From: H. Yohen 
Subject: TR - Leaning Tower
Date: 1999/07/09
Newsgroups: rec.climbing


West Face -- Leaning Tower
8-10 pitches
Grade V, 5.7, A2


This whole year has been a climbing writeoff for me. Except for
one week-long vacation I haven't climbed shit. During the Winter
and Spring, my regular partners scattered all across the coutry
so I filled my spare  time watching tv and eating pizza
(interspersed with the occasional beer). Wayne, who had also
suffered a rash of partner defections, tried to coax me from my
sloth with an audatious mid-week excursion to the promised land.

"Hey, let's fly into SF on Monday and drive out to Yos. We climb
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we fly back late Thursday
night and get to work on Friday," Wayne outlined the plan.

"I don't know, man. Why don't we take the whole week?"

"I can't be gone that long ... family obligations, you know?"

"It's kind of expensive for just a few days," I hemmed and hawed.

"I can get us a deal on the tickets. We have to get our fat asses
out sometime."

After more salesmanship, I relented and Wayne made the
arrangements. Since I had done so little climbing, I insisted on
doing aid, reasoning that even if I was out of shape for
climbing, I was fully prepared for some suffering. Two weeks
later I sat waiting at an arrival gate at SFO waiting  for
Wayne's flight -- which was advertised as four hours late.

When he stepped off the plane, Wayne had the haggard look of a
airline victim. With little conversation, we collected his
luggage which consisted of a single haul bag and rented a car. We
had planned on driving all the way to the Park that night but our
late start forced us to find a motel in Manteca at 2:00 am.

Through monumental willpower, I slithered out of bed slightly
after 5:00 am and roused Wayne. After showering and checking out,
we found a grocery store. On the way, we discussed route options
without coming up with any concrete plans. At the store, I got a
cart and asked, "What do you want for wall food?"

"I don't know," was his helpful reply.

"We could start by getting victory beer."

"Yeah, okay. It has to be drinkable warm. And come in cans."

We stood in the liquor section and debated the merits of various
beers. The cases of MGD on sale for $9.99 piqued our interest and
prompted Wayne to do some quick math.

"Okay, we're on some wall for two days. That means we can have
four beers each the first night, four when we top out the second
day, and four more when we get down. Sounds about right to me,"
he remarked with a grin spreading over his face. "Actually, if we
got two cases and we only saved two each for when we got down, we
could both have 11 beers a day and not even need to haul water."

"Yeah, and we could get a bunch of pretzles and cocktail weenies
for food."

"I wonder," he began, his brow furrowing slightly, "what kind of
pretzles would resist crushing the most."

At that moment I realized that in Wayne's mind, the idea had
crossed the boundary between stupid joke to realizable option.
"Fourty-four beers," he continued, "what's that, like four
gallons? That's about right for fluid. Those weenie cans are
pretty small so we should get like four cans each a day. They're
packed in water too ..."

We left the store with two cases of MGD, sixteen cans of Hormel
weenies, three giant bags of pretzle sticks, a roll of duct tape,
and some cheap tupperware-like things to store the pretzles to
prevent them from being crushed. We also left the store with a
plan. We would haul ass to the Park, climb the first few pitches
of the West Face of Leaning Tower, and bivy on Ahwahnee Ledge.
Wayne would drive and I would pack the pig on the way. After
getting a couple of boxes (to line the inside of the haul bag)
from the trash behind the store, we were on our way.

By noon we had managed to get our gear to the fourth class ramp
and decided we had better celebrate the feat with a beer. After
quaffing the brews and crushing and stowing the cans, Wayne lead
us across the scary-as-hell ramp while I follow along with the
pig. I thought carrying two cases of beer up to the ramp was
difficult but the sphincter clenching fear I experienced while
teetering along trying to stay in balance with the haul bag
pulling me toward the brink was mind bending.

Looking up at the steep line of bolts and overwhelmed by the
exposure, we figured that a beer ought to calm our nerves. We
plopped down by the bar (as we were now calling the haul bag),
popped a couple of brews and pulled out some weenies and
pretzles. The tupperware things were holding up just fine and
after our satisfying meal, we were ready to roll.

It appeared that there were two parties already on the route --
one was high up and looked like they would top out that day and
the other was a couple of pitches above us. Since I hauled the
bar across the ramp, I was entitled to the first pitch. Even
though it was all bolts or fixed gear, the steep factor made it
strenuous. A ways out, I had Wayne send me up a beer on the tag
line and I reveled in the gratification of hanging on an immense
piece of granite high off the ground and hearing the heavenly
sound of a pop-top being opened. I polished off the brew, crushed
the can against the wall, and tucked it into a handy stuff sack.

Wayne combined the next two pitches and cruised. Before I knew
it, I was on Guano, getting ready to haul. The two guys ahead of
us were working on pitch five, obviously intenet on fixing the
next two to make the next day shorter. When Wayne joined me, we
pulled out a couple of beers and watched the second struggle to
clean the traverse. He must have heard our pop-tops since he
looked back over toward us and we raised our beers toward him in
a toast.

It was getting late and those guys wouldn't get done with pitch
six until after dark. Content to settle into the Ahwahnee bivy,
we ate the balance of our daily weenie ration and had a beer. We
spent the rest of the evening watching the other guys working on
pitch six and enjoying the sun set -- while having a couple of
beers and munching on pretzles. When the other guys rapped back
to Ahwahnee, we were already tucked in and practically asleep.

The next morning came way too early. I awoke to a need to relieve
the massive pressure in my bladder. My head was pounding and I
had an absolutely revolting taste in my mouth. I was appalled to
realize that the only thing we had to drink was beer. Somehow the
practical matter of having to start drinking beer first thing in
the morning had never occurred to either of us. I rummaged for
Advil in the bar and popped a beer to wash them down. My stirring
had roused one of the other guys and he looked at me in horror.

Wayne's bladder forced him to get out of his bivy bag and we
decided that we should get going since it was going to be a long
day. We ate some weenies and pretzles and we did
rock-paper-scissors for the fifth pitch. Wayne won. We hardly
talked as we prepared and I believe we scared the other two guys
since they didn't even say a word to us -- even avoiding all eye
contact. Wayne headed out on lead and the other two guys
hurriedly jugged their line.

After Wayne fixed the line, I couldn't resist the call of nature
any more. I clipped our Colman screwtop water jug (masquerading
as a shit bucket) and let loose into the comfortably wide
orifice. Ah yes, good consistency, if a bit aromatic -- the beer
hadn't gotten to my gut just yet. I spent the next hour in
purgatory. Cleaning the traversing pitch while carpenters
hammered in my head thinking of nothing but a cool glass of water
drove me to the edge of madness. Upon reaching the belay, I was
just about through.

"Wayne, this is just fucking dumb."

He looked at me then looked down, "Bailing off this fuker would
be lunacy. It's too steep. No where to go but up." He surveyed my
ashen complexion and suggested, "Have another beer."

I looked at the face to start the next pitch, fumbled with some
hooks, then said "Fuck it," and lurched ahead in my boots. Lots
of fixed stuff had me cruising to the next belay and Wayne
followed up in a jif. Wayne eyed the shit bucket but decided he
could hold out for a better stance. At the next belay he couldn't
wait any longer. As I approached on jugs, I could see him hopping
from foot to foot with a strained expression. I kind of hung off
to the side to give Wayne as much of the small ledge as possible
to do his thing. Even though I averted my eyes, I was forced to
endure the horrid sound of his ass exploding. Then the stench
wafted over, hanging in the air like a thick acrid fog. "Holy
shit, did something crawl up your ass and die?"

"And your shit doesn't smell?" he retorted.

"Not like that."

We were both parched and we took a moment to pop a couple of
beers. While I was rumaging in the bag, I discovered that one of
the big tupperware things holding the pretzles had come open.
Subsequently, the freed pretzles had been ground into a wide
assortment of chunks and dust. We ate some weenies (especially
enjoying the salty, fat laced water they were packed in) and some
of the uncrushed pretzles and tried to get back some of our
psych.

I began the eighth pitch and that is when things came unglued. I
was having difficulty operating at any kind of level because I
was trashed and the heat was rising fast. Our tempers flared and
we shouted obscenities at each other. I had to piss mid-pitch and
Wayne accused me of trying to hit him with it. The Evil Tree sank
daggers into my back as I passed. In a fog I made it to the top
of pitch nine, completely soaked in sweat and barely able to pull
the rope through the drag. During our ordeal, the two guys ahead
of us kept looking down -- I think grateful we would not catch up
to them.

After cursing each other up and down between chugs of beer, Wayne
lead the last real pitch of the climb. As I followed, I helped
along the pig when I could but that didn't prevent Wayne from
screaming at me and me hollering back. Before we headed up the
last fourth class section, we sat drinking beer, calm for the
first time all afternoon. I got the honor of muscling the haul
bag up the final bit and I was glad the beer was almost gone.

Arriving on the summit, I found that the guys in front of us must
have taken pity on us since they left a full two liter bottle of
water. At least it was full before Wayne drank most of it while
waiting for me and the pig. More profanity was exchanged at an
extremely high volume. Still, those few sips of tepid, stale
water were the best I could remember.

Both of us were spent, our shirts and pants were a littice work
of salt rings, and the back of my t-shirt had red dots on it
where I was stuck by the punji sticks. We could do no more than
lay immobile while the sun went down. Sometime after dark when we
started getting really cold, we pulled out the bivy gear and
bedded down for the night. Even though our bivy sacks and
sleeping bags had been stuffed, somehow the pretzle detrious had
found its way inside.

The following morning, I awoke to a powerful urge to defacate but
was frightened to open the shit bucket after Wayne's contribution
the previous day. I steeled myself and held it at arms length as
I twised off the top. It was horrid and I could hardly bring
myself to use it. I filled it nearly to the top and hurredly
screwed on the cap. Wayne stirred and finally crawled out of his
bag. The cumulative effect of the climb had taken such a toll on
us that the pounding in our heads no longer was the worst of our
pain. Thus it became almost inconsequential.

Lethargically, we pack up our stuff and prepared for the descent.
After I closed up the pig, Wayne began squirming around and eyed
the shit bucket. "No more room in there," I warned. He dug into
the bag and pulled out one of the tupperware things and went off
a ways, returning with a repulsive package. He used liberal
amounts of duct tape to seal up his waste.

We popped two of our few remaining beers, quaffed them, and began
the treacherous descent. Managing not to kill ourselves, we
staggered out to the car. "Fuck, we haven't got anything to drink
but beer," I observed upon opening the car.

Wayne dropped his pack and leaned stiffly against the car.
Bending over and placing his forehead on the roof, his whole body
shook and he sent a jet of vomit across the car roof. Wiping puke
from his mouth he turned to me and said "I just didn't have the
energy to do it anywhere else."