Tony said he’d never been. It’s an iconic promontory in the Red River Gorge. Okay, if you’re a hyperfocused, fully obsessed rock climber then maybe you wouldn’t necessarily spend time hiking to overlooks and such. With that knowledge our hiking destination that day was obvious. I outran him up the trail, fighting the years my lungs and legs were feeling. I caught my breath in the time it took him to catch up to me and then scrambled on up to the summit slabs. As I waited for Cap’n Chaos to navigate the lower fourth-class terrain I looked off to the north at the hollers and cliffs further back. Memories of Twisted Pine and Mosaic resurfaced while I chuckled at the heavy breathing and grunting going on down in the trees.
I’d forgotten what the big rock I was standing on had meant
to me in the borderland time between my early explorations and when I became a
rock climber. It was no mystery why I
explored that area for potential rock climbs before I ventured further into the
unknown. The rock evoked adventurous daydreams. I wanted more
experiences like that in my life. I
wanted warm stone under my hands and feet.
I wanted sweeping visas and elegant lines and curves for my eyes. I adored the bonsai-like trees clinging to
the edge of the sky.
A week after Tony and I huffed up there I returned alone one
rainy afternoon after work to take some photos.
This recent return trip I took it more slowly and meditated on my life,
and the winding, twisting path I’d followed through the cosmos of time and
space to find myself standing once again at this point. I folded time by stabbing a hole in the space
and lived astride both eras of my existence for a moment.
I went back the next morning to do the same and hike
further. Mosaic had taken up
residence in the better lit parts of my brain and vacated the shadows it had
resided in for many moons.
I intended to visit a nearby arch, the Twisted Pine slab,
and hopefully the base of Mosaic to ascertain the condition of the crack
at the bottom. I expected to get wet
wading through the undergrowth and had come prepared. I started out back on the rock, and lingered
there a little longer taking photos, and letting myself dwell in the soothing
mists of enigma.
Eventually, I moved on and easily picked up the old user
defined trail that traced the obscure ridge.
It didn’t occur to me at first, but the reason it was still well trodden
was because of the arch I was going to.
I easily found it, and then retraced my steps back to where its trail
spurred off from the main ridge. At that
point the trail faded into nothingness and the ridge was like I’d remembered it
from a random hike a decade before.
Before I gained the key saddle, I was swimming through man-height yellow
pines that had sprung up after the aforementioned windstorm.
My clothes were soaked when I reached the saddle just below
the Twisted Pine slab. I dropped into
the drainage to the west and easily descended to the small, unnamed tributary
below Mosaic. I found a weakness
in the slope above and climbed up the steep, open forest to the lower edge of
another pine thicket. I tried contouring
around the lower edge toward where I knew the route was, but it’s tangled snarl
never thinned. I crossed a dry gully
above a boulder and tried to push higher into the rhodo buffer below the pine
thicket. Above that I could see a lower cliff
band and then more pioneer species above.
I kept moving west until I reached the corner of the ridge above which I
knew was too far. I shoved my way into
the dense, wet greenery to the main corner hoping to find a weakness somewhere,
but I was greeted by twenty-foot sandstone cliffs.
The day had grown late.
I had hiked myself into mid-afternoon the weekend before Daylight
Savings, and I felt the urgency of getting to an easy exit before the sun fell
too much further. I had a headlamp, but
I didn’t revel in the idea of bushwhacking in the cold, watery darkness.
My options were to backtrack to the saddle and then drop
down to the Sheltowee Trace and track out.
I knew I had at least a half hour of solid bushwhacking and then it was
roughly forty minutes back to the car, OR I could follow the water into the
main drainage and hike the creek out to the road and follow it back to my
truck. The creek was an unknown. It had been twenty years since I’d once hiked
up the same creek looking for an obscure trad route. I bushwhacked the upper slopes below the
eastern cliff lines and then dropped back to the creek to exit. That had been a righteously difficult day of
hiking. I was wet enough the prospect of
wading the creek didn’t bother me. I
worried about flow since we’d had a bit of rain overnight. It was March 2nd so neither the
air nor water would be warm. I also knew
I am skilled at generating my own heat.
In the end I believed the adventure of hiking down the creek would be worth
the effort.
Down I went to touch the void. That hike ended fine and was a great day in the woods, if slightly disappointing for not reaching my intended destination. I got some great photos. Everything was brilliant green, and I began to suspect that the photoreceptors in my eyes must have been unusually sensitive to greens that day. The hike out was enjoyable and mostly uneventful save the respite I took on a gravel bar to make some tea.
Another week passed. Mosaic
was living full in the sun in my mind.
Its branches were beginning to show hints of buds. By the next Sunday, I had no other option but
to try to reach the base of the lost route again. Twenty-six years and eight months had passed
since last I stood at the base of it.
I set out with little gear: a small daypack, a bottle of
water, my digital camera, a small beat-up machete, and a recently purchased
copy of The Tao of Pooh and the Te of Piglet. My goal wasn’t to climb or scramble or to
take photos. It was simply to reach the
base of the climb and figure out the best way in and out.
My intended route was the most expedient way in that I
knew. I’d take what seemed the best way
out once I’d reached the end. I jumped
on the Sheltowee Trace and plodded along trying to stay ahead of a couple of
hikers that I was certain were going to the big rock. I passed another couple of hikers walking the
opposite direction on the Sheltowee but then no one else for the rest of my
hike.
I reached the spot where I needed to leave the
Sheltowee. It’s easily recognizable to
me, though I don’t think I could explain where it is to anyone else. A short, steep hike up and I gained the
saddle below the Twisted Pine slab and continued over into the western facing
drainage. I went down, crossed the
lively stream, and plodded back up the slope into the barrier thicket. I pushed on, carefully lopping the thickest,
snarliest branches until I could look up and see a break in the lower cliff
band. I continued up the steepness
finding my weakness until I found myself standing on a level wooded ledge under
a sun-baked cliff. I stepped to my right
to an open area of the ledge, with a nice rock protrusion extending above the trees
below. The view was amazing, and I
decided I’d come back and visit this spot before I left the area.
I hiked back to the left into another pine thicket. I pushed into it making slow progress and
wondering how far it would be. After two
or three minutes I stopped as I had the distinct feeling I was in a place I
knew. I hadn’t felt that since I’d left
the saddle. And I can’t truly describe
the feeling. Of course, I had been in
that spot in the past. It was the only
way to the base of Mosaic. The
difference was that since I’d left the “trail” I was in the first place that
was unchanged since before the storm. It
was as much like it would have been nearly twenty-seven years ago as it could
be. I exited the pines and looked up and
was there.
The crack had tufts of grass bulging from it. And at the two saucer plates at the top of
the crack a sizeable Charlie Brown Christmas Tree has grown. Otherwise, the scene is just like I
remembered it. The slab split by the
crack is lower angle than I had been envisioning. That was heartening considering a possible
free attempt in the near future. I also
noticed some possibly climbable features on an obtuse arete to the right about
an arm’s span. There’s no protection
there, just something that might provide hand and footholds if it were somehow
otherwise protected.
 |
| Mosaic 5.4R A2, FA: 1997 |
The stoke exploded in my brain. I knew then that I had to return and recreate
that initial experience I had, rope solo aiding the crack to clean it and
reestablish the line.
I lingered at the base until it was awkward for both of us—me
and the climb. Was I going to make a
move or just keep leering? To avoid
continued discomfort for both of us I moved on.
Or rather back to the sunny spot on the ledge where I let the maximum
amount of skin soak in the sun for a while and read some from my book.
A fie spray of mist from the lip of the cliff drifted back
and forth and wrapped around my warming body like a curtain in the wind. The clouds lazed about in the sky. It was a perfect moment in time, far from the
stress and rush of my life. I needed
that more than I needed to climb some old project route I’d nearly forgotten
about.
After some time I reluctantly packed up my things and began
moving back toward the road. The hike
out was mostly uneventful, but I took it slow and enjoyed each step. I’d already decided for sure I was coming
back soon to execute another ascent of Mosaic.
Cont…
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