The blades of the royal blue Hughes 500D rotated above my head. I could hardly breathe in the windswept air as I unloaded bag after bag onto the frozen, rocky surface. As the chopper lifted off I huddled on the ground, my gaze fixed on the terrain that would be our world for the next three weeks. There was no grass, no trees, no single soft spot in the whole basin; instead there was snow, ice, granite boulders of varying size, and the 2,000ft Mt. Proboscis — the reason we were here. We had traveled as a team of four to the isolated border of the Yukon and Northwest Territories via a series of aircraft — none of which we would see again until they came to pick us up. We were about 80 miles from the nearest signs of human habitation, on our own with the goal of establishing a new free route up Proboscis, as well as repeating another.

In the months leading up to this moment, there had been much talk and hesitation on my part about committing to the trip. I had never been on an expedition before — sure I had done plenty of climbing in cold conditions, climbed some big walls, and had been in some fairly remote places, but never on this scale. With less experience in this kind of setting, and as the only woman, I was concerned I would be the weak link — that I wouldn’t be able to handle the environment, that I wouldn’t like it, that it would be too cold, too hard, too much. My mind changed daily until finally I decided that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity or the adventure.

The days went with each passing storm. We battled bouts of rain and snow — confined to our tents and tarpaulin kitchen — passing the time with crossword puzzles, Cormac McCarthy stories, curry dinners, expedition-style pizza parties, and bottles of whiskey until a break in the weather presented itself. Twenty days into it my husband, Ben Ditto, and I stood atop Mt. Proboscis. We had just made an all free complete ascent of the Original Route Variation (Women at Work) — grade VI 5.12 R. It had taken us 17 days and three attempts for this to happen. Weather had turned us around previously and we had gotten quite used to the cold, wet climbing as well as the possibility of retreat. As long as we were prepared we would be okay, so in our climbing kit for the day, aside from food and water, we carried jackets, rain jackets, webbing, pain killers, tape, and a knife — because you just never know.

As we stood on the top of the wall reveling in its grandeur and the vast expanse of glaciers and peaks that stretched on as far as the eye could see, we knew we were only half way — we had to get down now. We would have to descend the entire formation, pulling our ropes and threading them through the established anchors as we went, to get back to the ground. Hopefully we could descend the wall with ease, as it had taken us 13 hours to climb and it was just about dark now. There would be no room for any serious error.

The first 13 rappels went surprisingly well, aside from a baseball-sized rock that I kicked off the wall, crashing into Ben’s helmet (thankfully he was fine) and some rope trickery to avoid any snags. Three hours had passed since we started rappelling. We were making good time and were feeling a bit at ease as we descended into the first five pitches of the route, territory that had come to be quite familiar to us as we had climbed it three times already.

These sections had been running with some of the coldest water on earth and we had jammed hands, arms, and legs into these crevices as we ascended the wall. On our way down we tried to avoid the wetness as much as possible; we had had our fair share of its icy demeanor. There were only three more long rappels to the ground. And we were feeling some elation now that the ground was in sight.

As we huddled together at the anchor pulling our ropes, they became snagged. They would not budge.

We pulled harder. We flung them around, hoping they would cut loose. Nothing, except a general feeling of devastation. We looked at each other, we looked above. Surrounding us was darkness, our headlamps only illuminating the immediate space around us, their light disappearing up the wall. We could just make out the blue and green pattern of nylon snaking its way up and around a series of ledgy flakes about 50 feet above and to the right. We had never really had trouble descending here before, but now it appeared our ropes were wrapped up in this mess. We were stuck up there in the dark, in the water, our friends asleep at base camp, the rest of the world hundreds of miles away.

We had two options: One of us could re-climb this soaking wet pitch and possibly sort out the stuck bits of rope, or we could cut the rope and continue with whatever was left. It was around 1am, we were tired, we were cold, and neither one of us could muster the psyche to go back up. We went for option two and out came the knife. The sharp metal cut through the rope and we hoped for the best as it sprang upwards and vanished. Down came a pile of cord at our feet consisting of one full 70-meter rope and what turned out to be only about 50 feet worth of the other line. Tying the two together would be useless — we would be better off using the one 70-meter rope. Relieved to be done with the stuck-rope scenario, we proceeded with our descent.

However, our line wasn’t long enough to descend to the remaining three established rappels. Alarm came upon us. All we wanted was to be back in our tents with the promise of warmth and comfort. But, because our line wasn’t long enough to reach the rappel anchors, we had to build intermediate anchors, leaving some gear and webbing behind on the wall. This took more time, patience, and awareness. With bleary eyes and swollen fingers, we set about the next task of placing gear into cracks and fissures and equalizing them with webbing and finally attaching a carabiner to them so we could run the rope through it to descend. A simple task that is standard practice for us, but something that felt like quite a chore during our 17th and 18th hours of hanging around in harnesses, the pressure of which was cutting into our legs and hips, making our bodies scream for release from this wall.

The last 500 feet — something that should have taken about an hour — turned into five rappels in three hours. At the last rappel, too tired and weary to build and leave yet another intermediate anchor, we fixed our 70-meter rope to the existing anchor and used it as a single line all the way to the ground. Its full length stretched thin, giving us our final escape to the world below. Around 4am, we were finally back on the rocky ground. It had taken us six hours to get down. We stripped ourselves of harnesses and helmets, stretched our weary bodies, drank our remaining sips of water, and staggered down to camp with the moon-cast shadow of Mt. Proboscis to our backs.

The sun shone bright that next day — heating up our cold world. The excitement of our accomplishment kept me from sleeping too long that morning. I was proud of myself for having made the choice to be part of the expedition. We had become the second group in the history of the place, dating back to 1963, to free-climb Mt. Proboscis in a single day — a truly rare and unique experience. I was proud that I had been able to set aside all fear and worry about the what-ifs and unknowns and put myself out there.

this article has been republished from matadornetwork.com

http://www.healthfitnessmag.com/Health-Fitness-Magazine/December-2012/Learning-The-Ropes/

http://aaj.americanalpineclub.org/climbs-and-expeditions/north-america/canada/yukonnorthwest-territories/mt-proboscis-at-dawn-we-ride-woman-at-work-first-one-day-free-ascent-by-katie-lambert/?utm_source=AAJ+Contributors+Mailing+List&utm_campaign=df969c7281-December_2012_Publications_E_News&utm_medium=email

overseas flights, airplane food, sleeping in train stations, missing train connections, using pay phones, not knowing the language, anticipating getting to Ceuse, arriving at the campground and the little caravan, being there for 1 month. all the pizza truck dinners, grocery store sagas, hours spent on terrible wifi, bar visiting and beer tasting, stinky cheese, tarts, blue limestone and big run outs, cold showers, moldy refrigerators, frozen conditions, rain storms and snow. lost somewhere in rural France, quaint villages, amazing bread, local wine and honey, gite rentals, a house full of Germans, the mostly soggy routes at St.Leger. crossing over into Spain, Spanish prostitutes, civil war remnants, olives, the teal cool Mediterranean, seafood, Roman ruins, old farmers and old towns, coffee with milk, the red hue of Siurana and the conglomerate of Montsant, wet routes, climbing in the rain, tapas, 3 course meals, being hungry with no place to go, more cheap wine, terrible water,  tufas of Terradetts, hotel nights, the camp stove and cooking out the window, carrots for pipes, farmers markets, serious old ladies, and the beautiful butcher shop

 

“Wheel of Fortune” is chiming in the background. The sound of money clanging through the metal runway of the slot machines fills the gaps in between turns of the wheel. Only in Nevada, I think, will one encounter gambling in the airport. Out of the 14 slots that adorn the aisle only one is occupied. I watch this individual and try to decipher if they are playing the slots in an act of desperation, a last ditch effort to win big before they fly away or if they are playing just to fill in the time.

I’ve one hour before I board a plane to NYC and then eventually across the Atlantic to Europe. Another climbing trip. Only 12 days ago did we get back from an expedition to the Yukon/NWT. I can hardly wait to climb again. But, it’s not like I haven’t been climbing – in the 12 days I was home I climbed 8 of those days. And the 22 days before that we were climbing in the Cirque of the Unclimbables. And the 4 months before that we spent climbing in Yosemite and on and on and further back.

The majority of my (our) time is spent climbing and if we aren’t climbing the time is spent organizing ourselves to climb or  resting to climb or reminiscing about the climbs that came before. We occupy ourselves with time fillers like gambling, drinking, writing, cooking, gardening, working. Life becomes busy and hectic during all of our non-climbing time. We multitask and dream of other things. We are not present.

I am filling my time by thinking back on this last year and all the things we’ve done and places we’ve been. I think about our friends and their achievements and set backs and they inspire me. I think about the climbs that passed under us as we reached summits and anchors and made new records and the views that waited for us at the top. I think about the bonds that were created during those hard times and moments of digging deep.  I think about my personal climbing achievements in the last year – climbing proficiently in the Valley and doing classics like the Crucifix, climbing El Cap with Eliza, freeing Half Dome in a day with my HUSBAND, making the second and third ascents of Mikey Schafer’s “Rise and Fall of the Albatross” in Tuolumne, my first expedition and the great success of it to the Cirque of the Unclimbables, being one of five women to ever summit Mt.Proboscis – climbing it all free in a day and being the only woman to do that, climbing Lotus Flower Tower with three great friends, and all the onsights and redpoints and unattained ascents in between. It has me excited about the climbing that is to come,  about the places I will find myself in and the landscapes that await. I think about the vast wilderness that lives in the far reaches of the Earth and the quiet way it humbles us. I am longing for the simplicity of climbing.

That presentness isn’t back with us until we are climbing again. We think of nothing beyond the now when back in the mode we so dream of being in. It’s not about the next expedition, the next climbing trip, the upcoming bouldering season or where we just were- its’ about the holds we are on, the movement we are doing. Things return to being simple. We get to live it and it is in those moments we are where we are suppose to be – nowhere else.

We’re somewhere out in the Arizona Strip – in a desert patch between I-15 and Hwy 91. The Virgin River cuts the landscape of limestone bluffs and desert sage a few miles away. I can see its contours in the fading evening sun. There is another glow in the sky to the south of us. It’s the lights of Las Vegas – plastered against the night sky like an advertisement telling all within a 100 mile radius of it’s grandeur; competing for brightness with the stars. The town of Mesquite, NV is less than 15 miles away and St.George, UT is about 30. Old, discarded, ply-wood and and cinder block houses rest against the horizon. Although there are all these signs of human habitation and alteration it feels like a no-mans land.

Our van glows in the dark out here. We are passing through this land, looking for our people, trying to find our place.If this were still the wild west we would be in danger of being spotted- for fear of being robbed and raped by others who are equally out of place in this landscape. Sometime in the 19^th century Mormon settlers started to arrive, pushing the original people further out into the fringe of the strip. Those families who were lucky enough to survive the battles with the whites now inhabit the reservations which disappear into the expanse of the desert. With the native people out of the way the land could then be used for personal gains. The land has been heavily impacted by it’s human use. In the early 20th century ranchers ran estimates of 100,000 cattle through the area to forage on the once large stretches of grassy meadows in the valleys and on the high Kaibab Plateau. In the present day an industry of intense and sporadic mining efforts of minerals, coal, natural gas, gold and who knows what else have left areas ravaged and desecrated.

It’s beautiful here and I turn my back to I-15, trying to picture the place before the roads, buildings, and people. I try and imagine it under the sea,as it once was. But it seems so far fetched, because after all this interstate is one of the busiest, most traveled in the country. It’s sole purpose to feed commerce as is a result of the North American Free Trade Agreement. One of the end results of this road with it’s eighteen wheelers, 5^th wheel trailers, and air conditioned SUV’s has been the fast growing populations of California, Nevada and Utah. The impact is vast.

The Virgin River, once a wild and free water flow is now covered by this freeway and fed by the run-off from cookie cutter homes, casinos, Mormon Temples and white bread factories. The desert tortoise is now fenced into areas of the range – for it’s own protection from vehicles speeding by. I keep my eyes peeled for them but, in all the weeks out here I’ve not seen a single one. Horses, which used to run free have been rounded up by the BLM and either killed or sold. Deer still roam the country in small herds and it’s been said that Big Horn sheep and Mountain Goats roam the high plateaus and rocky outcroppings, navigating the roads and fences. Only the birds seem to have the freedom their ancestors once knew of.

We fit well into this no-man’s land though. For we’ve come here to be removed from the hustle and the freeway and the overpopulation and all the packaged compartments of modern day living. We’ve come here to climb rocks and be with the landscape and live as harmoniously as we can with the nature that surrounds the cities and roads. There are five of us here in three vans. We’ve established a van camp – our home base where we cook, eat, play scrabble and stretch in the morning sun together. Our lives are simple – we rise with the sun and go to sleep with the moon. We watch in amazement as the Arizona Toad (a friendly group of neighbors in the nearby spring) perform their sacred dance of centuries old. It is their mating season and each night they chirp their song and get it on. It is beauty in it’s most basic form. We feel about as close as we’re gonna get to a tribe, to a traditional way of living – to being primal and in tune with our surroundings.

 

Our time in this swath of land is a glimpse of how simple it once was and perhaps how simple it one day could be again. Before the freeways and stores and perhaps again after. In the meantime, however, we still rely quite heavily on these facets of society. We need the commodities the towns have to offer but when we venture into them to gain our sustenance we feel out of place and far removed. It is our retreat back into the Joshua Tree forests, clear running springs, Limestone cliffs and nights filled with the croaking frogs that hold us in comfort and ease.

Spring is here and with it we should be feeling some sort of relief from the heavy snow laden winter but really it has us wondering the winter ever went. The Sierra much like the rest of the Western Hemisphere experienced the warmest and driest winter on record. Being a climber this made for amazing climbing days but being a nature lover it has me concerned for our environment – it’s meadows, rivers, lakes and the central valley with it’s orchards, farms and the hundreds of thousands merging into millions of people who rely on that food. But, I try and not dwell too long on the harsh reality that stares us all in the face and look more to what good things I can do with the time that I have – primarily what a great climbing season the winter was and what a good one the spring looks like it will be.

We spent a great deal of time in Bishop – where there were almost too many splitter days – so much so that we had to force ourselves to take rest days. Bouldering occupied the first of the winter months. I returned to the Buttermilks and the Tablelands with some very specific (some even leftover from years prior) projects in mind and to my surprise and delight most all came to pass quickly.

Yayoi Left – V8; Morning Dove White – V7; Working Class – V8; Pope’s Roof – V7; Wills Arete – V5; Grotesque Old Woman – V7

Acid Wash Right SDS – V9; Strength in Numbness SDS – V9

And while these problem are by no means groundbreaking ascents they did mean a lot to me and kept me pretty inspired to keep trying things and seeking out lines that suit me. Soon enough though this had me with a whole list of new projects – most of which had me feeling like I was beating my head against the wall. It was time for a change before I got too burnt out.

Luckily or unluckily, depending on your take, Tioga Pass was open late into January and I took the opportunity to try my hand at Midnight Lightning – making amazing progress and getting some un winter crack climbing in as well. Ben and I then took another trip to S.Utah for some more Limestone fun. I had about two weeks of time there and didn’t fixate on any one thing but mostly developed a program of getting in as many pitches and pump as possible in a day. I climbed some really great routes there – Baleen – 5.12a, Purple Haze – 5.12d, The Infadels – 5.13a. I tried Indulgence and the Cross and I gave a go at Coach at the VRG and found all to be of quality and fun movement – all things to go back for! Sadly my two weeks went by far too quickly but I left for Yosemite to help our non-profit Sacred Rok with some youth trips and do some climbing. I went out crack cragging at the Finger Licken clif and did some routes I had never climbed before as well as some recently put up lines. With Sacred Rok we took the kids out scrambling around on rocks and trails and playing in the snow. Their excitement and wonder of the natural world inspired me in ways that felt refreshing and new. These trips with the youth inspire dreaming and stories and show me what it means to find yourself and your path. I was excited about all the potential I was seeing in the freedom of being outside and everything that a life lived following a dream has to offer.

Once again I returned to Bishop in the later half of the winter and I primarily focused on route climbing. I made a new girl friend climbing partner – something I’ve been longing for in my climbing for years – and together we descended on the Owen’s River Gorge for 12 pitch days and routes that seemed improbable. I was given permission to start climbing on an old discarded project from 12 plus years ago and after a few guy friends made some ascents of it I successfully made the first female ascent of it – Holey Wars 13c. I tried my luck on the steep roof crack Looney Tunes (5.13b) and was excited to be clipping the anchors on my 3^rd go. I went for another steep and reachy (manufactured) classic 13a called Aurora. I had it so wired that I incorporated it into my mega pitch training days down there. And just when the season was getting too hot and the rattlesnakes were making their appearances I made an ascent of a line called Fight Club (5.13b). This is a line that seemed so unlikely for someone of my frame but I tried it anyway for the fun of seeing what I could do – and at the last possible moment on the last possible day I had before once again returning to Yosemite I successfully redpointed.

And so here I am back in the land of the giants starting another spring and summer climbing season. And where Sacred Rok will be hosting a series of youth trips into Yosemite for day trips, trail work days, camping trips and hopefully continuing to inspire in the youth that sense of wonder and purpose. I kicked it off the season by climbing Separate Reality and Tales of Power – two classic lines that epitomize Valley free climbing. From this view it looks like it will be a long and dry season and hopefully a season of long routes and adventures. There is one adventure that we have been planning for a while and will take place in June – Ben Ditto and I are getting hitched – this may just be the biggest adventure yet!

I couldn’t swallow – Ben had just told me under a hushed breath that Holly killed herself. I turned to look out the window. A wind was blowing the desert around. I felt so sad. I looked back at him, “Holly who?” “You know who,” was the reply. It’s true, I knew who. It’s something I think we all already knew but was never spoken because it was just too uncomfortable – something that made you shift in your seat, divert your eyes and clear your throat. Why would she decide that was the best answer I wondered and then I wondered how amongst all the friends and family could we not anticipate this and then I wondered how well we really knew her, how well do we know anyone?

If you were to look at her Facebook profile update it won’t tell you she’s dead. Down in the list of people available to chat on Ben’s Facebook is Bjorn-Eivind, another friend passed away. In my email list of people signed-in is my old college room-mate, deceased now for over five years. While in the flesh these people no longer exist, they seem to be doing just fine in the cyber-world.

Fiberoptics, more intelligent technology – the military is constantly talking about these things as ways to improve weapons and communication. So, that perhaps a missile can be launched remotely and kill it’s target thousands of miles away and then what, update the victims profile to dead? In a world of fast cars, fast weapons, fast food, and fast internet connections we aren’t any closer to one-another, if anything we may be even more distant than ever. Locked into boxes in which we feed information – leaving quick comments to friends on vacation in Hawaii or a father who lives across the country – our lives can seem to just flash by without realizing. While these things make us feel like we are connected they’re mostly ways in which we can ease our desire for true connections – they give us the illusion of reaching out and touching the world.

The last time I saw Holly in person I could tell she was down. I offered the best advice I could and gave her a hug. We connected for real that day – eyes meeting one-another, all guards down; we experienced our humanness and it’s sadness. Perhaps I should have said more, told her I loved her, that she was beautiful, that every day is worth living. Perhaps I should tell all my friends and family these same words and while I could post it on Facebook or send it out as a mass text I want to look them all in the eyes, hold their hands and say it.

Evening in the van – our home on wheels. It’s nice to come back to something comfortable after falling off the project all day. Grand Illusion, oh you are an elusive climb to me! Ben has had the patience to belay me while I try. What a hard job it is to be the belayer – wanting to be supportive, to say the right things, to give advice, to just make them do it, you hope they do it so you don’t have to catch the fall, or have to come back again. And then they fall.

My best go of the day was my second attempt. I made it all the way to the end of the roof, past the last placement. Arms and body pumped – screaming to hold on – trying to keep it together but being blinded by the searing lack of blood flow to my arms. At the last jams before I bust out into the stem at the lip. The anchors, they are there, they are just right there. I feel frantic – tryin, tryING,TRYING to hold on and then whoosh….The air whips past me and I come to rest ten feet below. I hang there and then yell “FucK!” I hang some more – gain my composure and then start to pull up on the rope but I am too pumped and too far out. I meekly ask Ben to lower me. I arrive back on the ledge and sit down. Looking out across the hills to the burned out and cut down trees – snags lie all around. Highway 50 cuts through just below – cars buzzing by all day, all day. Some swifts practice their acrobatics – so graceful, so sure. I wish I could be so precise, so light as they. I struggle to untie my rope – my arms still pumped. I feel dejected and week. I feel incredibly tired. How badly I want to clip those anchors – how badly I try to visualize it all coming together in one harmonious dance. I can untie now and I lay back against the cold granite – humbled once again, longing still.

I tuck myself into my sleeping bag and try to push away the depression of failure. I get a text message from our dear friend Jon Gleason. It reads, “Did you send that shit?” I send a simple “NO” back – but my reception is spotty and the phone tells me” Failed to Send” Yea, I know – thanks. I try to send it again, it goes through. He responds with words of encouragement. I sort of feel better. Ben tries to leave me alone – I know its hard for him to. I think about when will I have the opportunity to come back and try again. I get a little gripped about timing, I feel frantic in my thoughts. Deep breath, ahhhhh. I settle with the fact that Sugarloaf lies just up hwy 50, a half a days drive away. I will have the chance to come back, I will have the chance to try again. And after all it’s fun – the unknown of when it will go, the process of it.