardwoman gets pissed. "Look, Poopsie, it's my lead after this....you get me too exhausted for it, and I'll make YOU lead it!" So, Poopsie moves on to Gnar-Gnar, and Hardwoman snatches the rack, growls and paws at the ground with her Boreals, and struts over to the final, short steep crack to the summit. She burys a couple of cams in the crack, starts into a pumpy and committing layback while Gnar-Gnar snaps pictures, then starts cursing and swearing as she moves above her last piece and realizes she's coming off. She's airborne only briefly, and looks up at Gnar, who is now wide-eyed. Hardwoman grits her teeth, squares her shoulders, then struts to the base of the crack again. She pretty much repeats the sequence. Twice. Only no pictures this time. After the third time, Poopsie turns to Inez and says, "Oh, please, won't you lead this?" The gracious Gnar-Gnar agrees, moves efficiently past the initial crack and out of sight, scores a number 13 stopper left on the route, eases past a final tricky section, and tops off on the summit. New rating, McCann system: "five-eight-my-ass". Excited now, and delighted to be the second, Poopsie huffs and puffs her ample mass through these last two sections and joins Gnar-Gnar on the top. It was a delightfully sunny day, and they were soon joined by Brutus and Allen. It was a wonderful time on the summit: Hardwoman prancing around on the summit, unroped, making Brutus nervous; lots of pictures; Gnar-Gnar looking off in the distance at future prospects; and Allen bouncing yodels off the walls. Not bad for such an early start!!! ************************************************** THE NORTH FACE OF THE ROSTRUM By The Evil Twins ************************************************** [Brutus begins our final chapter] In the cool darkness of evening, September 14, 1996, refreshed from a wonderful day on Higher Cathedral Spire with Allen, Barb, and Inez, I fingered a beloved #4 Camalot, a recent addition to my rack. Hesitating to bring the subject up, (Knowing full well my partner's fanaticism about rack weight) I cleared my throat, then waited until John finished another cup of wine. When he was mellowed by this, I broached the subject. "Hey John. I know that you have the narrow cracks and all..." John knowing full well my tendency to bring a wheel- barrow full of unneeded doo-dads up every climb, and still far too alert for my purposes, cut to the chase: "What is it, Brutus?" "Well, I was thinking how nice it might be to have some- thing a bit bigger than a #4 Friend on this climb..." [nipping the conversation in the bud] "The topo says pro to 3.5 inches. We have enough stuff." [sprouting green conversation-shoots before the clippers are put away] "True. But the topo also says 5.10 offwidth on a few pitches. Look, we don't have to carry the thing on every pitch. We can leave it stashed with the pack at the top of the lower pitches when we rap to the base. [employing a tempting stratagem] After that, I can carry it on my waist if it's a problem." (This bit was a hollow offer, because John was certain to leave it behind on his 5.11 thin-crack leads, and I was certain to want it at hand during my battles with the offwidths.) "We have enough stuff." (Acting as if I were discovering the perfect compromise, I played my ace card, proposing what I had originally had in mind) "I know what you mean. Hey, look. I've got an idea. How about we leave the #4 Friend behind and take the #4 Camalot in its place? It'll fit everything the Friend will fit, plus another inch larger." "Well, I don't know. It's a lot heavier than the #4 Friend." [Craftily, sensing him wavering, I pressed my advantage] "It's not THAT much heavier. [reflecting] Sure might be nice in those offwidths..." Finally John caves in to my incessant wheedling. Victory is mine! ----- Morning. In the pitch darkness I fumbled for the alarm. yeech. Too much too early. Just a few more minutes, I'll get up, I promise.... Finally I threw off the down comforter, and struggled out of the truck. I roused Chef Gnar [who has volunteered to support us with well-wishes and morning coffee] and John with a gentle voice: "Its OFFFFFFwidth time!!! I hear a chuckle in response. Today will be a good day. West of Wawona tunnel: John and I performed the last of the pre-climb rituals, locked the truck, and started the descent. After brief morning fumbling we finally found the incredibly steep loose dirt track leading down the West side of the Rostrum. Shortly we dropped gear (including the day pack and the for-now-unneeded #4 Camalot) in the forest near the top of pitch three, and rapped to the base as a layer of clouds moved into the Valley. My lead. By prior arrangement, I seemed to draw all the easiest leads on this climb: The 5.7 chimney at the top of the first pitch was soon below, after only minor contortions and dislocations, all easily cured with outpatient surgery. [John reflects] The first pitch sports a "5.7 chimney"; a deep dank dungeon of a flare with no pro and awkward moves. I was so glad Brutus led this. My nerves would have been shot for the rest of the day. [Bruce continues] John powered to the belay. "Good lead, Brutus!" escaped his panting as he stripped the rack of all the big pieces. In no time he was across the thin 5.11 face moves to the base of the overhanging tips-only crack that constituted the crux of his lead. After a few moves up and down to inspect and place protection, he casually walked up to the next station, leaving an occasional piece to give me an excuse to stop and rest. I followed, shaking, stretching to clean the placements, and scrabbling up with a quaking shimmy, a-jingling my rack of trinkets, barndooring up a final wild layback flake to the belay. My lead. Above stretched 200 feet of steep 2" crack. I nervously checked the rack for the triple pieces in this size range, and started up the corner. Soon I was at the first "Belay station" of this triple pitch linkage. I checked the topo, and my supply of 2" pieces, glanced below [mistake] and noted that I had only placed three pieces on this 5.10 "pitch." More 2" crack.... another "belay." Finally the crack narrowed into some rounded, powerful sidepulls and a final desperate grab for the ledge. John flew up the pitch, trotted into the forest, and returned in no time with lunch, rain gear, haul line, daypack and the #4 Camalot. Below, another team was cruising the pitches. FAST. By the time we had a snack and racked for John's next lead, the crux of the route, the team was at our doorstep. 5.11c -- Thin pinkielocks, steep desperate pumping thin crack. John's sewing machine leg as he pulled through onto the foothold at the end of the crux was a testament to the difficulty of this pitch. The 5.9 finish felt harder than the 5.10 on my previous triple linkage. John looked down, still pumped, "5.9d Brutus!" Indeed. I pulled into his belay, exhausted, ready for a nap. Two more pitches ahead for me. The steep 5.10 corner above was capped by a desperate 5.10d roof. I pulled onto the belay ledge, arms trashed, still teetering on the brink of a 30-foot leader fall even as I clipped the anchors. As I led across the 5.10c face traverse and disappeared into the offwidth of the next pitch, our tag-team leader pulled into the belay and clipped in with John. After listening a bit, he asked John in concern: "Is he gripped, having a good time or what?" John replied, with a serious voice, "Both. He always does that in wide cracks." They lapsed into silence, and resumed listening to my lead... "UUuunnngh! YES! hurt me. HURT ME! make me cry. Hurts so good. oh, god, hurts so good! F*ck me. F*ck me HARDER! AAAaaaarrrrgggghhhh! [cough] [retch] HURT meeeeeeeeee!!!!!" [John speaks up:] I got some really strange looks on that belay. After following Bruce's get-good-jams-lose-your-feet- and-swing-across traverse, I come to grips... er, scrapes with the offwidth monster. It lures you in with some footholds over the first few moves, then pulls the rug out from under you. I'm facing the wrong way for chicken-wings, my armbar sucks, and my feet are tenuously wedged. So I forget that I can't really climb offwidth, turn to face it straight on, and start Levittating. Bruce sounds like a cheerleader above me, "Hand stacks!! Go John go!" I reach the belay. Bruce is standing on a triangular ledge about the size of a cooler chiseled into the overhanging arete. The exposure is startling and arousing at the same time. Bruce, the wall rat, calmly hands me a Pepsi. [Bruce resumes the tale] We hold a conference as the rainstorm moves in. We agree to let the other team, still hot on our heels, pass us. We have a second, leisurely lunch and watch the rainbow circle from Generator Crack (Where Gnar plays) to Chingando across the Valley. Offwidths at the end of the rainbow. Soon the flash team has cruised by and soda finished, John heads up the final 5.11 pitch of the climb. Incredibly technical, this handcrack is wildly steep. [John again] A few 10+ moves get me a wide stem at the base of the overhanging crack. I put in a piece and look down between my legs. YEOW! Total exposure! I make a few more moves and place a stopper below what is obviously the crux. As I move up a tiny part of my mind whispers, "You just pulled the stopper out with your foot." Another part answers calmly, "I know. Keep going." A third part scream s "You're looking at a 40-footer stupid!" A hard move. Another hard move. Can't stop. Still no pro. Another hard move. A handjam! I'm panting while I slam in a #2 Friend and a Hex just above it. No time. Switch hands, feet high, big move to an undercling-handjam... fingerlock...feet...palm the ledge...fingerlock... and I'm up! EEEEYOW! I scream so loud Inez hears it across the river a thousand feet down and a 1/4 mile away. [Bruce] John saunters through the crux up to the belay, and as he hauls, the pack shoots out 20 ft. into space before beginning its upward journey. Of all the unbelievable climbing we have done today, this pitch is the one I am glad I didn't have to lead. I am so completely wasted when I arrive at the belay under the summit roof, I cannot even find the breath to compliment John on this wild pitch. I just lay there, like a beached perch, gills moving soundlessly. The final pitch. I flop across a horrible belly-crawl traverse, [still in perch mode]. I stand upright at the base of the final offwidth, and.... bump my head. [Knock myself silly is a more accurate description.] Shaking my head, [ouch, don't DO that!] trying to clear the stars from my vision, I grope the skeleton rack and set a piece, the second of three on the pitch. I take a few deep breaths, and look upward, toward the top of the Rostrum. Above stretches 80 feet of 5"-8" crack. I finger the #4 Camalot at my side, adjust my kneepads, chalk my elbows, and smile. This is what I live for. [John adds] Bruce names all his packs, and the small bag we've hauled on this climb is The Goose. The haul line goes tight, "The Goose is ready to fly!" "Let'er go!" The Goose does a remarkable job considering she has no wings, shooting 40ft straight out horizontally from the wall. However, I don't escape one final indignity. I want to be on the summit so bad I can taste it, but this God, ugh, d*mned, grunt, offwidth is blocking my way. Scrape. Inch. Grunt. Suddenly my eyes light up. A foothold! I step my foot up level with my waist and swing into a lieback. Bruce, looking down from the belay, sees me. "Hey! Stop that! How can you do that to such a beautiful offwidth?!" Sheesh! Some people. ***************************************************** EPILOGUE: [Bruce again] As I pull onto the summit, I see the welcoming committee on the other side of the gap, on the rim of the Valley. As she did when we climbed Astroman a year ago, Inez has again connived to greet us at the top of one of the greatest free climbs of our lives. Karl Baba is there as well. In the deepening afternoon, we chatter and babble, then ropes coiled, gear sorted and beers in hand, head up the slabs and trail through the clean happy air, toward the rest of our lives. END ****************************************************