|
|
| |
|
| |
|
Being
Great John
Sherman
There
was a time when you were the Greatest Climber In
The World. Perhaps it was just a moment, a single
move when your focus was absolute and unwavering,
your body perfectly balanced, synapses firing and
muscle fibers twitching in perfect unison. At that
very same moment the Euros were sleeping, the Easterners
cussing, it was raining buckets in Colorado, and
in California the other “greatest climber
in the world” just fell off a boulder, stumbled
backwards and tripped over his bong. Yes, for that
second nobody on the planet was cranking better
than you. Problem is, it’s hard to pinpoint
just when that moment was. Hence climbers have
come up with other ways of defining greatness.
My
favorite definition of climbing greatness came
from Alex Lowe, who uttered, “The greatest
climber in the world is the one having the most
fun.” Combine this definition with Barry
Blanchard’s Canadian Rockies corollary, “It
doesn’t have to be fun to be fun,” and
it becomes a bit easier to nail down one’s
moment of greatness.
Thinking
back on my career, several moments are contenders.
I remember the crazy smile I had upon topping my
first big wall. Or the time I danced a jig atop
that boulder in Hueco after a particularly fine
FA (note to self: find and destroy the video of
spastic dancing). How about retreating off the
Eiger Nordwand? I’d cut a snow bollard, wrapped
the skinny 9 mils around it and tossed them down
the face. My partner had never rapped off a bollard
before, and 1800 feet up the most dangerous face
in Europe was not the place he wanted to learn.
He insisted that I, being heavier, go first. As
I reached for the cords he quickly changed his
mind, reasoning that should the anchor fail it
would be preferable that I be the one left stranded
with no ropes. Sometimes the most fun is watching
your partners suffer more than you.
My
number one moment of greatness was a particular
spring break at Joshua Tree. My free-soloing had
impressed a comely lass and we’d spent a
windy night clutched together atop the rock formation
in the middle of the campground. The gusts subsided
the next morning leaving love in the air or something
that smelled like it. I stood naked facing the
sunrise, looking down at the first denizens emerging
from their tents below. Poor saps. They were mere
wannabes—at that moment it was I having the
most fun. I, the Greatest Climber In The World.
Now where the hell had my clothes flown off to?
John
Sherman
John
started climbing around the time Gerald Ford
was sworn into office…and still boulders
every chance he gets. He’s climbed in
all 50 states and currently resides in Estes
Park, CO (claims he moved there for the alpine
climbing, top-level Bingo and Shuffleboard
leagues). Accomplishments include the successful
cloning of sheep for his Wyoming escort service,
swallowing the equivalent of 24 aspirin a day
since 1983 and being 51st on People Magazine’s
50 Sexiest Men Alive list. Additionally, Sherman
still has all his own teeth. Congrats, John!
|
| |
|
The
Affliction Heidi
Wirtz
When
are you going to get your shit together?” my
father pleas for the hundredth time. I've heard
this question echoing within my own head on way
too many occasions as well. “If only I could,” I
think to myself. I seem to be stuck with this heinous
problem. It’s not an addiction, for in such
cases there is usually a means of quitting. Ever
since I stepped into the arms of this “climbing
bug” there has been no turning back, no escaping
its mighty grip. A grip that forever seems to be
growing tighter, wrapping around my very soul,
squeezing out any ideas of possibly surfacing up
into the “normal societal world.”
I’ve
tried to place blame on my buddies who, not knowing
the consequence, turned me on to this crazy practice
of climbing up rocks. Why, though, are they all
settled down now with homes (other than their vehicles),
oblivious to this bug’s presence? Is it like
the flu? About the time you notice that you’ve
passed it on to someone else, you are rid of it?
This doesn’t seem to be working for me, since
teaching people to climb is my job and I am not
rid of it yet.
Perhaps
it’s not just the climbing that so bedazzles
me, but rather the dance up the rock, and the elation
of once again figuring out another puzzle that
nature has laid before me. Maybe it’s the
adventure that will always be there as soon as
I step out the door with my climbing pack on my
back. Or it could be my partners that cheer me
on, laughing both with and at me? There is always
present that sense of community and my huge family
on the road. But still I ask myself, “There
must be more?”
I
find myself sitting in front of the computer searching
for that “real job,” but again and
again I end up on the “cheap flights” web
sites looking for tickets for another climbing
adventure. My not-so-brilliant ideas of fleeing
from this overwhelming problem I have always get
crushed back down. So, I find myself unable to
figure it out, wandering off again, back to where
I feel at home, up on the rock. What a great life!
Maybe someday I will be a “normal” member
of society? But I don’t think I will ever
be free of the affliction.
Heidi
Wirtz
It’s
official, via her pursuit
of climbing, Heidi Wirtz
has had more jobs than
anyone in the world. She’s
tried her hand as a baker,
bartender, roofer, rock
mason, landscaper, guide,
crab technician and as
a “speed climber” at
Sea World…and the
list goes on. Then again,
this is a girl who spent
two winters (yes TWO winters)
living out of a tent in
Crested Butte, hiking 45
minutes through the snow
nightly… ah, addiction
at its best. She currently
resides in CO (mostly in
her truck) where she’s
planning her next adventure
and next “career” move.
|
| |
|
The
Price of Admission Ryan
Frost
It
has been remarked to me on occasion that I am world-class.
This appeals to me. Honestly, though, I sometimes
find that certain parts of me—my forearms,
for example, or the lobe of my brain that deals
with the fear of dismemberment and death—are
sometimes unable to keep up with a climber of that
caliber. I flail—truly flail, with trembling
and everything—on 5.10. I back off three
out of four walls I start up. I don’t even
climb in the winter anymore, what with the falling
ice and numb toes. The climbers I read about seem
to be, as far as I can determine, cold-hearted
automatons with titanium tendons and a lack of
ordinary human emotions such as stark terror. The
gap between who I am as a climber and who I want
to be seems unbridgeable. In fact, sometimes it
is very unclear to me at all why I continue to
climb.
Which,
apparently, is why I continue to climb. It is good
to be debased. It is good to suffer. This is the
greatest show on earth and the price of admission
is high, for good reason. Climbing thrives on emotions
unharnessed by other sports. It is deeper, more
complicated, endlessly analyzable—the Moby
Dick of sports, a sport wherein you can be both
world-class and a hack, in the most extreme of
both definitions, depending on the moment. I put
on a world-class clinic on Midterm once—three
pieces of gear, about six minutes, didn’t
even break a sweat. You should have seen it. I
spent half the very next day stumped by a V0+ behind
Camp 4 and trust me, mothers kept their children
well clear. Another time I rapped off a manky single
bolt in the desert, though to this day I’m
not sure whether to brag about it or not.
The
Greatest Show on Earth comes in dozens of different
flavors. I am a traditional climber. I was raised
that way. This means that I don’t carry bivy
gear when I should, and that I make brash, intractable
remarks regarding the stupidity of sport and gym
climbing. This makes me feel very superior, and
ensures that I am a very weak climber (see above:
flailing). Actually, sometimes, in the winter,
I go out and boulder on the climbing wall in my
garage to make certain I have raging tendinitis
before good weather arrives. But all the different
flavors mean, in my view, is that everyone can
have a favorite bad habit in search of their goal:
a certain highball, 5.15, El Cap, the Torres del
Paine, K2, something that kicks us until we stop
moving. I prefer my personal ass-whipping to take
place 2500 feet up, spread over five or six days,
all with a nice California suntan, so you know
what I choose.
My
big wall career has been fueled by two things:
a very poor memory and a penchant for biting off
bigger and bigger chunks. Should I fail three out
of four times, it is only to rearm and sic myself
on a longer route with harder aid, solo, with a
cherry on top. It’s a foolproof strategy:
half downward spiral, half pyramid scheme, and
I highly recommend it. In fact, it ought to be
a maxim in every Gumby’s life that failure
on the Zodiac should be immediately followed by
a solo attempt on Zenyatta Mondatta. The reasoning
is solid if you take the time to think it through.
And it would sure be easier to get on the Zodiac.
So,
to recap, I hate climbing. And I love it to death.
No, not that much. I’m world-class and I
know it. I’m a hack, too, and I know it,
and I love it. My latest breakthrough in group
therapy has been the realization that no climbers
are automatons, although some do have titanium
tendons. We’re all simply as close to the
edge as we can possibly be. We’re all paying
the price of admission and enjoying the show, for
the most part. And who’s to say whether Duluth
accountant Bob Johnson’s four-day siege of
the South Face of Washington Column wasn’t,
relatively speaking, a braver and more barrier-busting
adventure than Dean ropeless on the Nose? Personally,
I plan to be out there—complaining about
bad beta, dropping cams, falling off the easy moves,
turning yeller, harboring secret jealousies, screaming
at shoe rubber. There’s nowhere else I’d
rather be, nothing else I’d rather be complaining
about. Who’s with me?
Ryan
Frost
Ryan
Frost is a climber. At
least he used to be,
before he tweaked his
knees, shoulder and elbow
on El Cap (“…like
Chris Mac, except in, like, 49 fewer ascents.”).
He currently lives in Fresno (“Why, I don’t
know…maybe I’m waiting for the Anne Heche
mothership.”) where he studies creative writing
and tends an orange orchard (“…we’ve
got one tree in the backyard, but I think it’s
dying.”). He claims writing is an exercise
in rejection, kinda like climbing.
|
| |
|
A
Delicate Balance Stuart
Ruckman
Bold
is the word that comes to mind when I think of
Indian Creek. I don’t mean bold in the sense
of courage. What I’m referring to is that
quality of bold found in the word indisputable.
To me, Indian Creek is beyond doubt—the cracks,
the walls, the scenery, they’re self-evident.
Even the climbs themselves make no excuses. Steep
and sweeping, they cleave faces with the texture
of cookie sheets. There’s no traversing
here, no linking together of disparate features.
Indian Creek offers few subtleties, or so I used
to think. My first visit to Indian Creek was
with my brother and we walked along the Supercrack
Buttress in awe, our mouths gaping and our eyes
wide. We owned one cam between the two of us
and coming from the granite slabs of Little Cottonwood
Canyon, we could hardly conceive of routes so
steep and long. Everything around us felt exaggerated,
as though the animators of Wiley Coyote and the
Roadrunner had formed the landscape themselves.
There was little chalk on the cracks then, only
the occasional bleached runner to let us know
someone had been there before.
Eventually
we gathered our courage (and our single cam) and
started up the most innocent-looking crack we could
find. We made 15 feet of disorganized progress
before our crack climbing inexperience and lack
of gear stopped us cold. Bret wiggled in a shaky
Hex and lowered off. Moments later the Hex fell
out. For two teenagers it was a harsh realization—we
were rec-league wannabes trying to hang with the
pros.
Luckily,
our record improved with each visit. At first,
success was the result of equal parts brawn and
speed. It wasn’t until a few years later,
when we could discuss for hours the minutia of
wide-cups and butterfly jams, that we realized
the difference between reaching the anchors and
pumping out was found in the subtleties—how
hard to squeeze a jam, where to place gear to save
energy, how to milk a rest with a delicate stem.
What at first had seemed so clear—just plug
and chug, was more complex than we imagined. The
same is true of the surrounding landscape. Big
and seemingly untouched by time, the expanse of
Indian Creek is in reality fragile beyond compare.
What seems barren at first—the soil for example,
is actually
alive and growing, older than the piñon
trees themselves. Multiple trails or a needless
set of tire tracks can leave a mark that endures
for years. The desert, like climbing, is a study
in delicate balance. To pass through without ruin
necessitates a state of equilibrium.
Recently,
Black Diamond teamed up with the Access Fund, The
Nature Conservancy of Utah, the BLM and the Rocky
Mountain Field Institute to produce an informative
brochure outlining Indian Creek issues and their
solutions. There’s no doubt Indian Creek
is a magical place, yet the potential for overuse
and permanent damage is real and approaching the
critical point. The Indian Creek Information Guide
is packed with the lowdown on camping, approaches
and parking to help ease the pressure on this fragile
place. In addition, it includes a useful map to
the geologic features and climbing walls. Pick
up a copy at your local climbing shop or download
it here.
The
qualities of this land are indisputable. Yes, it’s
bold. Its beauty is exposed for all to see. But
its preservation relies on the subtleties—the
little things we can do while we visit that make
a difference. Indian Creek is beyond doubt; let’s
keep it that way.
Stuart
Ruckman
You
know him as the guy who wrote all those guides to
the Wasatch Mountains. But around here we know him
as the guy who’s climbed 5.13 sport and trad
lines, put up several first ascents in the desert
and Indian Creek, and climbed the Salathé in
a day. We also know him as the guy who began his
climbing career by rappelling off balconies (yes,
balconies) with a water-ski (yes, water-ski) rope.
Once he had balconies sussed, he graduated to three-story
houses, looping the water-ski cord around the chimney
and simply jumping. These days Stuart lives in Salt
Lake with his wife and son, writing for all sorts
of respectable publications and climbing with all
sorts of respectable ropes.
|
|
|
|
|
|
