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| Author topping out on the |
by Rick Allen
I had snapped the lid closed on a box of climbing
gear several weeks before, saying goodbye for what I thought would be the last
time to chalk bag, shoes, and harness. I spent over 30 years drifting in and
out of climbing, always looking for a partner, but never able to make a lasting
connection. A professional career jealous of free time and energy also left me
with catastrophic injuries which made me a perfect weather barometer, but
limited my diminishing physical capabilities. Yet the rock called me to come
back again and again. I wanted to feel the flow of moving over it, to be one
with it and not at war. Old flames separated by time and circumstance reunited,
discovering they were still in love with each other.
I never made the transition to indoor gym climbing,
at least not successfully. Overhanging thuggish routes replaced my beloved
thin, high angle face climbs. Slab. That's what the kids called them now. Slab,
said with disgust as if they were spitting something distasteful from their
mouth. The internet had allowed me to find one of my first climbing heroes,
Patrick Edlinger "Le Blond." I would watch his Life By the Fingertips
and remember the first time I saw it on television in 1984. It inspired me to
recover from my injuries and reconnect with the rock again. When I mentioned
him to young climbers at the local gym no one had any idea who I was talking
about. Slab.
An email received from a climbing acquaintance had me
prying the lid off that box of climbing gear once again. A recent college
graduate would be spending the summer in Eugene and he needed a climbing
partner. Would I be interested? Once more into the breach. Hope springs
eternal, and so I began my relationship with Jordan Machtelinckx. An alpinist
who wanted to improve his rock climbing for future mixed routes, he attacked
routes with a raw power I could only dream of, yet he was open to suggestion.
Over beers and pulled pork nachos I told him of Edlinger and Ron Kauk, those
masters of climbing elegance I so admired, and a seed was planted. Weeks passed
and Jordan progressed from murdering 5.9's with blunt force trauma to gliding
up 5.11's with the grace and poise I knew was there within him.
The summer months advanced and I knew my time of
having a steady climbing partner would end, as all good things must. Jordan was
more than ready to stretch his wings on a worthy project and he was eager. We
wanted more than the typical Smith Rock multi-pitch day. Beer and nachos gave
way to Guinness and Irish whiskey in my backyard. Jordan poured over guide
books as I refilled glasses.
We agreed on the Peregrine Traverse of Acker Rock.
Touted as Oregon’s longest sport climb, it is ten pitches of sparsely bolted
rock in a remote part of the state. There would be no ten minute approach from
a paved parking lot. No stairs or easy rescue if things went badly. No running
water, no cell service, no nothing. I read the route description and looked at
photos again and again. Ten pitches. I didn't need to do the climber’s math to
realize it is going to be a very long day, and I am 58 years old. I reach for
the whiskey and poured four fingers. I felt the twinge in my gut and recognized
the feeling for what it was. Fear.
I am not one for tilting at windmills. There is no
room in my life for Walter Mitty fantasy. Occasionally, when I look in the
mirror I see my father. I recognize ugly truths and accept them for what they
are, despite what I might wish and dream for myself. My best years have come
and gone. My body is broken and I am old. I am old.
Labor Day arrives. The end of summer. We load gear
into my truck and drive south in the darkness, sunrise still hours away. Paved
roads turn to gravel as we drive deeper into the forest under morning light
still devoid of color. I suddenly see an enormous black bear playing peekaboo
behind an equally enormous old growth stump. I try to direct Jordan to it but
what is clearly evident to me is invisible to him. The ensuing conversation
borders on the comedic. It's right there! Where? There. I soon realize we are
seeing the world through different eyes.
After a few missed turns we arrive at the parking
area and see the gate is closed. This means a longer approach hike than we had
hoped for. Certainly longer than I had hoped for. As we gather our gear and
rack up, the last climber group from the weekend is leaving. They wish us well
and say, “You have the place all to yourselves."
We begin the long uphill walk and Jordan chats
happily. I am not exactly gasping, but my replies are short and I let him carry
the bulk of the conversation, as well as the pack weight. Suddenly, I hear a
sound I recognize as claws on tree bark, followed by the cries of a wailing
child. We have inadvertently startled a bear cub who has scampered 40 feet up a
tree and now screams for mama to come to the rescue. Jordan fumbles with his
phone trying to take a photo as I explain to him we really don't want to be
here when its mother returns. Jordan is enthralled by this rarely seen sight
while I am recalling the size of the bear I had seen earlier. We are seeing the
world through different eyes.
We climb over an embankment and leave the gravel road
for the climber’s trail, which is nothing more than an animal trail. The trail
is loose and off camber. I struggle with the unfamiliar weight of a pack and I
feel unstable. I stumble on and, without the aid of trekking poles, the
inevitable happens. Jordan stares at me quizzically as I attempt to regain my
feet. We have not even begun the real climbing and I am already on my ass.
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| Rick below summit. Photo: Jordan Machtelinckx. |
A brief glimpse through the trees gives me my first
full view of Acker Rock. It seems immense. Huge and, for me, intimidating. We
finally reach the area known as the Sun Bowl. Aptly named, we are bathed in
full morning sun. Jordan ropes up to lead the first pitch as I organize his
belay. I look up at the rock. Ten pitches to go.
Jordan breezes through the first pitch and
establishes our first belay stance. I marvel at the solid coarse nature of the
rock, glad to have made the decision to keep my leather belay gloves on. I am
starting to relax, thinking I may actually remember how to do this. The last
time I did any serious multi-pitch climbing, I was Jordan's age. That simple
thought causes me to reminisce about climbing the Bastille Crack in El Dorado
Springs Canyon. So long ago. What happened to my life? Where did it all go?
Jordan takes off on the second pitch and I return my thoughts to the present
and the task at hand.
One pitch follows another as an easy, pleasant
pattern develops. At the end of each pitch we share a PowerBar and water as we
discuss the joys and difficulties of the preceding pitch. I feel the sun's
intensity on my face and skin and know the climbing helmet I am wearing is
doing nothing for me as a sunblock. I open my flip phone and check for a
signal. Zip. Zero.
It is taking us far longer than we imagined it would.
This won't be done in a couple of hours. It will be an all-day affair. We
continue moving upward with Jordan in the lead. I pause at certain points on
each pitch for a good look around, taking mental snapshots. I am savoring this
extended moment in time with my young friend. I am ushering him in the
beginning years of his life of adventures as he is leading me upward to the end
of mine.
The lengthy wait at belay stances causes my body to
stiffen and old injuries begin to ache. I struggle at the beginning when it is
my turn to climb. I am the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz looking for a can of
oil.
We begin to find a rhythm and are now hundreds of
feet up. I watch falcons glide back and forth across the face below me. Jordan
is high above me and out of sight. Just when I think all is well he calls down
to me. "I'm not sure.....I....I think we're off route." Off route.
It's a sanitized version for lost. A voice that had been happy and confident
was now filled with concern. We are almost out of rope and Jordan cannot find
the established belay anchors. He creates a solid anchor and yells down to me
with words that sound something like, "rappel off." Oh the hell you
say! I cup my hands and yell back. "Put me on belay and bring me up. We'll
talk about it."
I reach Jordan and am relieved to be together again.
I see he has made us a solid anchor by stringing webbing and cordelette around
what looks like an upside down sugar cone. He talks again about rappel. I am
against it. I tell him sketchy rappels are how people die on these things. An
old memory from my first trip to Yosemite returns to me. A guy had rappelled
down to a ledge I was on. We spoke briefly and then he stepped back to finish
his rappel, 70 feet to the ground. I had looked away but heard the unmistakable
sound of rope running rapidly against rock. I turned back and lunged for him,
but it was too late. He was out of my reach and falling, his eyes wide, locked
with mine, begging for help I couldn't give him. The wild windmilling of his
arms carried him away from the rock as basketball sized granite boulders at the
base awaited his arrival. I shook the memory out of my head. Lesson learned,
there was no point dwelling on it.
Jordan looks around us, then up at the remaining
portion of the route, then at me. He is not convinced. I tell him, "Look,
I have the rack. Let's take the gear for a walk. I bet the anchors are just
over that bulge above us." I can see sunlight reflecting off a bolt line
above us. I reason with him, saying, “All roads lead to Rome, we just need to
keep climbing up and we'll find our way.”
Jordan is not enthused about my leading and expresses
his concerns. Valid point and just in time, as I am scared like hell at the
thought of my first time on lead since before he was born. I can’t believe I am
stupid enough to suggest it.
It was time for a pep talk. "Look, you're a 5.11
climber. This is several grades below what you're capable of. I know we can
finish this. You just need to breathe up, center yourself and execute,” I say.
As if on cue, he closes his eyes and begins some focused, purposeful breathing.
Thirty seconds later he looks at me and gives a sharp nod of his head. I put
him back on belay and he is gone. Jordan disappears over the bulge and seconds later
I hear a happy shout, "Found 'em." We are back in business.
Jordan had been leading well all day, but the next
two pitches are a thing of beauty. He is powerful and confident. He cruises up
a final squeeze chimney that I murder by sheer force. As I reach him, he
gestures to me with arms stretched out, as if to welcome me. I collapse beside
him in a combination of relief and exhaustion. Still he reaches toward me.
“What? Are we hugging? We're not done yet?” I ask. Jordan chuckles and says,
"No, dude. I love you, but right now I just want your slings." One
more pitch to go.
Pitch ten is an exposed traverse across the knife
edge summit ridge. When I say exposed, I mean exposure that would send any
normal person’s nether regions on the express elevator to their throat. We
forge on and top out. The Peregrine Traverse of Acker Rock is complete.
I sit next to Jordan and revel in the exposure. We
look out at a never-ending sea of trees. Alone here on this grand piece of
rock, I am happy. I truly enjoy silence. Moments like this border on bliss. An
ear splitting whoop sounds across the canyons as Jordan celebrates his
achievement in the way young climbers do these days. My head snaps around to
glare at him for disturbing my peaceful moment, but then I see him standing
with his arms raised up in exaltation.
My annoyance gone, I can only look at him and smile.
I hope he will seize the life that lies before him and have many more of these
days ahead. The button-down 9 to 5 world can wait. I look toward the setting sun
and know this is most likely my last summit, but I am glad I shared it with
him, grateful to him for leading me to this glorious end.
Nearly three years have passed since that day spent
on Acker Rock. Jordan moved on and completed an Odysseus-like trek across
western Asia. He is living the life I had hoped for him, filled with meaningful
work, loving relationships, and continuing adventures.
I write this from the comfort of home, my cat
sleeping peacefully in my lap. I continue to climb at the local gym and get on
real rock when the rare opportunity presents itself. I keep track of current
climbing news via the internet. I see that Chris Bonington has returned to
climb the Old Man of Hoy at the age of 80. Peter Habler, an old climbing
partner of Reinhold Messner, has topped out on the North Face of the Eiger at
72. I gaze out the window and allow myself to consider what might be possible.
Maybe, I think. Just maybe.
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| Sunset from fire tower on Acker Rock. Photo: Jordan Machtelinckx. |
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