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 A decent bolt amongst mank. Credit: Cuckawalla |
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Everyone says how crazy, stupid, and silly it is to climb out in the land of the Fishers during the winter. Yet I find it the best time. The best because there are not 15 parties trying to bag Ancient ART or four gumby parties trying their first aid climb on the King Fisher. You are left to echos of rock fall in the distance, and harmonious jingling of gear as you stare at the Jet trails, watching the two lines fluff and expand. And when all is quiet, when the leader pauses before he commits to some manky piece, just before you feed out more rope; as you zone out on the horizon you catch the brief moments of complete silence. Those are the moments I find myself smiling. Where it's all worth it.
Rewind to 7am on Friday. We are Floating. My car's headlights are lost in the fog and only twenty feet of yellow lines stretching forward guide us. I see Matt's hands tighten at his sides as I refuse to slow. Reveling in this gliding feeling. We are afloat in our bubble until the Cisco exit. The sun begins to burn and lift us. The Titan stands casually in the distance.
Sh#t strapped to us in any fashion we can, we hike slowly taking layers off as it warms up.
A bit of confusion for the Approach, but soon I am off on the first pitch. Matt swings in on the next pitch. I reach the anchors on the 3rd pitch a little shaken from some fear. I bite down and grind the sand in my teeth as we rap to the ground for the night. Matt Talks of the acrobatics of sparrows. The stars are so bright we only use our headlamps for the last bit. We stop frequently to bask.
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The next morning we make light work of the approach and Matt is first to jug up as he is bisected by sunlight.
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We organize and cast off further up the colon of the beast. We leave more skin and blood and take more dirt. We stack ropes and exchange smiles and at other times worried looks. We top out and the Haze, the brightness, the happiness makes everything's contrast explode and I feel like it's just Black And White.
We toss ropes down the Chimney and make our way closer to the ground, the sun leaving us.
On the ground we find 280 meters of old ropes, faded and half buried in dirt. We already have a lot of stuff but figure more can't hurt. Finally at the car we hear Jeremy at his campground, but have to rush home. In Cisco again, the trees are frosted and the eerie yellow lights cast their shadows on to frozen trains.
Matt Says he is done in the Fishers, but I know better. I will whisper in his ear some January weekday and his fingers will be raw from too much gym climbing. He may agree hesitantly, but the fishers always call.
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The Bags full or rope, and the Rope. (Dog is for Scale)
The Orange Rope was labeled 200M and the Blue was 80M. Some custom ropes.
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A decent bolt amongst mank. Credit: Cuckawalla |
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