Climacterical Climber's Column: "Felipe, I dropped my ATC!"

Last weekend I was climbing at Seneca Rocks with Felipe Trevizan. The weather was gorgeous: a cool, 41 degrees, blue skies, sunshine, leafs turning yellow. As we hiked up the East Face trail it became obvious that, owing to the low temperatures, everybody had decided to start the day on the East Face. Felipe and I had planned to get onto Conn's East, but three parties, with a total of 9 climbers, were ahead of us. 

We abandoned our original plan in favor of doing some exploring. I had always wanted to find one of the 5.5s that get you into the Gunsight Notch from the East Face. We scouted around, checked rock features against Tony Barnes’ guidebook, and convinced ourselves that we had located Eeyore's Tail. Off Felipe went to onsight it. 

This climb, however, quickly turned into somewhat of an epic. The guidebook mentions that you need large gear, and, thanks to a loaner piece from Toni Price that we had taken with us to do Thais Direct later in the day, we did rack two #4 cams. But what the book neglects to point out is that what you really need is truly humongous gear, like some Big Bros. Felipe got the offwidth done with nearly no pro, and a lot of soul searching and moxie. He anchored to a good-looking tree on a ledge, and decided to bring me up to deliberate further route finding. Seneca, you know…

This is when it happened. When I took Felipe off belay, I &@#^%#! dropped my ATC.

I was surprised followed by fuming mad on the inside, unbelieving of my clumsiness. But this was a beautiful day and I didn’t want to spoil it. “Not to worry,” I thought to myself, “this is the reason why I carry a backup ATC.” So, I made no fuss and joyfully seconded up the first pitch to meet Felipe.

It was not clear where pitch 2 was meant to be, although I thought that I could see the rap tree in the Gunsight through a hole in the flake behind our anchor tree. After first climbing up a 10-foot-long crack in that flake to look over it, then downclimbing it, abandoning that path in favor of an exposed traverse, and then peeking around the south end of the flake, Felipe announced that he could identify a possible path into the Gunsight. It would require him to build a gear anchor, me to traverse over to him, pass him and the anchor, tiptoe around the corner of the flake, then downclimb into the Gunsight. This day was rapidly turning into our day of “first descents.” But as Felipe pointed out, we do it all is our club motto after all.

We got all of that up-, around-, and down climbing done, and met up at the rap tree in the Gunsight Notch. Felipe abseiled first, and then it was my turn to descend over Debbie and Banana to resume the afternoon’s climbing on the now sunny West Face. I carefully and very deliberately took my backup belay device off my harness, thinking, “I won’t drop you!” I started to squeeze the two strands of rope, fumbled, and promptly let my backup ATC fall from my unbelieving hands.

It was later reported back to me at The Gendarme that climbers heard a seemingly very cheerful Regina shout, “Felipe, I dropped my ATC!”

Why was I so happy sounding in the face of that calamity? Well, I had just dropped not one, but two ATCs in one day. I’ll have you know that this is the first time that I have ever dropped any gear. When it happened I just couldn't believe that I did something this stupid. What other's thought of as my cheerful voice was actually my ding-dong-I-can't-believe-I-did-that voice of despair.

Dropping gear. What a disaster for a trad climber. But wait, that's not all. Lately, I have noticed how much more I am dropping things around the house! I throw my coat on a chair, it slides all the way down to the floor. I put my keys on the stand by the door, klunk, down they go to same floor. Reading glasses slipping off my nose, books slithering floorward off my lap, mail jumping out of my hands spilling in the entrance, clink-boing-splat, what else did I drop lately? Oh, an ATC or two?

Is there some well known “dropping disease” that begets the aging climber?

A google search on “dropping things” yields a surprising number of pages. Apparently, a great many people are troubled and feel klutzy because they are dropping things more and more often. A sufferer called Tom writes “I sometimes involuntarily drop things. This is beginning to happen more frequently.” And on another site, a woman shares, “I' m always dropping things. My neighbor recently had a baby. I hoped she was not going to ask me did I want to hold the baby. I was so relieved when she didn't, I was so afraid I might drop him.” Sadly, many of the “dropping things” threads point to diseases, such as Multiple Sclerosis, and Lou Gehrig's Disease, for which this is one symptom.

But “dropping things” is also an affliction of the aging. Elizabeth Bergner Hurlock's book on “Developmental Psychology” mentions awkwardness as one of the common changes in motor abilities in old age. Accordingly, old people become clumsy, which causes them to spill and drop things. Many studies have demonstrated that reaction time and motor speed slow progressively with advancing age. In the neuroscience literature, brain aging and functional declines are often considered synonymous.

Am I the only aging climber who suffers from dropping gear more frequently? I think not. Ack Kearns, owner of The Gendarme who looks to be around about my age, tried to console me by saying, “You climb long enough – you will eventually drop an ATC.” I mentioned my mishap in an email to Phil Hodge who was climbing at Seneca that same weekend and has over a decade on me. He wrote back, “Dropping your belay device is more like frozen fingers than getting older, even if it had warmed up by then; just on principle it can't be due to getting older!” There you have it.

If you wonder how I got down from the Gunsight without my ATC, and in keeping with the day’s theme of “first descents,” at Felipe’s suggestion I rappelled for the first time with the Munter hitch on my HMS carabiner backed up with an autoblock. Massey Teel, the Seneca Rocks Climbing School guide who had spread the story of my cheerful drop-loss at The Gendarme, later that evening showed me how to do a carabiner break, just in case I am experiencing a little clumsiness again. Realizing that the carabiner break requires five carabiners, it may just be beyond my menopausal mental and motor might.

Climb on! 

Regina

Climacterical Climber's Column: Age can be a powerful motivator.

Things have been progressing since “Climb with your readers.” South-western Pennsylvania had a fabulous ice season. I got out on about at dozen occasions; and I finally toproped a grade WI4 route which I’d been attempting for several years without resting on the rope. Progress indeed!

Ice is a hard medium. When really cold, it feels as hard as rock. And it is also very three dimensional in structure, more so than rock climbs. Ice climbing involves kicking forward with your feet with a good amount of force and momentum. This engages with the ice the front points of your crampons that are attached to your mountaineering boots.

In the process of kicking to plant my feet, I seem to infallibly and unavoidably hit my knees somewhere on the ice. Thus, after every day on the ice, I usually come home with both of my knees covered in deep blue bruises. Over the course of the week the bruises blossom into purple, green, than a putrid yellow. Yet when the next weekend comes around I do it all over again, and acquire bruises which cover the patchwork of the previous ones.

The weird thing this season was that the swelling and associated pain never went away. As a matter of fact, I feel it deep inside my knees, as though it has affected my very bones. In years past, pain and soreness have always peaked about 48 hours after a hard day’s climbing. This year, the pain has simply stayed, and stayed, and stayed, and is still with me now. I had heard many of my elder climbing friends complain about their knees hurting. They’ve also bitched about the long recovery times between climbing sessions. Is this what that is? Is it starting to happen to me now?

Easter came around, and, still hurting, I joined fellow ECP climbers for a trip to Stone Mountain in North Carolina.

One of my goals since last season has been to establish myself as a 5.6 trad leader. While this grade is so very easy that even a novice can usually climb it on a toprope, it is another story entirely to lead in this grade on gear. Stone Mountain features a three-pitch 5.5, “The Great Arch,” a line that is widely acknowledged as a classic. Dr. Bob, who was not able to join us, had indoctrinated me that I really needed to lead The Great Arch on this trip, it being well within the range of what I’m capable of leading, although it would be on a different kind of rock that I might first have to get accustomed to. He made it clear, however, that I should not come back from Stone without chalking up The Great Arch on lead. Pressure was definitely on.

The Great Arch is the C-shaped climb on the left. The climb on the right is No Alternative; there is a climber on the first pitch, dwarfed by the scale of Stone Mountain.

To make sure I wouldn’t back off by rational and irrational fears, both of which started to worm their way into my mind as soon as I tried to commit myself to leading this climb, I started to talk about my plan to lead The Great Arch in the climbing gym. Many climbers heard me, and offered advice. Now there would be no turning back for me for sure. Good. More peer pressure.

On the day we departed for North Carolina, I called my mom in Germany to let her know I’d be out of touch for a couple of days. My parents are getting to be of that age when health, mobility and independence are becoming a serious concern. Dad was in the hospital followed by a short-term care facility for a few weeks in February and March. Providing for him upon his return home has been a huge issue for my mom, my siblings, and I.

As if I wasn’t already worried enough, my mom asked me to be careful on my upcoming climbing trip. I felt very disturbed, since she had never voiced concerns about my climbing before. How had she gotten wind that I was afraid of leading The Great Arch?!

I felt guilty, and charged right ahead in my defense, by telling her that climbing was really much, much safer than bearing children (something she treasures and I have avoided), and indeed, safer also even than driving a car. She didn’t take the child-bearing bait, which is usually a good diversion because it gets us into having a familiar fight. But she firmly disagreed with me on the driving issue, and any statistic I might quote in this regard, proclaiming instead that climbing surely is more dangerous than driving a car in a country with such low speed limits as the US (Germany still has many stretches of highway with no speed limits). Our conversation worried me, and I was beginning to wonder if I was, indeed, behaving selfishly and irresponsibly. Just what I needed. Family pressure, too. Great.

The one problem with The Great Arch is that is doesn’t start from the ground up. One must first climb another pitch to the “tree ledge.” On Good Friday, Ron led “Entrance Crack,” and I seconded. Well, I tried. The climb, rated a mere 5.4, almost defeated me. I barely made it to the tree ledge. What was wrong with me? Was it the rock? Was it my head? Was I trying to find a way to let myself out of leading The Great Arch?

Well, after the experience on Entrance Crack, I was in no shape whatsoever to tackle The Great Arch. I canned the project for that day. I saw other people climb it; and I even toproped the first pitch. All the while the little voices in my head were having a ball. “You should do it.” “No, it’s too hard.” “It’s only a 5.5; you want to be a 5.6 leader?! Go do it already.” “It’s OK to have a future in topropeing low grades; don’t injure yourself and by all means, stay alive! You have responsibilities to your family.”

The dialogue went on and on. How could I possibly make a decision one way or another?

Easter Saturday came, and I looked at Stone Mountain with fresh eyes. I took stock. I reminded myself that I am 51. Yes, my body is hurting, and chances are, this is a new stage in my life when it always will. And my climbing will likely suffer as a result. But if I do not do this today, when, then, will I be returning to Stone Mountain to lead The Great Arch? Next year, during the ECP’s next Easter trip? Even if I’m fortunate enough to again be on the trip next year, I will then be 52. What are the chances that I will be stronger? Will I really do it then if I’m not doing it now?

I did lead The Great Arch, facing my fears, the biggest of which this Easter being the passage of time.

Such is age as a motivator. Whatever it is you want to do, do it now! Who knows where you’ll be tomorrow, or the next day, or even in a year’s time.

Climb on!

Regina.