Touching Stone High in Zion

www.greysaltlake.com

November 2000

A climbing attempt of Touchstone Wall, 5.10 C2, Zion National Park

Maybe it was the depth of the canyon or the depth of a moonless autumn night that left me feeling blind and anxious. But, somehow a thousand feet above me, I could make out the steep skyline hedging the stars. Isaac stood beside me, also staring upward out of the immersing canyon. Only hours earlier, we’d both been three hundred mile north in the limiting Logan, sitting in seemingly worthless college classes, anxious (at least I was) of our weekend plans. Then, finally we were leaving town in his ’76 Volkswagen bus, repainted in a sky blue color reminiscent of my cousin’s thrift store tux. Sitting back in the squat seat I couldn’t help worry about what I was getting myself into. I had dreamed for years of climbing big lines in Zion, and now I was committed, heading south in early November shivering in his un-heated tuxedo bus.

In Salt Lake we traded the bus for a sister’s car and four hours later, after threading BYU football traffic, there we were in Zion National Park, well into the circumference of night. Directly above us in the blackness rose the commanding Cerebrus Glendarme, an imposing hulk of rock rising directly out of the red earth. We had decided to illegally park overnight at the Big Bend parking area justifying it wasn’t really overnight since we got there after midnight. We left a note on the dash for the inevitable ranger on dawn patrol, apologizing for our poor parking decision hoping for some dirtbag grace. We packed up our meager rack, two ropes, sleeping bags and headed to the base of the route.

Isaac’s headlamp lit the way as we scrambled off the road onto a trail of cacti and bony branches that grabbed like odd goblins in the night. We both found small ledges at the base of the wall and settled in for the small portion of the night remaining. The pre-climb jitters were killing me. Deep inside my sleeping bag my anxiety grew by the hour. As much as I had climbed that year, I still was wide aware of my variable fear of heights. I dreamt fitfully of rocks falling, of stars falling… me falling. Morning arrived all too fast and I waited for Isaac to stir. The smell of the dry cold air of November in the desert made me wonder if maybe it was just too cold to climb. The quiet Virgin River slid by in the distance and I heard Isaac roll over. I knew it was time. Maybe a trip to the bushes would quell my fear.

Racking went quickly and Isaac opted to lead pitch one. After all, back in Logan I foolishly said I wanted the C2 pitch- the only slightly technical one on the eight pitch climb. Isaac made measured progress up the bolt ladder; with the mix of anxiety and cold I was shaking to my core. He struggled momentarily with the transition from the bolt ladder to a small crack, but soon enough “off-belay” rang across the empty valley. The sun was slowly rising, and with it slowly came new noises: the occasional car, a late season bird, or the whirl of a cyclist on the road below. I tried to make quick work cleaning the first pitch, jugging my way to Isaac’s small stance 100 feet off the ground. Greeted by Isaac’s ceaseless grin and enthusiasm I hit the first belay. “The next pitch looks sweet!” beamed Isaac while my unease grew as I methodically peeked above seeing old flaring pin scars and a gruesome roof guarding the upper pitches. “I donno man…” I managed to mumble as Isaac started handing me the gear. I took the pieces without thinking, still staring above into the air.

The first move off the belay is always interesting since if you fall, you might land on your belayer and get yourself, or worse, your belayer injured. I sunk a #2 Camalot into the massively flared crack. Two of the cam lobes looked strong, the other two flap worthlessly. I yanked a few times for courage and stepped into my aiders. Now truly committed, I cursed my pride as I moved slowly upward. I struggled with the next piece, and sighed with relief as I clipped a bolt four feet beyond. At least I won’t hit the ground or my belayer if I fall from here, I gradually thought. I glanced upward finding myself at the roof that had taunted me from below. Only now I find it is only two feet deep and somewhat manageable. The route traversed left for a short ways; a bolt and a hook move led me to a thin shoelace of a sling growing out of the wall.

I reached over brushing the sand off the rock and find an antique mini-piton, a RURP, pounded to its head and tied off with a fraying shoelace. I clipped into the tattering with trepidation and moved quickly to avoid spending undue time hanging on little more than a yarn from one of my fraying sweater. I stepped high, reaching over the roof, and slung another old piton, this one with its eye half broken. I slipped a quickdraw into handicapped eye, happy to be off someone’s old shoelace. I looked back at Isaac, only thirty feet below and to the right dangling high above the road. I thought about how I looked, dangling at the edge of a small ceiling, trusting to an old piece of iron with only half its original intent. Out the bottom of my eye I caught sight of a small crowd gathering to watch our sluggish progress. A new pride kindled as the crux roof was passed and Kodak courage from below spurred me on.

I glanced upward and see the next belay another 25 feet above and to the right; a rotting mess of slings and old bolts trying to inspire trust. I continued my slow progress upward using cam placements and small wired stoppers. I look above and see a tiny fixed stopper above, left behind by a previous party who evidently couldn’t clean it from the crack. “Bomber” I thought, “if someone couldn’t get it out of the crack, then it must be jammed in there good”. I clipped my aiders into the abandoment and gave a few good yanks. The belay, just moves away, was so close I could almost smell the sun rotting the nylon slings.

My lungs full of the imminent belay I quickly stepped into my aiders and for a moment, felt something wrong. I heard the high pitched ping of metal popping out of brittle rock and smelled the dusty odor of sandstone turning to dust. I felt my stomach crawling up my throat as I slowly tipped backwards. Finally my mind registered the falling and I heard a second ping rings out but I missed the dusty odor- another piece of protection ripping from the rock and I was traveling fast. I saw the roof I had so recently conquered slowly pass. I was falling, face upward, watching each action of the plunge taking effect. The rope was snaking its way down after me and I felt myself bounce against the wall. As my body recoiled violently I suddenly realized I was moving quicker than my brain first registered. I saw Isaac to my right as I fell past. Then, finally, as quickly as it began, the rope ended the race and I was left dangling, staring upwards, slowly beginning to quiver. I looked down and saw the ground still far below me. My stunned sensation only lasted for a second as I heard Isaac yelping with excitement. He was slightly above me, having caught me about thirty feet into my fall. “You zipped two pieces and took quite a digger man!”

My brain finally caught up with gravity. Running along the wall I pendulumed over, stretching upward to clip the belay just above me with my trembling hands. Snugly back at the belay I noticed Isaac examining his hands. “I must have burned them catching your fall” he answered my stare. “Too much slack in the rope I suppose” accounting for extenuated fall I thought as Isaac handed me the ascenders. I paused, “I’m not going back up there”, still overwhelmed with the adrenaline and fear of the fall. “You got it man, you were almost there” he quickly responded. Damn pride. It was once again tugging me upward. I clipped into the lead line and started ascending to the old challenged piton that had surprisingly caught my fall. Reaching my piton savior I carefully checked its status as I gingerly moved above it. The carabiner that was clipped into the pin that was connected to the rope was entirely torqued the wrong way. I yelled back to Isaac of my lucky ‘biner. I was just pleased that the old man of a pin held me since below was just the rusty RURP and 15 more feet of slack. Plugging in more gear ten feet higher I was back to my old high point with legs uncontrollably shuddering. I was foolish to trust such a small stopper in such poor rock I numbly thought. Catching the dry smell of the belay pushed me back into the game and a slow strange courage pulled me upward, knowing the safety of the belay was near.

“Off belay” I yelled after I was secured at the second belay. I checked my watch trying to steady my trembling hand to see the time. It had taken me two hours to lead 60 feet of climbing. Four hours total on the wall and the sun testified with its new heat. My black fleece suddenly felt tremendously warm. But I was too scared to take it off, for fear of gravity grasping for me again. A dry, dark, thirst didn’t help the matter as again I was too scared to reach my water bottle, also for fear of dropping it. I could tell Isaac was climbing quickly by watching the rope tremble near me as he cleaned the short pitch. I just stared at the wall ahead of me, too nervous and petrified to look down and watch his progress.

He reached the belay, eager to climb and moved quickly ahead. My vague requests to abandon the route were ignored with his excitement for the next pitch. I fed the rope out, meter by meter, as he climbed away from me. What was I doing so far above the ground I wondered? So unnatural? How does my pride seem to get me into such predicaments? The hour of belaying passed as if in a minute, or was it a week I wonder. “Off-belay” started me from my trance. I slowly clipped the ascenders into the rope and moved my weight from the belay onto the rope. The quivering of my legs translated onto the rope and I thought I could almost hear the hum of the vibration. One pitch separated me from Isaac and another chance to convince him to call off our ascent. I tried to climb quickly with hopes that the quicker I climbed, the sooner I would be on the ground.

I reached belay three and my face must have testified my internal turmoil. “We should probably rap from here” I thought I heard myself speak, but it was Isaac instead. “Yeah lets jet out of here, it’s late and we’re both tired” I stuttered back with relief in my voice. I find myself useless with the rope rigging and can’t even find my rappel device. Devoid of a rappel device we rig up a simult-rap- one person on either side of the rope, rappelling at the same time- using my belay device. It proved difficult to rig, but soon we were slowly descending back to terra firma. With each meter that I descended, my spirits rose. At 100 feet above the ground I already felt relief gushing as if I were already lying in the red dirt. We swiftly slid down the ropes and I nearly collapsed as I reached the sandy cliff base.

Strangely, the ordeal of being at altitude quickly abated and I was overcome with the excitement of the climb. The thrill seemed to overshadow the disappointment of the struggle with fear that overcame me for so much of the wall. We slapped each other on the back for a climb well done. Looking back it is clear that Isaac, being a good friend, never acknowledged a feeling of disappointment that we didn’t make it further. Instead he raved of the climbing and the wicked fall I took. We gathered our gear, re-discovered our sleeping bags and crawled down the hill to the car. The rangers were kind and we didn’t find a ticket on the windshield. Isaac dug out some crackers and using a nut tool and rock, opened a fine can of sardines. I sat down and looked up at the wall. 200 feet is all we had climbed in nearly 7 hours. ‘Pathetic’ I thought, with a sign, ‘but a damn good time’. The horizon above glowed in the late afternoon. The day had already passed and we still had to drive back to Logan. Calmness invaded my soul and finally the unease of the day was gone. What’s next I anxiously wondered; I glance over at Angel’s Landing, an even bigger wall, and my stomach tightens.

Adventure next.

Who needs a can opener? Dinner served. Sardines in the heart of Zion