To my future crag dog,

First off, we are going to be great friends. You are going be an adorable, irresistible, soft, wiggly puppy. You will have the opportunity to join in on some lengthy approaches, non-climbing day hikes, mid-day naps, and evening swims. We will have loads of fun, get super strong, and enjoy a life of adventure. By the way, this means you will be living out of a van for a few years. It will be awesome.

Here are the conditions.

1. You may sleep in my bed, provided that you don’t choose my head as your mattress and only lick my face after 7am; I could get used to a furry alarm clock.
2. The van is not a bathroom. This includes the outside.
3. No chewing on gear, shoes very much so included.
4. You will carry your own weight (except for the first few weeks when you’re small and getting used to hiking).
5. You will not steal my sandwiches. You will be stealthy and selective when stealing others’ sandwiches. 
6. You will attend all adventures.
7. You will do your best not eat things that will make you sick. If this occurs, you will refrain from puking on in the van or on any piece of gear.
8. You can eat leftovers, but please refrain from begging. Also, your regular food will be the dry, bagged kind; wet food is expensive and smells weird.
9. For your own safety, please do not take naps on crashpads that are currently in use.
10. Do not bark at, growl at, chase, bite, or otherwise annoy any humans or dogs at the crag. Making friends, however, is encouraged.
11. When it comes to squirrels, the look but do not touch (or chase) principle applies. (Unless the squirrel is in close proximity, we are just relaxing, and you promise to not run too far away. Then have fun.)
12. No one likes it when someone else whines. In this cause, consider yourself in the “someone else” category.
13. Be ready to be snuggled and petted and loved and infrequently spoiled.  
14. Be psyched for adventure 95.67% of the time. (I understand that 4.33% of the time you might be having an off day.)
15. Do not abuse your cuteness. Choose wisely when to look adorable and beg for things; that tactic will only work so many times.

So yes there are a few rules, but they are mostly to make life confortable and maximize adventure. No one likes to have to waste a day buying a new rope or pair of shoes cause you decided to chew something besides your bone. Plus, that money will come out of your Milk Bone fund, which isn’t advantageous for you either.

However, beyond the rules, I can make you some promises: You will be very loved and given lots of attention. You will see many places, go on many adventures, and cover more ground than most dogs. You will be a nomad, living in the van for a while; however, when you’re old and have bad knees from hiking thousands of miles, you will have a plush dog bed in front of a woodstove in a small cabin to curl up in. And if you’re feeling lonely in that bed of your own, you can still hop up with me (or we can snuggle down on your bed if your knees aren’t feeling up to the jump).

Love,

Liz

The Reverse Warm-Up (and Variations)

Some people really like to warm up for a day of sport climbing. My friend Erin is a big fan of starting the day on a nice 5.6-5.7. She has sent 5.11c.

I don’t like to start out easy. It’s not because I think I’m all that, but I have a tendency to get used to jugs. I wonder why they have suddenly disappeared when my second climb is two grades higher and tend to fall more and complain even more in that situation. Thus, I determined the reverse warm-up to be a more effective method to begin my day.

The reverse warm-up is what it sounds like: starting on something harder than the route you’d like to send. Here is why (I think) it’s great:

1. You will get shut down or at least hangdog your way to the top desperation style. The next climb (your project) will feel easy in comparison.
2. If number one does not happen, you will surprise yourself by greatly increasing your on-sight grade.
3. At the beginning of the day you’re fresh, so you have maximum power to combat the lack of adequate hand and foot holds. You cannot use the “I’m tired from giving X five burns” excuse for not clipping the anchors.
4. You will be forced out of your comfort zone immediately, not lulled into spending the day doing “fun” climbing below your level.
5. You will be forced to work on your technique. This is good for you.
6. You will get better at climbing. Studies show pushing your grade has that effect.
7. Add your favorite additional reason here.

A note of caution: The reverse warm-up is not an excuse to cause great harm to yourself or others. Do not choose something two grades higher than your project. Do not skip bolts. Do not do anything you think would likely cause you or your belayer to suffer an injury requiring the attention of a medical doctor. If your project is 5.11a you might consider trying out an 11b or c first, not a 5.13b X.

Another note of caution: Do not use the reverse warm-up as a way to brag about your climbing level. Do not abuse the phrase “I warm up on 13a” to make it sound like you cruise it before projecting 14b. The reverse warm-up should humble you and show you what you might one day achieve not give you undue bragging rights.

Variations on the reverse warm-up:

1. Climbing wet routes makes anything dry feel amazing. (Consider likelihood of death before attempting to climb dripping cliffs).
2. Climbing in approach shoes, barefoot (if you normally use climbing shoes), or wearing thick wool socks in your least aggressive pair of climbing shoes will have you believing your Solutions are indeed the equals sign for sending.
3. Weighing yourself down with excessive draws or your trad rack for added discomfort and weird looks from other climbers.

How I (wish) I Sprained My Ankle

***Disclaimer: If any of the details or events of this tale appear true, it is purely by coincidence.  None of the following occurred in part or in whole, though it would have been epic and would mean I’m 10 times above my current climbing ability level.***

It was pouring. Nothing new for autumn in New England, but it was also Saturday, which means Tommy and I were climbing anyway. Tommy had finally invested in a rack, so we decided to mess around a bit despite of the weather.

By the time we dragged ourselves out of an entangled web of sleeping bags and into Dunkin Donuts for some much needed caffeine, the weather was starting to look better, so we headed out to find dry-ish cracks to stuff our cams, fists, and feet into.

Tommy led the first pitch, a little damp, but a doable 5.8. It had a few spicy moves and the polished sections were further slickened by the spray, but it just added to the delightful uneasy feeling one gets when placing gear. I followed up, cleaning gear and convincing myself that the weather was only going to improve.

When I reached the anchors, I saw two cracks above me. We'd left the guidebook in the car, so I got to blindly choose my own adventure. I picked right, less-wet-moss-covered crack and racked up. The first few moves were fun, lie backing in the slightly seeping crack and smearing my feet on the slimy face. I placed a number two and then a number one, but 10 feet later all I’d seen were more places to fit a number one. Tommy didn’t have doubles, and all the nuts I kept trying in the thin crack to my left were falling out. Another 10 feet up, I was getting more pumped and less hopeful.

The rain started up again and the wind drove it sideways, soaking the route and raincoat-less me. The crack was not longer seeping; it was streaming. There was water running down my elbows, the back of my neck, and beginning to drip off the bottoms of my shoes.

I was stuck. Downclimbing was impossibly scary and letting go was even scarier. I was twenty feet above Tommy’s number one and holding on with two fingers in a river. I desperately tried to stuff in a piece, but I couldn’t see where to place it with all the water running down the crack.

“Watch me here,” I yelled down to Tommy, but he couldn’t hear me over the rain slapping the rock. He too was soaked, not owning a raincoat, and later said he could barely see me with all the water pouring in his face.

I tried to make a big move up to jam my free left hand into the crack above, but it slid out immediately. I switched into sport mode: crimping on bumps on the face. I made one more move up when everything blew simultaneously.

I have never fallen so far. I landed with my right foot flexed and heard a pop, audible over the storm’s din. I then had to half boink my way back up to the anchors I’d fallen below, so we could make our getaway plan, leaving one of the cams in the process.We rapped down and assessed the damage: one very swollen right ankle and a lot of sopping wet gear.

The rest is less interesting, just hospital visits, eating ibuprofen, and attempting to cross-train in the pool. But the moral of this story is: Don’t try to trad climb wet, unknown routes in the rain (or if they’re wet and it’s not raining at that moment, or if the forecast calls for 100% chance of rain in the next ten minutes).

Alternate versions of this ankle-spraining story include me running from a bear on an approach while carrying a full pack and falling down an animal burrow and then having the bear drag me by my ankle, me falling off a pad-less highball buildering problem (insert mental image of crazy tall or interesting skyscraper here), or me having a mishap while practicing aerial dance. You choose which sounds the best.

Climbers and Their Hands

For many things it’s an accomplishment, or at least special, to have your fingers bleed. If a pop-rock artist sings “I played my guitar till my fingers bled” he is seen as dedicated. If you hammer nails, rake leaves, or chop woods till your blisters bleed you’re hardworking and should invest in gloves. If you’re a small child you get a Band-Aid with Chewbacca on it if you get a mere paper cut. If you’re a climber you dig out your tape and keep climbing; it’s no big deal and certainly not an accomplishment.

Bleeding is an inherent to climbing. You tear flappers, rip off hangnails, wear through pads, and get chewed up by crystalline cracks. The only thing climbers are allowed to do about it find “softer” rock at the end of the day and invest in a lot of medical tape. And look at their hands quite often.

Climbers spend 897% more time looking at their hands than the average non-climbing America. They also baby their hands, clipping away hangnails, half-attached flappers, and any hint of white at the end of their nails, filing down callouses, and occasionally lotioning-up to rehydrate after a day of heavy chalk-use.

Here are a few signs that you or another climber you know has worn through their finger pads:

1. The most obvious: you have blood dripping—or running—from your fingertips.
2. The crux of every move is fighting the great pain touching the rock triggers every time you grip it (you are nearing number one above).
3. You have a heightened sense of touch, making the experience of grasping familiar objects quite interesting.
4. You can no longer pull your toast out of the toaster with your bare hands.
5. Your fingertips are sweatier than normal, and you aren’t nervous.

And for a bit of encouragement for those of us who seem to always be bleeding:

A seasoned local once told Tommy that you “have to give blood to receive.” So yes, the saying is a bit weird, but if it’s true one day I’m going to receive a lot for the amount of blood tick marks I’ve left on routes, or at least I’m really hoping so.

Snapshots of Some Climbing Friends

Erin:

Erin is one of the few girls I climb with; she’s awesome. She reminds me to eat, is super encouraging and supportive when I’m hang-dogging, and is always down for a good Pawtuckaway night session.

Erin has a unique philosophical look at climbing. If she’s not having fun on a route she’ll simply let go, dirt, and make someone else clean the draws. If climbing is supposed to be fun, why spend your time on a route you’re not enjoying? That’s her take on things.

She is also, under nearly every circumstance, down to climb. We spent several days at Rumney together this summer while she was recovering from a concussion. Maybe not the smartest idea, but we made sure put a 5.8 cap on her climbing for the week. The best part: she got incredibly psyched talking me through leading a wonky 10a. That onsight is 132% due to her encouragement and telling me to dry off my wet shoes with my chalk ball halfway up. “I was just climbing vicariously through you,” was her reply to my thanks.

Matt:

Matt is a solid athlete. He climbs 5.12 sport, kiteboards, mountain bikes, road bikes, hikes, Nordic ski races, and hammocks like a champ. Right now, when there isn’t enough wind to kiteboard, he tries to find pumpier and pumpier sport routes, so he can say, “that was the most pumped I’ve ever been in my life” after sending each one.  I’m impressed by his ability to push himself with sport climbing, campusing cruxes when he can’t get his feet on and later asking us how he did them, explaining he “blacked out there for a minute” while climbing them.

Matt is also a fan of making horse noises, loud “da, ba,” etc. exclamations, and occasionally employing wild yelling to get himself through cruxes. Sometimes he jokingly plans out what he’s going to vocalize on the way up: horse noises to the crux then wild yelling to the chains. He usually follows through with it.

Tim:

Tim is a baby climber like me, having gotten into the sport later in college. He is notorious for getting things almost right, especially when it comes to climbing terms. He likes to ask me if routes are “permadrawed” at the top when he wants to know if there are quick clips and pronounces “flacking” out one’s rope like Ben Affleck’s last name: “flackking.”

My favorite Tim-ism is his use of “you got me” to mean both “take” and “climbing.” When belaying him I’ve learned to take when he’s climbing and says “you got me?” and then give out slack again the next time he yells it down to me.

Tim can also be a big fan of the word take, especially in the gym. He even uses it when on top rope, and he’s naturally always taken due to the nature of top roping. However, he’s always down to belay, is super encouraging, and will likely offer you a pb&j at the crag. And if you’re really lucky, you’ll get to see him send a route in full sweats when it’s seventy degrees.

Things I’ve Learned About Belaying

Your average non-climber understands that ascending a cliff requires a certain amount of skill and expertise. This non-climber has little to no idea the range of skill or what skills exactly that might entail, but they get that climbing involves skill. It’s not a hard concept to grasp.

Belaying on the other hand, not everyone appreciates the skill that involves. Yes there are the basic “this is your brake hand and EVEN IF A CHUCK OF GRANITE LANDS ON YOUR HEAD NEVER EVER LET GO” rules one must learn, but there is much more than just paying out and taking in slack involved in the art.

I was taught the basics by my friends, how to give out slack when someone is clipping and not to think of lowering as a race from the anchors to the ground. However, as a small female being taught to belay from guys with fifty-plus pounds on me, I quickly understood that I would need to adapt their methods to prevent them from grounding out.

Here are some things I’ve learned:

1. If they haven’t clipped at least four bolts I’m taking a whipper too.
2. There is no need to jump to cushion someone’s fall (see number one).
3. Do not stand a casual ten feet back from the rock with extra slack in the line. If they fall I’m going to go up and forward into the cliff; it will hurt.
4. Bracing oneself against the rock with one leg can help prevent number three.
5. Keep very little slack in the system when the climber is not clipping (look to number one again).
6. Boinking is easy for me and impossible for anyone I belay weighting over 140 pounds.
7. Belaying is a workout involving squat jumps and pull-ups whenever someone wants to up rope.
8. Never expect to be asked to belay if the route is hard and there’s someone bigger available.
9.  Expect that larger climbers will fear clipping the first few times I belay them.

Now, here are a few things to note if you’re over 150 pounds and are belaying me: 

1. The belay device is simply a backup in case your non-break hand isn’t on the rope to catch me.
2. You may not notice that I’ve fallen till you look up (or I shout something mid-air).
3. Up roping is a non-challenge, same with having me boink.
4. If I’m on top rope you can lift me to the chains simply by taking a walk backward (please don’t; I’m not really into aid climbing at the moment).

To sum it all up, I’m a belayer’s dream (except for climbing slowly, stopping to tape up mid-climb, and occasionally throwing down extra layers half-way up) and a climber’s last resort. However, in my defense, I only have one groundout on my record. Tommy has a solid seven inches and a lot of muscle mass on me, and it was after the first bolt. He received a very soft seated landing, though he did have to start the climb over again from the ground. I got additional practice repelling.

Climbing Should Not Equal Visiting an Amusement Park

When I visit six flags I expect to wait in lines for hours to get my sixty-seven second rollercoaster adrenaline fix. Most of the day is spent standing in lines anticipating thrills next to hundreds of other people doing the same thing. I will wait fifty-seven minutes to ride the Griffon at Bush Gardens; I will not wait fifty-seven minutes for a climb.

Climbing is inherently freeing, thus I have many issues with waiting in lines to get on routes, even if they are “classics.” Why should I sit around and watch three other groups get on a climb when I could be climbing? I would be automatically be giving up a potential onsite, don’t climb hard enough routes for the eighth assent to still be cool, and I could have had my hands on rock for two extra hours.

I don’t have problems waiting for my friends to climb a route before I give it a burn, especially if it’s pushing my grade and they’re hanging the draws (I can be a wimp). I do have some patience. However, the idea of spending most of my day waiting to get on one or two routes doesn’t get me psyched to climb. Additionally, I have a tendency to yard sale all my gear, tossing flannels and containers of peanut butter in areas covering up to 100 square feet. This practice is not easily accommodated and is even less appreciated at crowded crags.  

So, if you’re like me and want to avoid the lines and the crowds, here are some tips:

1. NEVER EVER visit Rumney on a beautiful weekend day between the months of May and October unless you’re planning to get there at 4am and catch the sunrise at the anchors (which would be cool).
2. Climb at night, especially if it’s bouldering (though not at Lincoln Woods – see previous post).
3. Get your cardio in and choose a longer approach; it weeds out the lazy people who like the two-hour breaks they get waiting for closer climbs.
4. Try out less traveled crags that still have a handful of quality routes.
5. Stick to crags where the sport routes start at or above 5.11; you’ll immediately lose the top rope guide groups camped out at the 5.7 next to the five-star 12c you wanted to hop on.
6. Don’t be afraid to go out on days predicted to rain. I’ve done most of the moderate routes on Rumney’s usually packed parking lot wall on days the forecast scared everyone away. It didn’t rain.
7. Take a Tuesday off once in a while to hit up those classics that are packed with weekend-warriors Saturday and Sunday.
8. Climb when there’s snow on the ground. Bring a tarp to keep your shoes dry, unthaw your fingers with the hand warmers stashed in your chalk bag, and have a thermos of hot chocolate cause it’s yummy. 

And if you simply must climb on a beautiful Saturday in October—I wouldn’t be able to resist either—try to get there early, or if you’re my friends and me: stay late. Or give all those wonky 5.9 negative-three-start anti-classics a try while someone else waits in line for Technosurfing; it’s the only excuse you’ll ever have for doing them.