The Black Canyon is a lot of sacking up and throwing down. I already knew this, having been one time before in 2015, with my buddy Parker Kempf. We started climbing at sunrise and finished at sundown, topping out the Cruise, a 5.10+ variation of the Scenic Cruise. (5.10d). We couldn’t have chosen a better first route to do in the Black, and there was even an offwidth pitch that Parker let me lead. But the morning after, we were completely wrecked. After we made our summit, we trudged back to camp, too tired to even make dinner and instead, wolfed down cold Indian food packets and immediately went to sleep. After breakfast, we packed our things, honked a “goodbye!” to our neighbors, ready for some chill cragging in Eldo.
This year, I’d invited Chris Spratta out west. He has become one of my favorite partners over the last several years. We’ve cragged at the New and the Creek, and tackled bigger walls in Zion. Nobody knows how to sack up like Chris, and his try-hard attitude forces me to sack up, as well. By day three, I was pretty much ready to drive back to the Front Range for some of that “easier” Eldo climbing, but we stuck with our four-day plan to finish our trip with The Scenic Cruise.
Chris Kalous’ description of the Black was: “Bite off more than you can chew, wander through stepped, bushy ledges in the middle of the night, get off route and terrified, pull some holds off.”
I was feeling some internal pressure. Having just gotten my sea legs back, big multi-pitch climbing felt even more uncertain. In Linville Gorge the week prior, I moved slowly. I kept questioning where the route was leading, and while gear placements were plentiful, I found them to be tricky in the vertical cracks. While the horizontal cracks left me feeling somewhat reminiscent of the Gunks, I still faltered up the vertical face, hesitating before every move and every piece I placed. Evan laughed and told me that was the most hesitant he had ever seen me. Linville was the first time I’d climbed anything beyond single pitch since my accident, and I’d forgotten two important things: the gear is good and our bodies are made for movement.
Chris and I got to camp around 4:30 in the morning on a Friday. We were pretty dedicated to our 10:00 a.m. alpine starts, and on the first day, decided to take it easy since we were both running on little sleep. We descended the Cruise Gully and Chris led up the first pitch of Maiden Voyage (5.9-) and we cranked through several pitches in a matter of hours. The straightforward climbing was a good intro, and with plenty of daylight, we traversed the Checker Board ledge and finished up with King Me (5.10).
Three pitches later, we were back at camp, cracking open the first beer of the trip. After dinner, we started organizing gear and topos for the next day by headlamp. Cloaked Interpretation (5.10+) was my favorite climb of the trip. A thousand plus feet of pure, exhilarating climbing. We had a little trouble finding the start of the climb in the beginning, having hiked too far down the SOB Gully. We didn’t move quite as fast as Maiden Voyage/King Me, and I had taken note of when we started losing daylight the day before. “It’s fine if we have to do a little route-finding in the dark.” I thought to myself. Then we lost daylight, broke out the headlamps, and stood at the last belay of the climb. That’s when I remembered: I HATE CLIMBING IN THE DARK.
I stayed out of the offwidth as the guide had recommended, not really wanting to waste time inching up it in the dark. The leaning crack went much faster, even though I stumbled and fell on a nut trying to get back into it. The blocky section of the climb wasn’t as scary as I was anticipating, and I quickly floated through until I thought I had run out of rope. I stopped to belay Chris up, watching headlamps pop up on what Chris thought to be Astro Dog (5.11+), on the South Chasm View Wall.
I turned off my own headlamp and took in the slack as Chris climbed. Each time I pulled in slack, it became so rhythmic, I almost didn’t even have to think about it. I sat, watching the tiny blips of light bounce around across the street and it made me feel less alone, even though we were in such a remote area. The fact that you can be so alone and yet not lonely there is incredible. You can be still and restless at the same time, and it isn’t necessarily one or the other. Life isn’t always this black and white picture we keep painting it. It’s constantly moving, constantly changing. Even when we’ve reached that pinnacle and we think we’re finished, we’re not. Becausse life, much like love, is hills and it’s valleys. I belayed Chris up to the anchor as I basked in the stillness of that warm, October night.
Cover photograph courtesy of Chris Spratta.