The Sun Shines

I still remember the first time I hiked out to Courthouse Rock.  I was probably nineteen or twenty—a recent college dropout—and working full time in some dreary factory in Winchester.  I spent most of my free time hiking and exploring the Gorge.  I’d bought Robert H. Ruchhoft’s Land of the Arches hiking guide and set about systematically visiting all the places in it.

The trail was well travelled back then, but nothing like it is now.  I hike it often.  It’s my go to after work hike these days.  I appreciate the copious amounts of sunshine along the ridgetop hike.  I’ve also been working myself back up to scrambling on the exposed rock formations along the ridge.  Notably Haystack Rock and Courthouse Rock. 

On that first hike I was alone as I usually am.  It felt like a long distance to reach the end of the ridge, but if you’ve hiked Auxier Ridge you know that the scenery gets more interesting and dramatic as you go.  The main thing I remember about that hike thirty or so years ago was as I neared the end of the ridge I started running.  I don’t really know why.  I was wearing blue jeans and old beat-up hiking boots.  I had a backpack probably. 

Why would I get the urge to run?  I’m still not sure exactly.  But as I ran something surreal happened: I glanced out to my left toward the west and saw a large bird of prey of some sort gliding along at the same pace I was running.  We were both headed toward the end of the ridge.  I had never been there, so I didn’t know what would happen up ahead, but I kept running and keeping one eye on the bird.  I ran, and I had this image of myself just running straight off the end of the ridge into the sky.  As if I could fly along with the bird.  I had to pick up speed as the ridge narrowed.  The bird was moving faster, and I was going to lose it. 

My young legs worked hard, dropping down a rocky slab, pistoning against gravity to carry me over a shoulder high ledge, and finally I looked out and saw the bird soar off over the gap between the end of the ridge and Courthouse Rock.  I came up short in a cloud of dust at the final overlook before the stairs down the steep drop off and watched the bird continue out over the valley above the mouth of Indian Creek.

I can’t remember if I scrambled up on top of Courthouse Rock that day in the early Nineties.  I did get on top of it around that time.  And I returned to the summit of Courthouse and Haystack Rocks many times over the years.  For a long time, I did a trail run/scramble loop out Auxier Ridge, picking up both of those points and incorporating as much rocky scrambling as I could.  Then I’d cross over to Double Arch and traverse that ridge back to Tunnel Ridge.  Twice I made the sketchy 5^th class move which put me on top of the end of Tunnel Ridge instead of dropping back down to the trail necessitating ascending the brutal stairs out of Auxier Branch.

Those were many years ago.  I am many pounds heavier.  The brain cells and synapses that made those alpine training loops possible are long dead.  Or whatever happens to brain cells and synapses when they fail to engage in ways you remember them engaging.

This past year I’ve ventured out to Haystack a few times trying to knuckle up the gumption to get back on top of it.  Recently, I did so.  It’s all baby steps.  I’ve gone out to Courthouse a handful more times than Haystack to screw up the courage to make the moves to the top.  Courthouse has been a little harder for me for some reason.  The base has eroded drastically, making the first move considerably more committing.  The fall at the bottom is sketchy anyway, with a fatal drop leering mere feet to the right.  The rock feels more polished than it did fifteen or twenty years ago.  Duh!  And the times I’ve tested the moves it felt like my bum shoulder was going to be impinged if I committed my considerable mass to the moves.

After work this past Tuesday I ventured out Auxier Ridge again.  Typically, when I get out there and am not feeling it, I end up stripping down to the barest legally clothed state I can be in and lay in the sun on the bare rock between Haystack and Courthouse.  I’m trying to bank as much vitamin D as I can while the sun shines.  Gotta make hay and all that. 

Tuesday, I pushed on, dropped down the stairs, crossed the gap, made my way up the ledgy approach on the east face, and found myself standing under the 4^th class northeastern aspect of Courthouse yet again.  Without giving it too much thought I reached up, worked out the feet, and hauled myself up into the angling gash in the sandstone.  I knew what moves to do.  So, I made them.  I couldn’t help but be aware of the gaping sky to my right.  I couldn’t help but think what would happen if I slipped off a sandy hand or foothold and tumbled down the funneling chimney.  I got past the bulgy section and sighed in relief.  The upper slabby part is where I shine, so I plowed on up with complete disregard for the impending descent I’d have to pull off before darkness fell.

That’s not true.  I had full regard for said descent.  I tried not to let it ruin my summit high, but I kept thinking about the reality that no matter what I would have to climb myself back down to flat ground.  My solar collection was truncated by performance anxiety.  After a shorter period of time than I’d hoped, I found myself being pulled back toward the descent.  I stowed my phone and water bottle and made my way over to the crack and eased into the descent. 

Creaky knees and a stiff lower back didn’t come into play so much on my descent the other day, but they’ve flared up since then, and I now fully realize how much scrambling like that can take physically.  I never noticed that in my younger days, which is surely why I stayed in good shape until my forties.  I’m happy to have crossed back into the realm of scrambling adventures, and I feel like if I can keep this streak up and stay healthy my fitness will only continue to improve.

I did feel good in my body, making the moves, bending and twisting and working with and against gravity to travel through the world.  I miss those proprioceptive inputs.  

My goal is to work back up to doing the full five mile or more scrambly loop hitting all the available bare rock in the area.  Those were enjoyable days, and I look forward to recreating those memories.    

Retrospective: Stardancer

10/9/23

In 1998 Barry and I met a couple of Colorado climbers at Middle Marker in the Black Hills. We wanted to do a route called Stardancer—a 5.8 sport route—but we were chicken. It’s more than ninety feet long and looks significantly harder than any other 5.8 I’d ever seen. And I was at best a solid 5.8 climber at the time. I made it to the fifth bolt on my lead attempt and came down to rest my pumped calves. 

One of the Colorado guys offered to lead it—he was going to anyway—and leave our rope on the route so we could top rope it when they were done. We graciously accepted his offer and both of us climbed the route. It was a great route.

Fast forward twenty-five years...Dylan and Christian were the most stoked of anyone I’ve ever travelled to Wyoming with. I think they appreciated my love for it. And when they got to the Black Hills in South Dakota the stoke remained high. In a roundabout way I led them to Picture Window and the iconic route Gossamer. Barry and I had looked at it in ‘98 but it was scury. It was a forty foot 5.7 with three bolts and a long runout to the first one which was actually over a forty-ish foot fall. We didn’t get on it then. 

Dylan dropped his pack and started racking up. He put it up and Christian and I top roped it. It was a fun route for sure. I would have pissed my pants if I’d gotten on it in ‘98. The actual climbing is relatively short, but the narrow fin is airy and the summit exposed and provides great views across an incredible panorama.

After we cleaned up the route, we ambled over to Middle Marker and I pointed out Stardancer. It was much more intimidating than I remembered it. But first we got on a newer bolted route called Solo System. It felt easier than Gossamer, so I had hope for Stardancer. After I’d cleaned up the 5.6 sport route Dylan roped up at the base of Stardancer. 

I suddenly realized the significance of its name. I was standing slightly uphill and east of the route. The sun wasn’t too low, but definitely in the western sky. All of the tiny crystals in the matrix of the formation shone as piercing points of white light. The route was just to the right of the shade-sun line. A climber would appear to tiptoe up through the constellation of crystal flecks. Stardancer. 

As Dylan ascended the long slab that vision played out. He became the Stardancer. It was an amazing experience in an incredible landscape. There was definitely a spiritual component to it. I tried to capture the moment with my camera but ultimately failed. I may have one image where you can kind of see the “stars.” 

The theme of the trip seemed to be stars. I took a cool photo of the Big Dipper over the Teton Range. 

There was an incredibly bright star that preceded the sunrise on Saturday as the supermoon set over Garnet Canyon. 

Stars blanketed us at Vedauwoo after our moose encounter. So, dancing amongst the stars was a fitting end to our climbing trip.

[REDACTED] Rock

8/14/24

I am a consumable consumer. I’m a fourth-class citizen having soloed to the summit of [REDACTED] Rock. It took a few trips out here over the past few months to feel the feels I needed to feel. 

Scooting up Cloudsplitter yestereve was just the boost I needed. I felt solid. I felt in control. I ventured into blanker territory on the north slabs of the sky rock.

The climb: It’s a bump to a ledge from the saddle—but first the tiptoe crab crawl into the saddle—then toe scoot, toe scoot, waist-high sculpted crimps…sure I could snag one on the way down if I slipped—slip?! I ain’t gonna slip on my grippy sandstone in my sticky shoes—one committing stretch on smears and fears and I was into deeper digits. Then the reprieve before the ascension. 

Southwestern aspect of the skystack involves muy verticality and a paucity of paw holds. Combo moves of smear/mantle/high step put me square into no-man’s-land. No up or down without the cajones you bring with you. Nowhere to tie a rope. No solid holds on which to yard. Upward and onward into the wild blue. Then the summit bollard and glory!

Stupid grin, silly feeling, solid rock under my feet. Another me—Twentysomething me—would have inched back down the heady slab toward a terminal drop into the treetops with nary a blip on the EKG. Fifty-year-old me tossed a rope and slipped on a harness.

My dynamic neon parachute then returned me to second class terrain. But I had to a-send my way back out of the saddle. The downscrambling is as important as the upscrambling. Maybe I'll work up (or down) to reversing the climb up.

I lingered on a sunny slab nearby taking in the late afternoon vistas—shirt off because I’m too old to care anymore—hoping to bank some vitamin D for the coming winter. While I didn’t bring my own six pack, there was a carton of cars in the parking lot, but I saw not a living soul asides myself.

Living in the past does you no good. I had great experiences. I will have great experiences. I am having great experiences—that is what matters.

4th class scramble over my right shoulder

A Dream at Dusk

An audience waits for the sun to make a final appearance of the day, but it seems reluctant to take the stage. It peeks from behind the curtain in the wings.

The warm stone supports me where I lay in the sky. Magnesium pinpricks of white dance in front of my eyes. Wavy ribbons of cloud cover the bluebird dome in repeating patterns. There is a scent of pine sap and sand and sunlight. A breeze pushes over the rock urged by the oncoming night.

With closed eyes I duskdream about possibilities. What was and what is overlap. The circle doesn’t close.  Yet.

My shoulders melt into the sandstone and my mind wanders, my spirit soars down the gorge and into the past. The gritty bed under my head roots me in the present.

Unseen, the sun slips closer to the horizon. I’ve no light for the coming darkness; I should work my way back down into the world I came from. Turn my truck toward home. Wind along the river and back to town.

Punk music chases me as I chase the fading daylight. The windows are down and hair whips in my eyes. I don’t need to see to drive these roads. They’re like the lines on the palm of my hand. I don’t need to see to know where I am.

Vis-à-Vis

August 5, 2023

It was damn hot. Hot and wet. And as Robin Williams playing Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning Vietnam says: that’s nice if you’re with a lady; that ain’t no good if you’re in the jungle.

My new La Sportiva Tarantulas were great. I would have remarked on that twenty feet below the anchors on Vision at Global Village if I had not been cursing and whimpering and begging for a better stance, a better gear placement, less lactic acid in my forearms and calves, and less runout over a bull$#!+ 0.75 Camalot above a Charlie Brown Christmas tree waiting to impale me straight up my rectum. I was not in a good place. I could not downclimb. My brain was telling me to push on like Arno Ilner would (WWAD?). The Warrior’s Way baby! And I started to, but then I realized I was already runout. I was already looking at a bad fall even if the whore of a Camalot held my fat ass in free fall. I made one move up to an awkward stance and realized the next move wasn’t secure and the gear above might be better but it sure wouldn’t be easy to place. I was pumped silly, hands uncurling on every hold and arches and calves so burned up I couldn’t stand long enough to place anything anyway. In desperation I looked west toward the top of Kentucky Pinstripe. The anchors on the sport route were waist level and about eight feet away.

I started gunning over.

My fingers were hard like wood. I clawed into the rock and stabbed westward with my great new climbing shoes, hoping against all futility they’d land on something solid. If a foothold blew...if my fingers failed...I was going to be violently impaled on the tree.  My lungs were pumping like the bilges on the Titanic. My heart was hammering like John Henry. My dad had a stent put in three days ago and I was pretty sure we’d have matching ones if I didn’t make the traverse clean over to the rings. Damn all those cheeseburgers. Damn all that pizza. Damn that impression of said ass in my couch. I had only gotten on this route to condition myself for leading up the Exum Ridge on the Grand Teton two months hence*. I didn’t want to wreck myself bouncing down VISION at Global Village and wrapping my torso around the pine tree.

Somehow, I made the moves without chuffing into certain spinal destruction. I clipped a draw to the rings with hands that no longer worked normally. Though gasps and wheezes I told Tony to take. Somehow, I got a second draw clipped and started chanting “get me down!” over and over.

I laid on the boulder at the base feeling it’s cool mass, chest heaving, absolutely spent. My body and brain were flooded with adrenaline. It took a while to come down. And I felt like I was crashing. I drank water and ate a little. I coached everyone through the lower half of the route (actually my preferred variation of the lower splitter of Vision, pull the roof left, and finish on Kentucky Pinstripe), and began wanting to go back up it on top rope. I wasn’t sure how my body would respond. But I knew I needed to try. It went surprisingly well. I didn’t feel as bad as I expected I would. I hiked it on top rope and enjoyed it. I needed that. But I almost took Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. That was scary. Vision shouldn’t be at my limit. It wouldn’t have been as bad if I’d had any kind of decent gear. 

I survived. That’s all that matters.

Lily resting on Kentucky Pinstripe
after I hung the rope.

* I did NOT make it to the Exum Ridge in October like I planned.