Sometimes You Know-Sometimes You Don’t
By Jim Sinclair
I knew it was the crux. It had taken two days to get here, in some ways much longer. I was 60 ft out from Chris, between us was a tied-off knife blade, a small part of it into the incipient crack. The rest of its length protruded out and down, but it would have to do. It was like walking down Granville Street with every neon sign selling the same message . . . “It won’t hold a fall.”
I tried to calculate it. I’d drop 25 ft if the pin held, and I could extract myself easily enough. But if it didn’t, I’d go 120 ft, probably hit the ledge 30 ft below Chris and at best be seriously hurt. Perhaps 15 minutes had gone by and I hadn’t moved; 19 years of rock climbing was working in my head—I just didn’t know if I could get over this last bit or not. There was no bolt kit, no crack—not even a cliff hanger helped. It was free it or go down. Going down was tricky but no major problem. But could we go up?
There seemed to be a micro-flake at knee level on the steep wall. Was that another six ft above it? Eyes inches from the rock, the hand caresses over it. Yes! A ripple perhaps 1/32nd of an inch ... but a ripple! Somewhere in the deepest being the pros and cons of justification are being weighed. “You’ve stood on as small things before,” the pros say. “I know, I know,” you tell your other self. “But this could lead nowhere. I wasn’t facing death then,or maybe I was. I don’t know. But that was then, this is now. World do I love life! Why do I come up here anyway? There stupid, up there, above the right hand.” The demon pros never let go. The judgement must be exact, precise, infinite. I stood on tip-toe feeling very secure on the ½-inch ledge I was standing on. Strange, when I’d first reached it, I was apprehensive about stepping onto it. Now, 20 minutes later, it felt like a ballroom floor. I was safe, if only I didn’t try to use the micro-flake. Yes! Yes! It was there—a little finger hold. I wouldn’t quite reach it from the ledge but it was there, inches above my reach. The years of climbing, worn out klettershue, discarded ropes and the voice of judgement convinced me it was there. But I couldn’t quite reach it.
This was no boulder problem, no jump off and try again game. It was the ability to move up and judgement of whether you can or not. You get one chance in the game. You judge right the first time or you don’t play again. The left foot went to the microflake and immediately skidded off. “How you doing up there man?” Chris secure on his ledge, two comfortable pitons for a station and basking in the sunshine. “It’s HAIRY buddy, I just don’t know about this.” No answer, then—“How’s that pin?” “The shits,” I call down ... no answer.
Again, for reasons unknown, the left foot creeps toward the micro-flake. Slowly ease my weight to it and even get a few pounds off the right foot before retreating back to the ballroom floor. It had held! Incredulously my left foot had I lit a smoke, trying to get the green taste out of my mouth and waiting for it to happen. What a beautiful thing a horrible thing like a cigarette was at a time like this. Far down in the valley a crow glided. Below him little toy cars weaved their way through the forest following a white line that never ended. The cigarette finished, with no conviction to do or die, but rather attracted as to a magnet, I again brushed off the little hold. The left foot went up, weight eased over just right, right hand reaching for the sky. I touched it, tips of fingers deep into its ripples. The right foot is 10 inches from the ballroom floor ... 15 inches! Don’t come off now left foot. Please don’t come off now. The neon signs are exploding in the head and you know, absolutely that the piton will not hold a fall. You’re committed, it’s only 15 inches to the ballroom floor but there was no getting back.
To the onlooker you suspend there, climbing to nothing, defying gravity to the extreme. Perhaps a suicidal maniac with a death wish, at best a misled youth surely to die. The tricouni set would call you an engineer, safe on your ladder of pitons and hardly climbing at all You reach a state of near total fusion with what you’re doing. Every fiber of the body is instinctively controlled to place the fingers a few inches higher to the hold that must be there. To breed your left foot with the microflake, to seduce it and so to be a part of it. No longer is anything done consciously. The years of training have taken over. The instincts are in control of your body, mind, nerves and soul. They creep your fingers upward even as you know you’re moving off, you’re on the brink. There is no time but the minute part of the second difference in which is first, the left foot coming off or the fingers touching the ripple above. There is no distance but the 15 inches back to the ballroom floor. There is no problem in life greater than the placing of a finger an inch higher. Then it’s there, the left hand goes out, a good hold, mantle up ... it’s over.
We were on easy terrain, moving fast to the top and I wondered. What if we’d climbed to the crux and retreated off? Did we climb to the crux or were we leading up to the climb? Did we do a two-day route? A 200 ft wall? Or did we do a one-hour climb, 15 inches high?