with someone. The puppy was out, asleep, or else he’d simply resigned himself to whatever it was I was doing with him.
I waited another moment or two for my arms to recover—even in my most brutal workouts at the gym, lifting weights straight up with my arms fully extended was not something I’d ever done—and then I moved to my rappel line to rig my ascenders. I moved the crate to a position directly below my rappel line, which also served as a plumb bob marking the spot directly beneath the upper anchor; it wouldn’t do to lift the crate from the canyon floor and have it start to swing from side to side as a pendulum. I double-checked the webbing around the crate, and the knot I’d used to tie on the tether, and then I double-checked my own gear and my climbing harness. One word that might be used to describe my mindset is “fastidious.” Another might be “obsessive” or maybe even “maniacal,” but to me it was just what I’ve always done, planning ways to be safe, paying attention to all the details and troubleshooting what could go wrong—the same mindset I had when I was waiting for the bus, or entering the school cafeteria, asking myself, “Where are the threats located? What’s most likely to go wrong? What will I do if X happens, or Y, or Z?”
When I was satisfied that I’d thought of everything, twice, I began my ascent, stepping into my loops and pulling the straps tight to lock them around my foot like stirrups, then raising my left hand and left leg first in a movement that must be coordinated but is slightly counterintuitive, since when we walk, or run, we usually swing our right arm while stepping with the left foot.
I left the crate on the canyon floor and climbed quickly to the ledge approximately one hundred feet up, glad that I’d thought of the pulley system the night before when I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. I used two short pieces of webbing to set friction knots on my rappel line, above my ascenders, then used carabiners to set my pulley and, below that, the Gibbs cam, and then I untied the tether from behind my back and fed the line through the cam and the pulley. Now I could pull down on the line to raise the crate, and if I were to let go for some reason, the Gibbs cam would serve as an emergency brake.
I raised the crate in a slow but steady motion, until, no worse for wear, I had the dog at my feet. I picked the crate up and walked up the slope to where the ledge met the wall. When I tried to look in the crate, I couldn’t get a good look at the dog because of all the towels I’d packed in to keep him from sliding or rolling around inside the crate. This was no place to untie the package to check on him, so all I could do was cross my fingers and hope he was okay.
I undid my pulley system and packed it away, then retethered the crate to my harness using the adjustable daisy chain, leaving enough length that I wouldn’t kick the crate each time I took a step. Matching adjustable daisy chains attached my harness to the upper grips of my ascenders, which would allow me, if I got tired during the climb, to take my hands off the grips and “sit” in my harness to rest.
“Now comes the fun part,” I said to the dog, once I was rested, but I sensed my ironic tone was lost on him.
With the crate tethered to hang about three feet below me, I returned to my rappel line, leaned back to absorb the slack, and took three steps up. When I tested the crate, it seemed relatively light. I would be free-hanging for the next 125 feet or so, in some places as close as eight inches from the rock face, but still too far off it to use my feet for purchase or relief.
I started up and soon realized I was going to need to change my approach; usually I climb in large powerful steps, and the fewer of them the better, but now when I did, the crate below me swung wildly with each step, and worse—I was still close enough to the rock that when the crate swung, it banged off the
I waited another moment or two for my arms to recover—even in my most brutal workouts at the gym, lifting weights straight up with my arms fully extended was not something I’d ever done—and then I moved to my rappel line to rig my ascenders. I moved the crate to a position directly below my rappel line, which also served as a plumb bob marking the spot directly beneath the upper anchor; it wouldn’t do to lift the crate from the canyon floor and have it start to swing from side to side as a pendulum. I double-checked the webbing around the crate, and the knot I’d used to tie on the tether, and then I double-checked my own gear and my climbing harness. One word that might be used to describe my mindset is “fastidious.” Another might be “obsessive” or maybe even “maniacal,” but to me it was just what I’ve always done, planning ways to be safe, paying attention to all the details and troubleshooting what could go wrong—the same mindset I had when I was waiting for the bus, or entering the school cafeteria, asking myself, “Where are the threats located? What’s most likely to go wrong? What will I do if X happens, or Y, or Z?”
When I was satisfied that I’d thought of everything, twice, I began my ascent, stepping into my loops and pulling the straps tight to lock them around my foot like stirrups, then raising my left hand and left leg first in a movement that must be coordinated but is slightly counterintuitive, since when we walk, or run, we usually swing our right arm while stepping with the left foot.
I left the crate on the canyon floor and climbed quickly to the ledge approximately one hundred feet up, glad that I’d thought of the pulley system the night before when I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. I used two short pieces of webbing to set friction knots on my rappel line, above my ascenders, then used carabiners to set my pulley and, below that, the Gibbs cam, and then I untied the tether from behind my back and fed the line through the cam and the pulley. Now I could pull down on the line to raise the crate, and if I were to let go for some reason, the Gibbs cam would serve as an emergency brake.
I raised the crate in a slow but steady motion, until, no worse for wear, I had the dog at my feet. I picked the crate up and walked up the slope to where the ledge met the wall. When I tried to look in the crate, I couldn’t get a good look at the dog because of all the towels I’d packed in to keep him from sliding or rolling around inside the crate. This was no place to untie the package to check on him, so all I could do was cross my fingers and hope he was okay.
I undid my pulley system and packed it away, then retethered the crate to my harness using the adjustable daisy chain, leaving enough length that I wouldn’t kick the crate each time I took a step. Matching adjustable daisy chains attached my harness to the upper grips of my ascenders, which would allow me, if I got tired during the climb, to take my hands off the grips and “sit” in my harness to rest.
“Now comes the fun part,” I said to the dog, once I was rested, but I sensed my ironic tone was lost on him.
With the crate tethered to hang about three feet below me, I returned to my rappel line, leaned back to absorb the slack, and took three steps up. When I tested the crate, it seemed relatively light. I would be free-hanging for the next 125 feet or so, in some places as close as eight inches from the rock face, but still too far off it to use my feet for purchase or relief.
I started up and soon realized I was going to need to change my approach; usually I climb in large powerful steps, and the fewer of them the better, but now when I did, the crate below me swung wildly with each step, and worse—I was still close enough to the rock that when the crate swung, it banged off the
Similar Books
