Like, Totally Cosmic…

OK – it really wasn’t my fault this time. The guidebook for Castle Crags said the approach was 1 1⁄2 hours for the 5.6 6-pitch climb of Cosmic Wall. Plus one of my beta sources remembered it being just a few hours (3? - 4?) to zip through those pitches. Then a double rap down and a quick scurry back to the base of the climb to pick up gear and leave. I mean - I was trying to decide what we should do with the rest of our day!

	Mt. Hubris by Laurie Long

In addition to which, it was late June in Northern California: gorgeous weather, blue skies, not too hot because we were in the mountains near Mt. Shasta. The guidebook also said not to worry about getting too hot at Castle Crags because there was nearly always a “thermal” wind to cool off the worst of the heat.

So Paul and I got up early and were heading up the trail at the virtuous hour of 7:00 am. The trail was easy and well maintained, which was nice considering how much gear and water we were carrying. The trail began to climb and we were glad we had started early. As we rounded the shoulder of a hillside, a sudden break in the trees gave us a view of our goal, Mt. Hubris.

Wow…we were going to climb that?

It looked very large, very vertical, and still very far away. Like overburdened yaks, Paul and I plodded our way through increasingly steep and winding trails. At least there was a good stiff breeze to keep us cool. We passed all the “closer” climbs along the way and headed for the ridge above us. Finally, the trail reached the ridge top and ended, topped out some 2,200 feet above the trailhead. The breeze had become one hell of a wind, bending the scattered pine trees and blasting us with its chilly breath. The ridge provided an excellent view towards our goal – the base of Mt. Hubris – now tantalizingly close. All we had to do was cross through a forest of manzanita bushes that completely blocked the way. Riiiiiiight.

The guidebook helpfully suggested to stay on the ridge, but did not elaborate any further. There looked to be half a dozen little deer trails disappearing into the manzanita, so we chose the largest and plunged into the scrub. The “trail” quickly devolved to the point where we weren’t even sure it was still there. Manzanita claws raked at our clothes, packs and faces as we beat our way through. The fierce wind kicked dust and leaves in our faces. Eventually we stumbled onto a larger “trail” and scrabbled up and down its twisty turns until we slithered to a stop at the base of Cosmic Wall.

There were already two climbers starting in on the second pitch of our climb. They must have arrived a good hour ahead of us. (O.K. – what did they know that we didn’t?) An uncomfortable “uh oh” sensation was forming in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe those were hunger pangs. It had taken us 2 1⁄2 hours to bumble our way to the base of the climb and we were starving. We went easy on the food, though, because we had not brought a lunch – just a large quantity of climbing snacks. Fortunately, the ferocious wind had disappeared as soon as we rounded the corner of the mountain. We slowly assembled our gear and then Paul led the first pitch. We weren’t sure from the guide description whether we should be looking for anchors or making our own. As Paul slowly disappeared over the horizon, I let out more and more of our 60-meter rope. Finally I radioed Paul that he had 25 feet of rope left. “Found anything yet?” I queried. I received a grunt and some static as a reply. Five minutes later I radioed that he only had 10 feet of rope remaining. “Paul – stop where you are and throw an anchor together. You are out of rope!” I heard some more static from the radio that sounded suspiciously like “Nag, nag”.

When you are on the belaying end of the rope, time often drags incredibly slowly. Finally Paul radioed that the anchor was set up and belay was on. As I gathered food, water, etc. to stuff in the small backpack I asked Paul whether he wanted me to bring up his fleece jacket. “No,” he replied, “I don’t think I’ll need it.” “You sure?” “Yeah – I’m fine.” “Okay, then – climbing”.

I scurried up the route as quickly as possible, halting only to remove the protection Paul had placed. It seemed pretty sparse and some placements were downright creative in their efforts to utilize what few opportunities existed. Once I reached Paul I got to hear how he had ranged all over in search of possible fixed anchors, and then for natural anchor sites. I gathered up the gear and led out as quickly as possible. It didn’t take long to understand Paul’s dilemma with gear placement. In fact, I was so focused on climbing and finding slots to take cams that I nearly climbed right on by the second belay station, which consisted of fixed anchors set on a large block to one side of the route. It was a bit tricky to get to, actually. You had to stretch, and stretch and then lunge to make it onto the block (not my most graceful hour). Once there I set up and reeled Paul in, handing him the gear sling for the next lead. But the first ten feet of the next pitch were distinctly lacking in good hand or foot holds (or even bad hand or foot holds) and, after trying a number of variations to get past it, Paul climbed back down and traded places with me. In our climbing relationship I do the tricky stuff, and he does the scary stuff. It works for us.

I climbed on past the bad section without seeing anywhere to place protection. I searched fruitlessly every couple of feet, and finally just gave up and kept going, uncomfortably aware of the long, unprotected drop behind me. My busy little brain was running through a continuous stream of potential fall calculations until I forced it to shut up. I finally found a horn of rock to sling some 30 feet up (potential fall approx. 65 feet), which I clipped into with a little sigh of relief. I was noticing something else now as well. Our route was curling back around the mountain to the east, and the wind we had left behind was beginning to find us again. I dug my windbreaker out at the next belay, which gave me four thin layers on top. Paul had only his hiking shirt and pants and was starting to look slightly blue. He was able to warm up by leading the next section, but – stuck belaying in the wind’s path – I was freezing. I was hopping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean before Paul gave the go-ahead to climb. Now it was my turn to warm up a bit and Paul’s turn to freeze. But as he handed off the gear, I realized that my entire body was still shivering.

It’s tough to lead when your fingers are too cold to grip and your body is shaking you right off your holds. Plus, this was one of the hardest pitches. My first foray up the left hand crack ended some 20 feet off the ledge. It looked evil from every perspective, so I downclimbed and headed over to the right hand crack. That one went much better, but the higher I climbed, the more exposed I became to the hellacious “thermal” wind. When I think ‘thermal’, I think ‘warm’ - but there was nothing remotely warm about this wind. I finally found myself a small belay spot just below the notch in the summit ridge and used the roots of a tiny dwarf alpine tree and an old, rusty bolt as anchors. Everything else just broke off in my hand. It looked like one good wiggle would bring half the surrounding rock down on my head. Paul kept radioing every other minute to see if I was ready. He informed me that his various appendages were freezing solid. Nag, nag. I brought him up as quickly as possible, (as much for my sake as for his), and handed him the rack as he drew near.

“ Here – take this and just keep going. Try the ridge. Don’t stop!” I howled over the scream of the wind.

Paul scrambled over me and headed up. I had hoped that the top might be the highest visible part of the ridge some 25 feet above us, but as I fed him more and more rope, I realized that wasn’t the case. I tried to curl up in a ball and draped the rope over my legs to keep the wind from swooping up my pants. I wriggled and squiggled and ducked (oh, my) without success. Then I noticed a dark slot to the side of my belay. It was narrow, but fairly deep, and I thought if I could wedge myself in there I might escape the worst of the wind. I crab crawled over, watching the rope carefully as I went. The slot was nearly vertical, but I managed to reverse my butt into the space. I wriggled and pushed, trying to get deeper, regretting the apple pies and the chocolate chip cookies. Finally, I realized I couldn’t get far enough in to get out of the wind and tried to pull out. Nothing. I tried again. Nope. I failed my arms and legs over the void below. Nada. I was stuck like a cork in a bottle. Thank God Paul and his camera weren’t here. He’d just love this.

Eventually I managed to force my way out of the slot (don’t ask), and was more than ready to go once Paul radioed that he was on the summit. I crawled quickly up to the ridge crest. As I followed the rope over the top of the ridge, the bottom of my stomach dropped out. The ridge was as sharp as a knife and sliced straight down a couple thousand feet on both sides. A jet stream wind shrieked through the broken teeth of flaking stone. I can usually deal with my old height phobia in most climbing situations - but not this one. With a yelp, I wrapped myself around the nearest jagged horn. How the hell had Paul led this horrible thing? After a couple of minutes I realized I would have to keep going. I crept along, focusing on the rope and chanting my mantra “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down”. That ridge ran on for approximately 20 miles (O.K. – maybe 120 feet). It felt like forever.

When I finally reached Paul on his tiny summit aerie, I leapt with a cry of relief onto his leg, wrapping myself around it and doing my best to cut off his circulation. “Uh - Dear,” he said, “are you going to anchor in?” “Right,” I replied, handing him the end of my personal anchor to clip to the bolts. “Um, Dear,” he coughed, “Could you untie from the rope so that I can set up the rappel?” “O.K.,” I muttered, trying to untie without letting go of his leg. The wind swooped and blasted over our tenuous position. The only escape from it I could get was to burrow closer to Paul. In the meantime, he had set up our rappel and was getting ready to launch. “Dear?” he inquired, “I’m going to need that leg back.” “But I’m cold,” I whined. He didn’t bother to state the obvious – he had been there far longer than I, with three layers less on top. I reluctantly let go of the leg and watched him rap over the far side of the peak. Waiting for him, I took a quick look at the stunning 360 degree view spread out all around and below. Fabulous. Gorgeous. Mt. Shasta was incredible. The Castle Crags were wonderful. Was it time to go yet?

It took us more than two hours to get down, and it was starting to get dark by the time we spotted our car (the last one left at the trailhead). Paul checked his watch. It was 9:00 pm - 14 hours after we had started on our little adventure. As we lit up the dark forest with our headlights and headed out, I said cheerfully, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, now was it? After all – it’s only a 5.6…”