Here's an old story from what i like to call my "stop E stop" days. However, I was a lot smarter and dressed way better. I know this.
The year was 2005, and this new, awesome route had been recently christened. Since its birth, "dirtbag" would say, lets go do this new seven pitch route! At the time, I was in my second, consistent year of climbing, and basically, I was still a noob, but to me it didn't matter, and like "stop E stop", in my mind, I was totally awesome and slaying!
So the summer was upon us, and sweet spring temps were far and few between. I get a call from "dirtbag" one mid-june day and he says "let go do it, but I gotta work at 3pm?" ...no problem, it was 11am? we were young-ish, stupid, and time was irrelevant.
I miss those days.
So we blaze up to the coal pit buttress, I blazed a little more than dirtbag...and we eventually locate the start of this soon to be ultra-classic. "dirtbag" gives me the first pitch and on this hot and humid day, I scrape my way up the first pitch passing one pin, good gear, and then arrive at the belay. Psyched to have warmed-up on this lcc 5.8 trad pitch! "dirtbag", who is in a constant hurry, ALWAYS, yells, "keep going!" A bit confused? I say, WTH? and climb the easier 2nd pitch. I arrive safe and psyched at the belay and bring "dirtbag" up to do pitch three. We swap gear, and "dirtbag" takes off as I then patiently stare at birds.
"dirtbag" climbs, and climbs, and climbs, and stretches the hell out of our 70m rope. Arriving barely at the base of pitch 5, we are four pitches down and "dirtbag" is on track for making it to work by 3pm. I clean pitch 3 and 4 and we swap gear on a brushy ledge.
Slightly delirious, and more than dehydrated, I take off for the .10+ slab pitch... a pitch I'm sure "dirtbag" gladly let me have. Whatever? I was slaying! I got this! I start up a bulgy crack, meet a bolt, and more shaky than a fern, I pass a cool flake feature and get a rest. So now, to give some perspective, we're one hour into climbing, its hot as hell, and I'm getting blasted by the sun. Whatever though, I'm slaying! or "stop E stoping"... So I work my way past this flake and up into a left-facing, shallow dihedral- which is luckily bolt protected. I wipe the sweat from my brow, look back down at "dirtbag" (who is assessing himself for a rare skin condition? or something?) and I yell, "watch me". So I work my way up, pass bolt one, barely pull off the moves to bolt two, and boulder my way to bolt 3. Psyched as hell and scared...I think, I'm doing this! So I continue on, pinching this arete like the boulderer I'd become, and I continue up this shallow, blunt arete. Up I go, up I go, and after more than ten feet above the last bolt I say: "I don't see anymore bolts?" "dirtbag" after realizing he wasn't suffering from psoriasis, says "oh?". So I continue on, climbing this new, awesome route, and get another four feet before I realize? "hey, this isn't right?" I was climbing kitty litter...and the worst of its kind? So i stop, freeze in place, panic, and suppress my soon to be, "class IV freak out". I look down, I look up, I look left...! To my left, I now discover a very low, very left, very SHINY bolt. I now realize, "face to scrappy granite", that I am seriously off-route. I now yell down to "dirtbag", "I see the bolt, its about 15 feet lower and many feet left!" "dirtbag" says: "oh?". Freaked out, I now decide to climb higher to what i see as a rounded edge/rail...
Let the fun begin: I now start up towards this feature, and with confidence behind me, I'm going to make it! I make one move, my right foot blows on the kitty litter slab, and it whips me around, face-forward, looking directly DOWN the slab I just climbed. The blown maneuver sets me up for a now, 15-18 foot RUN down the slab I just fought up. I ran until I fell, then got whipped into the air like a tether ball, flung into space by the rope, and what was the third bolt of said intended line. I got flipped up in the air and landed smack on my hip, and slid, sadly down the slab landing face-to-face and parallel with the now "balls-deep in the anchor" "dirtbag".
Sore and dazed, I laid there assessing my injuries. My elbow was jacked, my shoulder was scraped up and bruised, and my hip was killing me. I knew things were only going to get worse and I knew if I didn't get up and finish this pitch, I may never climb again?
So I finally determine nothing is broken, and I go back and finish the pitch...
Flash forward a few hours...and "dirtbag" is dropping me off on a main street in Sugarhouse. He is extremely late to work and calling his employer spraying a rap sheet full of excuses. He kicks me out of his car, and I hobble home a few hundred blocks to my house where I drop dead, unable to walk, and ice my hip for the next few hours.
Things turned out allright? But I didn't walk straight, or do anything physical for at least three weeks. "dirtbag" estimated the fall at around 40+ feet?
Name that route?
Last edited by grk10vq
on Mon Sep 02, 2013 2:08 am, edited 2 times in total.
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