Then we hiked back the way we came, staying close to the cliff face and I successfully led my first 5.10 on a route called Kentucky Pinstripe. After a few attempts I made it through the crux, Chris followed, and all was well.
Then shit hit the fan. I tried to lead Loosen Up, a 5.10b route a little further down. At least half the route was blanketed in the shade, and the memories of my last attempt flooded my mind. Back in March I was climbing with Scott. We had spent the four days climbing, my arms exhausted and blown out in the worst way, the cliff had just eaten through my climbing shoe, and I was a greenhorn in the way of leading. Yet, with the encouragement of my climbing partner, I attempted to climb Loosen Up, and I got as far as the second bolt before taking my first whipper. It was only maybe a three foot fall that I took, but I was already on edge because I was trying to climb with a toe sticking out of my right climbing shoe. I called it quites then, and down climbed, removing all of the draws as I went.
So I decided to tackle the route again, and I got as far as I did previously, took a hanging rest, and started up again. I worked my way through the sloper crux, resting along the way. I just clipped the last bolt before the anchors which were 5 feet above me on a 60 foot anchor. My arms are pumped, sore from gym-bouldering Monday night. All of this was running through my mind at rampant speed, and I was unable to stifle my nervously shaking body.
I started to climb. The sandstone felt soft and gripped my hands and shoes nicely, yet as I went higher, I became more aware of the run-out.
I got to the chains, and with a sweaty grip I grabbed one with my left hand. My breath was heavy, and I was afraid. Heart Racing. Stomach rolling. Then I realized I had to piss.
There I was sixty feet above the ground, fumbling to get a draw off of my belay loop and into the chain. My sweaty palm became more and more in the fore-front of my mind. I clipped the draw to the chain, and dropped my hand to the dog-bone webbing, hoping for a better grip. And it was. But as I went to clip in to the draw, pulling out an extra 3 feet of slack, I noticed that my palm was covering the gate of the ‘biner.
Fuck.
I let go of the rope, and tried to reposition my hand to make the gate unobstructed. I failed
“Take!” I yelled.
Then I dropped fifteen feet.
A yell? Maybe. A scream?
I don’t know.
All I remember is seeing my last draw just before I fell. And then I felt the rope stretch, and was hanging around in my harness.
“Let me down,” I told Deck.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Just let me down.”
I felt as thought I was about to vomit all over that crag. I’ve never felt a such a sense of nausea as that. The adrenaline that blew through my veins, the dizziness in my head was all I could take. The only redeeming factor in my mind was that I didn’t piss myself. On the ground I spent at least twenty minutes sitting, focusing on my breathing and nothing else. I tried to weigh the pros and cons of what just happened, but all I really came up with was cons.
Soon, deck tried his own hand at it got to exactly where I was, and likewise took the 15 foot whipper. On the ground we decided that we were going to just bail out. I climbed back up, replaced the last placed draw with a bail-biner and lowered off. As far as I know the draw clipped to the anchor is still there, as is the bail-biner.
We hiked out. In hindsight, I could have done some many things differently. But I dismissed such thoughts when I realized that I couldn’t go back in time. For future reference only. Am I really that far out of it? How could I let something so simple psyche me out? Yet, I am back on the horse, leading various 5.7s, .8s, and .9s.
Later that day we went searching for a guide for the Red River Gorge. Miguel’s was sold out because there was a new edition coming out. So we eventually found ourselves down the road at the Torrent-Falls Climbing Adventure. There we met James, a very friendly fellow who called Eureka and Kentucky Pinstripe “one of his.” His name was James. He didn’t have any guide for sale, unfortunately. But he offered his to look through. We already had a public guide at Miguel’s to look through, so it was unnecessary. We then got to chatting, the same old small talk. We told him where we were from, and so on. After hearing I told him I was going to hang around, maybe try to find a job, he directed me to the “beer trailer,” who was looking for evening workers. We left and went to the beer trailer to buy beer, and I inquired. The woman there took my name and number, and I walked out the door, thinking Deck right behind me.
I went back in and he was talking to the woman behind the counter, who, as it turns out, lived in Sandy Creek, NY. We got to chatting, and after a few minutes James reappeared. He offered for me to stay at a hostel he manages. He said that it’s owned by some photographer who flies in big name climbers to shoot them.
“If you’re ever wantin’ to get off the ground, just gimme a call,” he said. “You can find me workin at the climbin’ place up the road. You know where.”
I thanked him and we went on my merry, beer in hand. We got back to Miguel’s and started to drink. We chatted it up with Jon Musso, a climber out of Pueblo, CO. He told us about Dakota Sandstone found in only near his home town, describing the black sandstone with green lichen streaks. It sounded beautiful, and I’ll see if I can’t make my way out there.
Then I we hit the sack, for a good eight hours.
More to come. Tomorrow is a rest day, and I'll recap the last two days.
P.S. The above photo is Deck on his first lead on Eureka!
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