by T Storm Heter
The alarm buzzes at 5:25 am. I hop out of the tent. The weather is outstanding! Today Arie and I are off to climb Geronimo which will be perfect for us: a 5 pitch 5.7 crack climb. Cara and Alex plan to ascend the nearby Olive Oil (5.7, 7 pitches). Since the two routes are near one another, we'll all hike together, certain that today we won't get lost. Our confidence is due to the prior day's outing. Arie and I have already hiked the Pine Creek trail twice, once in the sun, once in the moon. The only difference will be a south spur that will take us into Juniper Canyon. No problem, we'll just follow the guide book which instructs us to look for the "Knoll trail" just after the old homestead. But we find our selves hiking and hiking and hiking..We're not going in the right direction at all. After wasting an hour and a half on what is described in the guidebook as a "30 minute approach" we jettison the book's directions, orient ourselves to what we take to be the Juniper Canyon and bushwhack towards the cliffs. Magically, a trial emerges and we follow it. Thank god for cairns.
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Once Rose Tower and Jackrabbit Buttress are in sight, Arie and I split from Alex and Cara, wishing them luck on Olive Oil. We methodically lay out our gear at the bottom of the crack we are preparing to ascend-what the guidebook describes as the "obvious dogleg crack." Seconds before hopping on the route, we see two women searching for their route and we mumble something about "hoping that we are on Geronimo," as if to help them find their route. "Uhhh, Geronimo is around the corner.we think." they say without confidence. Now we are uncertain. Deterred from climbing what lay in front of us, Arie and I wander for (what must have been) the next two hours looking for the "obvious dog-leg crack." We are irritable now because morning is fading into afternoon. Several other climbers drift nearby, engaged in their own respective versions of desert wandering. Their open guidebooks and meandering eyes reveal that that they too are lost. But we ask anyway. Each of them says something different, conflicting, and unhelpful. We're more irritable yet; we just want to climb!
Finally we settle on a crack that seems to fit the description. I rack up and solo the ledge under the crack. One poor nut placement later I start in on the crack. Ugg. Choss! This can't be the right route. I second guess my self, but climb up to a small horn, place a hex and contemplate the whipper that faces me if the hold I'm reaching for breaks. If only I could just stay in the crack! But there's no way to stay in the crack on this one-its up over the horn or nothing. I keep hoping the pro will hold in this sandy desert rock. I grab the horn with my right hand, look down at my hex and contemplate letting go with the left hand that is jammed solidly in the crack. "Forget it. This isn't even fun. Isn't rock climbing supposed to be fun?" I think to my self.
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I downclimb all the way to ledge, leaving my pro in. Conference time. "Arie, what do you think?" In a perfectly diplomatic tone the response comes, "Its up to you, man." At this point I'm trying to buy some decision time. If we get down now, then maybe we'll find the real Geronimo. Of course, I'm not positive this is the wrong climb. There are bits of evidence suggesting that this is the right crack: it is a crack, after all, and secondly, there is an old sandal below the base of the climb. Who needs more evidence than that? For some reason I can't help thinking that just maybe this is the climb-despite the solo ledge up to the start of the crack, the breaking face holds, and the absence of other parties. I look up at the crack again. I tell myself once more, "It looks decent above the horn."
Back up to the horn I go, re-examining my nut and my hex. The examination is unnecessary, but I need to trust something. I'm exactly where I was three minutes ago. Uggg. I still can't convince my left hand to leave the security of the crack. It seems so unjust, so unfair. I won't be angry if I fall because I can't make the move-but this move is cake. The fall potential is entirely the rock's fault. I'm headed back to the ledge for a second time. This time I clean the hex and the nut certain that its time to call it off with this crack.
Back on the ledge. Now I'm gripped by the feeling that if we don't get on this thing (whatever it is!), there won't be any climbing for the day, just a bunch more desert wandering. I need something to buy me at least two more minutes of deliberation time. "Call Alex and Cara on the two-way radio." Arie and I remember that we've agreed to communicate to our friends as they climb Olive Oil, which is only a few hundred yards away. Perhaps to assuage our own confusion and guilt at being poor mountaineers and route-finders, we let Alex and Cara know that they may be lost too. One of the wandering parties that Arie and I consulted about Geronimo gave a great guffaw when we pointed in Alex and Cara's direction. "Yeah, our friends are over there on Olive Oil and we're looking for Geronimo." The desert Samaritan, certain that we he was standing in front of Olive Oil, uttered the encouraging, "Well I guess they're totally screwed then, huh?" Choosing different words, we ask Cara and Alex if they are on the right route. "We're 99% sure!" came the response. Since Alex and Cara spotted another team above them, they're more sure than we are that they're on an established route. "Two teams on the wrong route. Would that make the bivy warmer or just more crowded?" I confide to myself, sure that we'll all be off the rock by dark. Then I remember that getting off isn't going to be a problem for us, unless we get on the rock first. So, concerned with our own problems Arie and I bark back across the two-way, "We're 99% sure were not on Geronimo, but we're committing to it anyway."
Storm versus the horn, take three. This time I stay focused and think about being in the crack above the horn. Lightly, ever so lightly, I weight the horn and pull my left hand out of its jam. That hand jam meant more to me than either the hex or the nut below. I lave the jam behind and console myself: there are many hand jams to come once I lick the horn.
Then, with no drama at all I find myself on the other side of the thing. "This might actually be fun" I think to myself. I decide to relax and have a fun in the crack-I've earned it after all. As long as I stay jammed in, the face holds can crumble off in the breeze and I will just smile and laugh. The pro is decent and the climbing is better. To top it off, the crack doesn't feel like a 5.7 crack! I'm sure its no 5.11 either-but its challenging enough make me smile.
 "Worst case, we bail on gear." |
Before I've had my fill of hand jams the crack peters out into a chimney. Since we aren't on an established route, my parting words to my belayer had been, "Worst case, we bail on gear." I am still hoping for a tree though. From the base of the climb it looked like we could make it up to a large shelf some 200+ feet above.
Webbing Ho! So, we're not the only fools in the desert who didn't find the "obvious dog-leg crack." Actually, we knew that already since the six other parties we consulted when searching for Geronimo each gave unhelpful and conflicting directives. One wonders though: had the earlier party entertained the idea that they were on Geronimo, or had they decided (as we had) that they'd climb this beast, no matter what lay ahead? I examine the back side of the yellow, sun-bleached one-inch tubular webbing. Holy cow! The back side is worn down to an 1/4 inch of tattered nylon.
The opportunity to bail is before us. Four feet of new webbing, one rappel and we'll be back on the ground. But in the spirit of the day, I push on, hoping to make it to the ledge before my belayer can yell "10 feet left."
Working my way up the crumbling 5.7ish chimney I am once again faced with hundreds of options for holds, none of which are particularly appealing. I imagine sending down a block of sandstone on my belayer and cringe. "Arie. Better put your helmet on down there!"
By now I can see climbers a mere 50 yards southwest of our route. "Damn! There's Geronimo!" I console myself by thinking of our climb as a first ascent. Yeah, right-a dubious first ascent of a pile of crumbling sandstone that leads nowhere. Who would bother?
"How much rope?" By now all hope of making to the ledge is gone. "10 feet," comes Arie's response. I couldn't even see the ledge that I had been shooting for from the ground. I scamper up to a small stance, throw in my beloved hexes for an anchor and put Arie on belay.
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As I belay I gaze towards the real route. "Now they're having fun," I think out-loud. We're stuck on a choss pile with no sight of a ledge above, no chocks, trees or bushes to rap from and I have a mildly upset stomach from poorly protected runouts on crumbly 5.7 chimneys and water gullies. I just want off this rock. It seems to be taking Arie an enternity! No doubt he is gingerly pulling and pushing on the fragile rock just as I had done a short time ago, "Thump, thump, thump. Creak, creak, creak." One wishes one could levitate above these bulging knobs of sand.
Arie reaches our belay and congratulates me on a good lead. I'm not at all certain I should accept the praise-shouldn't a leader be nicer to his second that I had been? I forced him across this ugly morass of chimneys, cracks, and gullies. Now that he has reached the belay I give him a minute to catch his breath and look over at the real route with the real fun before I breaking the news.
Seeking to build a consensus for my already-formulated plan I announce, "We're bailing on gear." Arie turns his attention from Geronimo to our anchor. His eyes tell me more than his words. Behind his calm, "OK, man-if that's the plan." I glimpsed a "We're rappelling off THAT?"
Everyone one I climb with hates rappelling. I'm no exception. Climbers trust their hands and their feet above all. Sitting in a harness, weighting a rope, hanging on a bolt-pashaw! But here, with all the air below us and nothing above us to shoot for, there was only one way down.
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We rig our rappel, slicing up my cordelette to equalize the hexes that we are sacrificing to the rock. I bounce on the hexes to set them and laugh at Arie, "Look at me. I'm an aid climber!" Uncertain as to why I might threaten these fragile pieces of metal that are going to provide our descent, Arie remarks, "Uh-huh."
Two rappels later and we're on the ground. We're not even concerned that the rope has totally and completely entangled itself 70 feet above our heads. We fire up the two way radio, "Alex and Cara, how are you doing?" I didn't anticipated the response I was about to receive, "We're great, but we're not on Olive Oil!" All four of us laughed at our collective comedy of errors.
Twenty five minutes later, after exploring at least seventeen different angles from which to pull, whip, slap, wiggle, jiggle and tease out ropes, we're packed up and on the trail out. We jog towards Alex and Cara, exchange the necessary hand-slaps and hugs, smile at our mis-adventure and head towards the car. We climbed Geronimo-almost.
