Big Wall Climbing: How lucky am I?

Or, Big Wall Climbing: What am I doing with my life?

I don’t know that a blog about climbing is the place to address this, but it’s what I’m writing about now. I worry that my social media posts paint an overly rosy picture of my life. I don’t have pictures to show how often I ride the struggle bus, but I’m a frequent passenger. So how do I write a blog about how grateful I am to have climbed in Zion without bragging? Big wall climbing in Zion was amazing, but it was also stressful and hard work. Things aren’t good all the time, but when they’re good they’re really, really good. Does that fly?

Brent and I have been climbing together since 2010 and in that time we’ve visited some amazing places. I haven’t been dealing with anxiety well in the last two years and it has negatively impacted climbing in particular. It’s gotten to the point that I feel like a real turd any time I post a smiling climbing picture because it doesn’t even hint at the flip side: that I have cried on a lot of rocks. So know that, as I proceed with a glowing review of our weekend in Zion, climbing is a real mixed bag and things aren’t all adventure all the time.

From our very first tower trip - screaming and flailing up the Penguins. Technique has improved since then, fear has not subsided.

Big walls. They’re very tall (>1,000 feet) and technical, requiring specialized climbing gear and more than one day to climb. Think of the towering cliffs of Zion National Park, where this adventure occurred, or Yosemite National Park (it’s no coincidence so many big walls are in national parks, they are spectacular and inspired the first conservationists). We have climbed some tall stuff and some stuff in national parks, but acquiring the skills and gear to scale a big wall has taken years. 

Brent under Disco Inferno, not dying under the weight of the haul bag

That's a stuck haul bag

We’ve practiced these skills for the last year and my fate was sealed when Brent purchased a port-a-ledge this summer. Having no escape to the ground after several hours of climbing made me worry I’d implode from the stress, but who in their right mind would turn down the chance to sleep on a cliff in Zion? I did not sleep well in the week before our trip, and then I cried as we left my apartment complex and as we hiked to the cliff and as we racked up on Day 2 and when I was climbing…  But between the tears, truly wonderful things happened.

Can you believe this sunrise?

We climbed the Disco Inferno route (5.8, C2, Grade V) on the Desert Shield. It’s approximately 1,000 feet of climbing, broken into 8 sections (called pitches). Our plan was to climb at least three pitches the first day so we could spend the night on a part of the cliff with a natural ledge. Then we would climb as far as we could the second day before rappelling down and heading back to work. My Type-A personality has struggled to adapt to the fact that success is not guaranteed in the mountains. Plenty could disrupt a successful ascent, from weather to health. I figured we could easily get eight pitches in two days because we often get in 4-5 per day and once we climbed seven. But time passes differently when you’re aid climbing and we got four pitches in.

Getting our gear to the base of Disco Inferno was a challenge in itself. The Zion Shuttle Bus driver was kind enough to drop us off right where we needed to go, but the haul bag was packed to a crushing weight and the steep trail to the cliff was a little treacherous with the extra wobble our loaded packs gave us. Once we were climbing most of the route-finding was simple enough: follow the biggest, straightest crack. However, the route had some odd pendulum swings (just like it sounds), unexpected traverses (sideways climbing that is scary), and a brutal chimney to squeeze through. Anywhere we climbed we also had to get the haul bag up, which meant I got to karate kick the bag out of the chimney, a satisfying way to let some aggression out. It’s difficult to express in words the brutality of chimney climbing. Instead of pulling and stepping on rocks with your hands and feet like most climbing, or wedging your hands and feet in cracks like crack climbing, in chimneys you push out against the rocks with your feet, knees, butt, back, shoulders, elbows and helmet. Chimney climbing draws blood and leaves bruises. The skinnier the chimney (and this one got pretty skinny) the more body contact is required to climb it. Plus I kept running into that haul bag.

The beginning of a truly 'sustained chimney'

The climbing was physically difficult, but also reasonably fun. In between puzzling, it was easy to remember we were doing this because it’s fun. We were climbing on the Autumn Equinox and the fall light in the canyon was stunning. I watched a buck stroll down the Virgin River and a heron fishing. We had a great view of Angel’s Landing where I could watch hikers summit through the day and families bike down the canyon.

Seriously, this was our view for two days. It's awesome

We made the bivy ledge just in time to set up for dinner and sleep. Being leashed to a rope all night long took some getting used to, but I’m so happy previous climbers had set up all the ropes and bolts for us to move around on. We brought enough water and food to keep us happy and comfortable, but regret not bringing some hot dogs because someone hauled a grill and charcoal up there and we really should have used it. Eating dinner at dusk with our view of the canyon made me realize just how lucky I was that we had the opportunity to climb in a national park and the skill to make it happen. 

Not to get too mushy, but I'm pretty smitten

Sleeping on a port-a-ledge was not as stressful as I expected. The ledge was big enough for the both of us and stable. I woke up when the remarkably bright full moon came out, but otherwise slept pretty well. Peeing was the biggest complication of our overnight stay. I had to stay in my harness the whole time (thankfully there are buckles to disconnect the leg loops from the waist band), and pulling up the harness while pulling down my pants, a move that had to be made as I dangled my butt as far off the rock as possible, required exceptional coordination. It would have been easy to pee in the protected area we were camping and cooking in, but it would have also been wrong. Peeing in cracks and ledges on rock climbing routes makes them reek of urine and the stench would have remained after we left. So I got to lean, bare butt, off the cliff, where the rain would wash away my pee, hoping to complete my work before a shuttle bus rounded the bend.

Port-a-ledge is all packed up, bivy is much less inviting

Racking up on our second day was unexpectedly stressful and teary. We had put the ledge away and after a spending all night making sure everything was secure, I was scared about dropping a critical piece of gear off the cliff (I’m still having waking dreams about securing all my stuff with carabiners) and scared about everything else. My tears dried once I had belaying to focus on and with the tour buses stopping below to point us out, I could again appreciate just how cool it was. Climbing had lost some of its shiny, coolness. I’m not an adrenaline junky, but climbing is exhilarating in other ways. Getting to the top of a big route under your power is great and the views also tend to be rewarding. Since climbing has become so stressful for me, the moments of victory are broken up by long periods of anxiety about what could go wrong and insecurity about my skills. Lately it has felt like I couldn’t do anything cool and I seriously questioned why we climb. But those busloads of tourists stopping (and one cheering) were so great. Climbing is really cool and not everyone gets to do it and that’s both a reason to do it and cause to be grateful.

Ready to head down

I didn’t find true Zen though. A couple hours later, when I followed up the fourth pitch I cried my most ferocious tears. It’s possible I was just hot, dehydrated, and hungry, I was definitely furious. I couldn’t get the gear that Brent had used out of the crack in the rock and that was my only job. One piece of stuck gear is expected, but I left five pieces. Brent was trying to give me tips to free the gear and I yelled, “You’re wrong!” Not my best moment. By the time I was within speaking distance I was cursing and crying. A lot. Brent tried soothing me by telling me he wasn’t angry about leaving gear behind, and in true bonking fashion I said, “But I’M angry!” (It will be added after “Everything is terrible!” to my list of unhelpful, childish things to say while climbing.) Of course Brent was able to free four of the five pieces. Thankfully he waited until our drive home to suggest we practice freeing tricky gear before the next trip.

You can't see the tears, but they're there. It's clear, though, that I have trouble keeping my helmet on straight. Picture by Brent

Rappelling down is my least favorite part of climbing. It’s a simple process, but when you’re tired or going long distances there are several places where things could go wrong and small missteps can be fatal. I’ve adapted to this by triple-checking everything and telling my partners, “I love you, be safe” every time they rap. On this trip down one of the stopper knots got stuck in a crack, the rope almost didn’t come down because a knot got stuck on a ledge, I had trouble tying the rope off so I could fix the stuck knot, and I ended up with dozens of spines in my hand from pulling the rope through a cactus. But we got down safely and another kind shuttle bus driver picked us up from the middle of the road.

That time we woke up on Disco Inferno

And now I have the memory of having my morning coffee 400 feet above the canyon at sunrise and that’s enough to convince me we might do something like this again next year. 

Morning view. Picture by Brent.