"leave at six"
it was both a question and a statement.
"Six?! how about 7"
"fine"
it was the following morning, peter and I both arrived at the east side entrance simultaneously. it felt like the beginning of a heist movie, think oceans 11, the crew was assembled, the plan laid out, only thing left to do was execute.
Off to The Hand, we carried 6 quickdraws, lots of water, and the smell of fear. We had attempted the approach last year and failed miserably.
we raced up the trail dogging questions and people alike "are you climbing?" "don't you get scared?" "how do you get the rope up there?" "have you seen free solo?" we cursed the 40hr work week and trudged on. If only we could climb here on weekdays
Up to the reservoir, past the boyscouts throwing rocks over our heads into the water, past the carabiner sign that differentiated us from the crowd and into the head high brush with the pretty white flowers and the bees buzzing by our ears. winding through the brush we eventually stumbled into the dry creek that marked our high point from last year. we stopped and sipped our water.
consulting the guidebook proved useless, (sorry Brad) and we resorted to mountain project for guidance. after following a faint trail that we failed to noticed the year before, we found ourselves on another well traveled trail known to mountain project as the 'road cut' we giggled and joked about the "road cut" until our objective came into view. the imposing 150ft face looked down on us like the insignificant apes we were, practically daring us to step closer. we looked nervously at each other, neither of us spoke but it was clearer than ever; this thing was no joke.
"this thing went up in '47?"
I looked back at peter and shrugged "apparently"
we groaned, and skirted our way up the wash to the base of the thumb.
after negotiating the approach slab, we stepped into the narrow corridor that separates the formations. we both gazed out and left to the first bolt.
"fuck"
"yep"
"first pitch of the day is always the hardest, isn't there a 5.4 up the corridor?"
we thruched our way further up the corridor, too stubborn to take our bags off we struggled to make progress. eventually we spotted a bolt on our right, one of two on the route. without searching for the other i quickly put my harness and shoes on, tied in and set off up the easy cobble scramble. reaching the summit of the thumb in no time.
we cleaned the tat off of the anchor and rappelled back into the notch. without a word we packed our bags and made our way back towards the Salathe route.
I asked Peter if he wanted to lead the first pitch, not trying to hide the fear in my voice. he looked at me and said "I mean..."
reluctantly I offered to lead the first pitch, comforted only by the fact that he agreed to lead the second.
I glanced at the topo for the 30th time, hoping i had misread. I looked down at the 4 quickdraws i had on my harness. one for good luck i said to myself.
It was cold in the notch, and i was shaking from nerves, so i opted to keep my jacket on. bright red, i figured it would be easy to spot when the body recovery team came to scrape me off the ground.
I traversed out and clipped the first bolt. "OK I got you" peter said from around the corner. I grimaced
traversing further left I became increasingly aware of the space beneath me. I took a deep breath to calm myself, and looked out across the wash. reflecting on it now I'd tell you it was beautiful but in the moment i was properly puckered. i looked up and miraculously spotted the next bolt about 40 feet out and up.
after another long exhale i went for it, fully focused in on that bolt, not once did i stop to enjoy the view, or to chalk up, the wind whipped at my back, trying for my attention, but i did not falter.
By the time I reached the bolt I was perspiring from my hands just as much as my armpits. I could smell my fear, but in the moment i did not feel it. i was in my own world, bolt at my face trying to get chalk to stick to my fingers. calves burning, forearms beginning to feel the lactic acid built up by my shallow breath and over gripped fingers. relax I reminded myself.
leaving the sanctuary of my second bolt i told myself that at least i wouldn't crater into the earth, instead i would be subjected to the most severe pachinko machine in the known universe. I shuddered at the thought and focused in on my breathing.
somewhere between the second and third bolt i realized i was getting strangely close to the top. i wasn't complaining, but i thought it was a bit weird given that every description i had read described a belay on a load stone. 'Its gotta be up there' i told myself.
I clipped the third bolt. at this point i knew i was blowing it, but at least i had a bolt. climbing the last 30 feet as carefully as the first i stepped out onto the top of the route. I wanted to scream in elation, hoot and holler and give a monkey call, but i could not muster the energy. staggering back i found an anchor and clipped in. "safe" i said to myself. and then again louder for peter "safe!"
after bringing peter up we walked to the summit of the hand. on countless occasions we have hooted and hollered our way up routes, easy, hard, scary or safe, it didn't matter, but for some reason we remained speechless as we scurried up the slabs. maybe it was the exposure taking its tole, maybe it was for the birds, maybe it was because no one would hear us. we stayed quiet for a long time, scanning the 360 degree view of the park.
"we sure are lucky" peter said. I could only manage a nod
