Viewing entries tagged
climbing

An Attempt on a New Route on Kusum Kanguru

November 16, 2019

My headlamp beam shows the rocky trail heading down, down, down. I’m tired. The kind of tired where if I wasn’t disciplined I could just sit down and sleep in the middle of the trail. Instead I continue to barely shuffle one foot in front of the other. Down, down, down.

Sunny and I had started the day at a tea house at 10,900’ above Lukla in Nepal. We’re both carrying heavy packs: me, just under 60 pounds. Sunny, just over 70 pounds. We crossed a 15,150’ pass around midday that gave us access to the Hinku Valley, but the pass traverses the mountain side going up and down ridge after ridge. Sunny had gone ahead and told me she would meet me at a tea house at 12,200’, but I’m now at just under 12,000’. Where could she be? Where’s the tea house? Discipline.

Several days later we find ourselves slogging up a different hill. This time we’re above the last tea house and heading to where we’ll make our base camp. Sunny was here three years ago to try this route with a Sherpa friend, but they didn’t really have the gear for it and so they retreated.

This year Sunny and I co-led a group to Everest basecamp and then a climb of 20,305’ Island Peak. We’re feeling reasonably acclimated and rested and after dropping our clients off in Kathmandu we head back in to the Himalaya for round two.

I’m relying on Sunny’s recollections for where to go and where to place our camps. Basecamp turns out to be in a nice spot next to a lake at 15,500’. The next day we move up to camp 1, which requires scrambling up a loose 4th class gully to where we rope up for an easy 5th class pitch. A bit higher is camp 1 below a cliff and on a rocky platform at 17,200’. Speaking for myself, I’m pretty tired from carrying a heavy pack and from the altitude. Regardless, the weather is nice so I set up the tent while Sunny finds water.

Moving to high camp the next day was interesting as we have to traverse under glacial cliffs, and around the side to access the top of the glacier. After roping up we weave our way over and around huge boulders, crevasses and ridges in the snow, finally finding a safe spot to set up camp between several large crevasses at just over 18,000’. We’re far enough out from the cliffs to be protected from all but the most catastrophic avalanches and rockfall.

Above us is the crux of the route. A 1,000’ ramp and couloir system that will take us to the ridge, which is where we will join the normal route. We’re both wiped out though from a week of hard effort so we decide to take a rest day.

The next day we finally get to rope up on some alpine terrain. The ramp is much dryer then when Sunny was here three years ago. It’s mostly rock where three years ago there was ice. In places there’s 4-5 inches of snice (a combination of snow and ice) covering the rock.

I’m relishing climbing up high in the alpine. The weather is nice. There are more cracks and places for gear than I anticipated. And we’re on a new route in the Himalaya. After a rope length I build an anchor with a good piton and nut and bring Sunny up.

I try going straight left and up a corner on the next pitch, but quickly determine that the corner lacks gear, and ice, so I come back towards the belay and climb straight up. The climbing is steeper then the first pitch and is mostly snice over rock, and not much gear. After 50 feet I get in a knifeblade before a steeper section of blocks and ice. Higher I spy a large flake near the top of the ramp. It looks like I can sling it to make an anchor, so I head up and left.

After building an anchor with another pin and a #6 Metolius Ultralight cam I look up. My heart sinks. 50 feet above me is a 40 foot vertical cliff with two narrow ribbons of ice. There’s a crack on the right, but above the crack looms a bunch of microwave size boulders, waiting to continue their downward dance with gravity.

Looking down at my rack, which now consists of no pins, 6 nuts, and 4 cams, I realize that my efforts to lighten our packs for the hike in was probably too aggressive. I’d taken a lot of pieces off as I went from the US to Kathmandu to Lukla to Tangnag. Now I was going to pay the price. Not only did we still have 4 or so pitches to climb to the ridge, we didn’t have enough gear to safely climb this obstacle, or others we might encounter higher in the gully. We wouldn’t even have enough gear for anchors to get down.

At that point it was obvious that the only direction for us was down, so I set the rap anchor up to rappel and with one last look up started down.

Climbing in general, but certainly in the greater ranges of the world, requires a lot of things to come together to be successful. Weather, health, route, right gear, partners - all have to align to reach the summit and get back down safely.

Am I bummed that we didn’t reach the summit of Kusum Kanguru? You bet. But was it a grand and memorable adventure with my wife? Absolutely. Will we be back? Hmm, never say never....

Headed home from high camp. Will we be back? Who knows…

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The Risks We Take

July 14, 2019

“I’m not going to go.” My stomach flip flopped as Paul finished his sentence. “The last couple days helped me decide. I’m going to stay here.” Paul had just gotten down from multiple days and nights on El Capitan, and he was telling me that he had decided to nuke his plans to go on a climbing expedition in Pakistan in the summer. It was a gorgeous May morning in Yosemite. Our friend Jess Roskelley had died in an avalanche on Howse Peak less than a month ago.

Paul and I in El Cap meadow after a (for Paul) sleep deprived night on the Captain.

Us not climbing, or running, but blissful.

Fast-forward to July 11. Paul and I both have tears in our eyes as we embrace tightly at the airport in Denver. The luggage cart next to us is overloaded with two oversized duffel bags and smaller carry-on. “This is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done,” says Paul. He isn’t talking about the climbing he’ll be doing in Pakistan, but about leaving me for seven week. I pull him closer.

Life is a risk. You never end up regretting the things you do but the things you don’t do. Decisions should be based on love not on fear. So many platitudes to go around.

The real question is: how do you decide between pursuing a potentially risky trip to a place you’ve wanted to see for decades - the type of trip that is woven into the very fabric of your identity - on one hand and on the other hand having found bliss in low-commitment adventures and daily life with the partner you love? It’s a question that Paul and I debated a lot: each of us individually, consulting friends and in conversations with one another.

We found an answer: Paul is on his way to basecamp in Pakistan as I am writing this. To have an incredible alpine climbing adventure, I hope; even though deep down I know that a big part of his decision to go was so he could give me space to pursue my own big mountain running projects. The decision to go was anything but clear cut.

Doing hard things is character building. Suffering is privilege. Time apart makes time together that much more valuable. More platitudes.

We’re independent. We both charge hard, and we’ve spent longer chunks of time than this apart. Hell, I left Paul ten days after we got married to walk across the Colorado Plateau for a month all by myself. And yet… this feels different.

Maybe it’s because this time I’m the one who is staying ‘at home’ (though not really - I’m going to run the Ultra Gobi in China while Paul is in Pakistan… but I’m not leaving for a few more weeks). Or maybe it’s because Paul was on the fence on whether he really wanted to go or not, and the risks involved in remote alpine climbing are all too real.

Me on the Hayduke shortly after Paul and I got married

Paul on recent day of carefree alpine cragging in Chamonix

I do know one thing: as excited as I am for Paul to finally get to climb in the Karakoram, and for me to run far in amazing places… I am even more excited at the thought of Paul’s return to Colorado in late August. Happiness is only real when shared!

If you want to see where Paul is and/or exchange (free) messages with him via his Garmin GPS, you can use this link: https://www.clmbrlifr.com/gps.

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Waaah!

March 27, 2018

Sometimes, life is beautiful. Actually - scratch that. Most of the time life is beautiful! But sometimes it's just particularly perfect. For me, and for my better half, that particular kind of perfect is something we most often go to seek (and find) in the Utah desert. But little did I know that the 2018 desert season opener was going to have a special surprise in store.

Sun, sandstone and awesome car camping - happiness

A short six hour drive across the Rockies is all that separates Paul and me from what sometimes feels like our second home, the vast expanse and beautiful towers and cliffs and mesas of the desert that sprawl for miles - hundreds of miles, depending on which direction you're going - around Moab. We love the desert so much that we made the long drive on eleven different weekends last spring; not great for our carbon footprint (though at least Paul had a hybrid Toyota Prius for most of the season) but splendid for the soul and for adventure climbing, too.

It's no surprise then that, once I returned from my latest multi-month high altitude stint, the desert was #1 on Paul's and my weekend wish list. It took us a few weeks to make schedules work but one early Friday afternoon in March finally had us westbound on I-70, ready to cross over snowy Vail Pass in order to chase sunshine and warm rock in the Utah desert.

It was long dark by the time we reached camp on Friday evening, and we made quick work of setting up the tent and seeking warmth in our sleeping bags. Saturday morning rolled around in exactly the way that we had hoped for: sunny with pleasant temperatures, and not another soul in sight. Paul and I have a tradition for desert camping by now: start with coffee, add bacon and eggs and top it all off with camp mimosas. It's both decadent and dangerous, because by the time we're done feasting it's often a challenge to rally for the transition from comfortable camp chairs to steep trails and sorta-heavy packs.

Paul aka @clmbrlifr - always strong, always stoked for climbing <3

Well. This time wasn't much different, but the weather was splitter and so were the cracks. Long story short: we did rally and started the thirty minute approach to our familiar crag. A gentle trail gradually steepens into an unpleasant scree scramble which leads straight to a ten-foot vertical cliff band that is surmounted with the help of a fixed rope. Right above the fixed rope, the terrain flattens out onto a beautiful terrace before the final steep ascent up to the base of the crag. I was a minute or two ahead of Paul, who was carrying a quadruple rack (the joys of desert crack climbing), all the way to the top of the fixed rope where I waited briefly so we would finish up the approach together.

It seemed to me that Paul was having to work harder for the approach than he typically does, and I couldn't quite tell if I had simply gotten faster from my high altitude work or if Paul had slowed down from prioritizing bouldering over cardio exercise while I was gone. Once he caught up to me at the top of the fixed rope we started hiking across the flat terrace, me still in front; just a few steps later Paul veered off the trail towards the edge off the terrace and said "Hang on - I want to take a break. I need to take my pack off for a minute." I was confused; the crag was just another five minute climb up the hill. Why wasn't he continuing on? I was starting to worry; maybe Paul's fifty-seven years were finally starting to catch up with him... but could he really have lost all of his endurance over the course of those few short months that I was gone?

I followed Paul off the trail and to the edge of the terrace. The views were beautiful, yet I was preoccupied thinking about my boyfriend's condition as he proceeded to take his pack off to take a rest. What was going on? I too dropped my pack and turned around, looking at Paul quizzically. He was breathing hard. I put my hands on his chest and felt his rapid heartbeat. 'Oh boy' I thought to myself. 'Getting up here really isn't that strenuous. This is not good.' My face was close to Paul's, and he pulled me in for a kiss; a second later, he dropped to the floor. 'Ah crap, is he having a heart attack?!' was the immediate thought that entered my mind as he grabbed my hand. An instant later, I realized that he was kneeling and looking up at me with tears in his eyes. "Suz, you mean so much to me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want you to marry me." A beautiful, one-of-a-kind silver ring in the palm of his hand. "Will you marry me?"

And the rest is history. HELL YES!!

My super strong rope gun.  No, he was NOT having a heart attack when he took a knee ;) — My super strong rope gun. No, he was NOT having a heart attack when he took a knee ;)

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Longterm love-hate-love, or: Why I climb

October 4, 2016

Climbing and I have a special relationship. I am writing these words as I am sitting in Tonsai, the Thai sport climbing paradise, with sore fingers after a day of moderate toproping. I’ve been playing toprope hero for a few days and have yet to work up the courage to take the sharp end. If you’ve climbed with me before this may not come as much of a surprise, but if you know me from outside the climbing universe you are probably scratching your head. Me, the girl who quit her job to climb and run full-time, who’s been spending the better part of this past spring on big walls in Zion and Yosemite and in the Bugaboos - yes, that same girl can be a real candy ass on rock.

Jugging one of the many steep pitches on Tangerine Trip, El Cap.  Photo: Paul Gagner. — Jugging one of the many steep pitches on Tangerine Trip, El Cap. Photo: Paul Gagner.

Climbing humbles me. It takes me apart and builds me back up; all too often it does more of the former than the latter. I haven’t yet invested enough time and training to become a strong leader; with haphazard dedication I find my progress to be excruciatingly slow. I am often scared of falling; even though I know how to fall safely and have taken my fair share of falls, the thought of it can paralyze me or send me into a panic.

Then I don’t climb for a while and selective amnesia sets in: I forget about all those moderates that I’ve bailed from because I was afraid. Instead I remember the 5.10s that I have sent, and the Indian Creek warmups that I’ve been working on lead. I remember free soloing easy routes in the Flatirons and crazy exposed 4th class ridges in the Bugaboos. I think about the strong, courageous girl I want to be and rope up at a new sport crag eying the easiest warmup. Surely I can walk up a 5.8 with my eyes closed, right? Hey, I’ve rope-soloed Space Shot and done all sorts of other badass stuff. A little sport climb won’t faze me, will it?

High up in a sea of sandstone on Space Shot, my first bigwall rope solo; completing the route took me two attempts á three days, and included a massive fall on the crux pitch.  Photo: Travis Spaulding. — High up in a sea of sandstone on Space Shot, my first bigwall rope solo; completing the route took me two attempts á three days, and included a massive fall on the crux pitch. Photo: Travis Spaulding.

Enter the meltdown. Hanging at the second or third clip, my mind is spinning with scenarios of unsafe falls and reasons for why I might not stick the next few moves and excuses for why I shouldn’t go for it. More often than not the gap between who - or how strong and brave - I want to be and who I actually am is too large for me to reconcile; rather than focusing on the climbing in front of me, I allow self doubt to lead me down a rabbit hole and bail. More often than not, once I’m back on the ground the rabbit hole expands into a black hole. Why am I doing this? I am such a coward; I shouldn’t have bailed. I’m not sure I even enjoy climbing. Maybe I should sell my climbing shoes. More often than not, what was supposed to be a fun session at the crag turns into me being immensely frustrated and not in the mood to climb anything at all.

But I haven’t sold my climbing shoes; in fact I own five pairs. And I’m in Tonsai now — for at least a month if not longer. Not climbing is not an option for me.

I climb because I love the joy of moving over rock. I love the movement, I love the exposure, and in a twisted way I absolutely love that the rock forces me to be brutally honest with myself. Because climbing holds a mirror up to me and stubbornly refuses to let me get away with posturing; the rock doesn't care how well I think I *should* be able to climb, it simply shows me how well I really am climbing on any given day.

Simple movement over rock...  the ultimate joy of climbing. Shoes or no shoes, clothes or bathing suit. — Simple movement over rock... the ultimate joy of climbing. Shoes or no shoes, clothes or bathing suit.

There's a simple beauty to becoming a better climber. I believe that at its essence there are only two questions that matter, and I'm not talking about finger strength and technique or about better footwork and more mileage... unless you're an elite climber who is approaching the limits of human physiology in the 5.14+ range, I think what matters is something much more personal:

Am I willing and able to embrace falling? Do I have the guts, the grit to push all the way to failure, and is it safe for me to fall.
Will I get back up for another go after I have fallen? Am I willing and motivated to push towards that point of failure again and again and again until I've given my body and mind the chance to learn enough so that I can gradually turn failure into success.

Growth: to be okay with falling, and keep getting back up.  Climbing or slacklining or life - if we play it safe and stay away from the margins of our ability, we're not truly learning. Or are we? — Growth: to be okay with falling, and keep getting back up. Climbing or slacklining or life - if we play it safe and stay away from the margins of our ability, we're not truly learning. Or are we?

I firmly believe that if both of these questions are a "hell yes", then improving your technique and strength and endurance is mainly a matter of how much time you can spend climbing. Remember the meltdowns I was describing earlier? The situations where I have been the most frustrated with myself were always the ones when I would answer "no" to either one of the two questions above. I have never yet walked away from a hard climbing session where I got after it and took multiple falls thinking "wow that was a terrible day." I only get sucked into the black hole of frustration when I approach a climb with an expectation of what I *should* be able to do, don't deliver on the expectation and end up losing my joy and motivation to keep trying.

As the saying goes: happiness equals reality minus expectations. Replace expectations with humility and openness towards learning, and all a sudden frustration about not achieving a particular outcome gives way to excitement about the journey.

In the end it's not about sending this or that route, or any route. I know that there is no absolute level at which I will be content with my climbing. If I'm sending 5.10s today, redpointing a 5.11 tomorrow won't make me happy; if I'm starting to work on 5.12s (ha! hopefully in the not too distant future), sending my project won't be the journey's finish line. What brings me joy and makes me happy is not a tangible outcome, but the attitude that allows me to work towards getting stronger: it's having the confidence in myself to try something that I'm not sure I'll be able to pull off, and to be okay with the possibility of falling.

Week two in Tonsai, working a 5.10b - my boyfriend somehow managed to take butt shots AND catch my falls, of which there were a few :) #climbsafeClothes: adidas Outdoor. Photo: Paul Gagner. — Week two in Tonsai, working a 5.10b - my boyfriend somehow managed to take butt shots AND catch my falls, of which there were a few :) #climbsafe
Clothes: adidas Outdoor. Photo: Paul Gagner.

I want to be that strong, courageous woman who moves confidently on rock and uses sound judgment to push her own limits, a woman who continues to learn and grow every day. To become her, there’s only one thing to do: get back on the wall and climb. So that’s what I’ll do. Take the sharp end, fall, get up again, and keep climbing.

Let's go climbing! Waterproof pack: Hyperlite Mountain Gear.  Clothes: adidas Outdoor.  Photo: Paul Gagner. — Let's go climbing!
Waterproof pack: Hyperlite Mountain Gear. Clothes: adidas Outdoor. Photo: Paul Gagner.

Thinking about your own sport climbing trip to Thailand?

November through January is the best season meaning dry and reasonably "mild" temperatures, but it's also high season. Expect crowded crags, beaches, and bungalows; on the bright side, you won't have any trouble finding climbing partners if you're traveling solo, and fun nightlife is guaranteed. If you're not into crowds and would like to save money, consider traveling in the off-season where you can rent basic private bungalows for 200-400 baht (~$6 to $12) a night. Despite plenty of rain, many crags are steep enough to remain climbable during monsoon season.

The crags of Tonsai, Railay and Phranang beach are all within walking distance from one another. Tonsai has the highest concentration of climbers and cheap accommodation; Railay is closer to Phranang (best beach and a couple good crags), has more variety of restaurants, resorts, and comes with a nice beach as well as ATMs. Regardless of where you decide to stay, fly into Krabi or Phuket before taking a longtail boat or ferry to Tonsai / Railay.

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High adventure in the Bugaboos: an epic classic

August 28, 2016

"I’m telling you, it’s incredible. Warm sunny granite, splitter after splitter, up at 10000ft; no crowds. It’s absolutely incredible." Chris’ words echo through my mind as we’re scrambling along the summit ridge of South Howser Tower looking for the first rap station. There are two or three parties visible on the upper rappels ahead of us, a team of two from Calgary just free soloed past us. Another party of three is about to start the final ridge traverse a few hundred feet behind us. This is Chris’ and my second day on the route and we’re losing daylight; thunderheads are rolling in on the horizon.

Turns out the Bugaboos are a well-kept secret no more: after years of rave reports from the adventurous few who embarked on the long trek to the Bugs, the crowds have finally caught up. Compounded by a very short season, the campground, hut, and classic routes are now frequently at or beyond capacity for those elusive few summer weeks that offer the best chance of sunshine and mild temperatures.

Climbers at the rope-up ledge on the Northeast Ridge of Bugaboo Spire. It's a party!

That’s not to say that the Bugaboos are no longer a worthy objective - aside from the ‘no crowds’ part, everything you’ve ever heard about these granite spires still holds true: the setting is spectacular, the climbing wonderful, the location of Applebee campground exquisite, and the weather fickle. In the last two weeks, Chris and I had so much rain that we were already beginning to pack up - resigned to beating an early retreat - when an updated forecast finally promised two days of stable high pressure and blue skies.

So here we are. It’s the second day of the weather window, our second day on the Beckey-Chouinard; not only are we running out of daylight and good weather... we’re also just about out of calories and water. For the two weeks leading up to this climb, all Chris and I could do is talk about how excited we are to get on the route - after all, if you’re a trad climber the Beckey-Chouinard with its 2200ft of stellar granite needs no introduction. For the last two hours, all we’ve been talking about is how ready we are to be off this mountain. Alas, first there's work to be done: we are looking at 11 rappels, getting over the bergschrund, crossing the Vowell Glacier, descending the Snowpatch-Bugaboo Col, and then traversing the periphery of Crescent Glacier to reach Applebee Camp. I take another look at the clouds brewing in the distance, glance at the setting sun, and take off my pack to dig up my headlamp. It is going to be a long night.

When Chris and I started atop pitch eight this morning, we took our time - we slept in, ate breakfast, and waited for the sun to reach us before putting our climbing shoes back on. With twelve more pitches to the summit, we figured we'd easily be able to finish the route by mid-afternoon and have plenty of daylight for the descent. What we didn't take into account was how slowly we would be climbing at altitude and with heavy packs, or the fact that we were inevitably going to become entangled in the congo line of in-a-day parties catching up to us from below. Case in point: by the time I started out on the first lead of the day, we had already let two parties pass and another one climbed past us while I finished up the pitch. As Chris geared up to lead the crux a few pitches later, we were in the middle of a full blown traffic jam and marooned on the belay ledge for over two hours. Now the sun is setting on us, and we are still miles out from the safety of camp.

Chris leading out on one of the lower pitches of the Beckey-Chouinard, day 1

"Hey, over here - I found it!" Chris waves at me and is already starting to thread our rope through the first rap station. Almost simultaneously, a lone figure appears on the skyline about twenty feet above us and surveys the territory ahead. "You guys know how to get down?" he shouts in our direction as two more climbers appear on the ridge behind him. Chris and I have studied the beta for the descent; the other party has a second 70 meter rope that'll help us get across the bergschrund with a bigger margin of safety. We decide to team up even though we are fully aware that it'll be slow progress getting five people down eleven rappels.

By the time we drop down on the glacier it is well past midnight. The distant thunderclouds have moved in closer; flashes of lightning illuminate the sea of ice and imposing spires all around us. Electrical storms are one of my big fears in the mountains, and yet this night is beautiful - I take comfort in knowing that we are no longer high up on the exposed ridge, and also in the knowledge that there simply is no other option than to keep moving. Nothing to be done than to put one foot in front of the other, to cross the Vowell Glacier until we find the steep col between Bugaboo and Snowpatch Spire, to descend it safely one last time, and then to stubbornly not give in to the desire to sit down until we've dragged our beaten bodies all the way to camp, to safety.

Looking at Snowpatch Spire from Applebee Camp, climbers descending the col by headlamp.

I know what it means to be exhausted. Big walls, 100 Mile ultra marathons, an Ironman - I've put myself through the paces of big days. Now as I take the last steps up to our campsite, 46 hours after starting out, I welcome the familiar feeling of euphoria and gratitude that floods my veins. A new day is starting to break in the east, and I am finally sinking into the warmth of my sleeping bag.

Thinking about your own trip to the Bugaboos? July and August are the best months.
Camp at Applebee - $10 per person per night, first come first serve, water and vault toilets.
The BC Parks website has lots of useful resources, including a map of the park here.
Heads up: The guidebook by Chris Atkinson and Marc Piche is currently out of print
(as of summer 2016). Borrow it or do your research online ahead of time!

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When things don't go as planned...

July 15, 2016

Inspired by a weekend of hard aid with Paul Gagner and Jeremy Aslaksen, I went to work on my first big rope solo project: Space Shot 5.7 C2 IV. Day #2 was supposed to end at Earth Orbit Ledge, just a pitch shy of the top - but then there was the crux pitch and a whipper...

Dwarf Tosses and Caked Mud Fireworks

May 10, 2016

I love being on the road. What I love most about it is that #vanlife means I am not keeping a schedule; I have the capacity for spontaneity, and it’s this spontaneity that turns serendipitous encounters into open-ended adventures. Case in point: a Facebook message from Paul Gagner on a random Thursday in April, inviting me to come climbing (and by that I really mean hump loads and shoot the breeze) with him and his climbing partner Jeremy in the Mystery Towers the following weekend. Here’s the fun part: I don’t know Paul. Well, I do, I ran into him once while soloing the Flatirons in Boulder, and I’ve seen him pop up on my Facebook timeline a few times since. But I really have no idea who he is other than that he likes to put up ridiculously hard, bold aid lines. So of course when he suggests that I come hang out in the Mystery Towers while he and Jeremy scope a new route, I don’t think twice. The instructions are simple: “Bring beer and a big pack.”

In the days leading up to the outing I read up on the Mystery Towers a bit more. The laconic final paragraph of the area’s Mountain Project description maybe should have warned me: Expect mud or dry mud, advanced and innovative aid, including but not limited to: bat hooks, ring angle claws, beaks and peckers, fishhooks, bugaboos, warthogs, ice axe tosses, dwarf tosses, and general lassoing skills. Enjoy! I chuckle as I read through the beta and think to myself those timeless, famous last words: “How bad can it be…”

A few days later I am sitting on one of Eddie the Van's rails at the Fisher Towers Parking lot, a PBR cracked open, monitoring the approaching cloud of dust that marks Paul’s arrival. The campground is full, the weather forecast looks dismal, Jeremy won’t be showing up for at least another 24 hours, and Paul announces that the objective he wants to go after is a formation called Gothic Nightmare; he thinks that there’s new route potential there. For reference, the Mountain Project description of Gothic Nightmare reads …from the south it looks like a long haired hippie who stuck their finger in a light socket and from the west it looks like a bad, bad tower.

Gothic Nightmare, with Paul and Jeremy nearing the top of pitch 1.

Turns out that not only the climbing is dicey; the approach is a bit on the tricky side as well, particularly if you decide to ignore the obvious trail and instead scramble up the decomposing, steep and exposed flanks of the wash that leads into the Mysteries; or if you stubbornly complete a - beer - supply run through flash flood territory in the middle of a rather substantial downpour (thankfully both beer and porter completed the journey mostly unharmed).

In the end, the weekend comes together as a grand adventure with lots of laughter, improbable placements and new friendships - as well as wonderful inspiration for my own aid and big wall ambitions. Lessons learned:

Caked mud is an actual thing. It can be climbed.
You can never carry in enough beer. You might assume a supply of two thirty packs for 36hrs is enough for three people, but really - think again.
If you stash supplies because you keep returning to the same project over and over for a number of months, your cache may get looted in-sesason. If you stash supplies and forget about them, they’ll likely still be there seven (!!) years later… nice work, Jeremy.
Fireworks are essential equipment any time you’re sleeping on the wall.
You may think ice axe tosses are a joke; they’re not. If you don’t believe me, get your hands on a copy of Eric Bjornstad’s Desert Rock III and take a look at the beta for Wondermonger VI 5.9R A3 on Atlas. The jury is still out on dwarf tosses.
Don’t trust any Paul Gagner route that’s said to go at A1+ 5.9+.
Bounce-testing is so last year. Just ease onto it.

No rock was harmed in the making of this climb, as Paul and Jeremy didn’t like thediscontinuity of features on their potential new lines and instead decided to repeat a 650ft A4 route called Nightmare on Onion Creek. As for myself… I went from the Mysteries straight to Zion to try my hands at a bit of ultra-classic C2 5.7 big wall soloing, decided that bounce-testing was overrated, and promptly went for a massive ride a few hundred feet off the deck that sent me back to Moab with my tail between my legs to rest up for another go at the route. Aid climbers sure know how to have fun!

Sunny's Story

March 25, 2016

Hi! I’m Sunny. I am 30 years old; I am a climber, mountaineer and ultra runner, and I live on the road full-time in search of sunshine and adventure.

All that is true, but it’s not really my story. Up until the end of 2015, I wasn’t Sunny; my colleagues and friends knew me as Suzanne (or Suz if we were close). I was living and working in Houston, Texas, right in the middle of the take-off of a high-octane strategy consulting career. I have an MBA from a terribly prestigious school; until a few months ago I used to crush it on all the “right” dimensions: acing those tests, landing that job, working my way up the ladder. Now my home is ~150cft of space on wheels, stuffed to the brim with sandy, muddy gear; I am constantly thinking twice before I spend $5 on a Starbucks coffee or even $1.50 on a truckstop cup of joe - and then usually end up deciding against it. How did all of this happen?

In a way it all goes back to when I was 12 years old and my parents took me to theGrand Canyon for the first time - but that’s going back way too far. Let’s start in my early twenties instead: they consisted mostly of work, bar nights and being a couch potato. A dear friend and mentor encouraged me to take time off to go traveling before grad school, so I did; with a budget of $5k I covered ten countries in five months. Coming back from the trip my appetite for adventure had been awakened. I was still mostly a couch potato but learned to climb at the local rock gym during my first semester in business school and quickly fell in love with it. Mountaineering and ultra running were the result of another extended backpacking trip right after graduation - my first ultra trail was essentially ‘off the couch’ (not something I would recommend), and I somehow even managed to like it enough to come back for more afterwards.

Fast forward to the last four years - I was working long hours based out of Houston, and gradually came to realize that my true passion has very little to do with business and a lot with being outside, pushing myself and exploring. On many Fridays and Mondays you’d find me at the airport in shift dress and high heels, still feverishly typing on my laptop, trad rack and climbing shoes slung over my shoulder; I occasionally pulled up to the Red Rocks campground in business attire with a consultant carry-on spilling out of the car - you get the idea. In 2015 I came to the realization that the main reason for why I needed a big paycheck was that I lived in a big apartment in a big city that I didn’t appreciate, and spent lots of money on plane tickets and rental cars to get into the mountains for rushed getaways: once I was out there, I wasn’t spending very much. I also knew that I would be in a position to pay off my remaining student loans by December 2015, and with that my path was as clear as a yellow brick road - or rather a red dirt trail: save up as much as I could, dare to quit the promising job, downsize, get rid of the expensive apartment, buy a dirtbag mobile, and instead of spending lots of money on plane tickets to quickly get to the places that I cherish… just never leave them.

That’s where I am today, it’s who I am. The big question is what’s up next and for now, the answer is simple: the open road, until it stops being fun or my money runs out. Judging by my first couple months of vanlife I have a feeling that it’ll be the latter!

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