Mindgames on the Rock

The Chief looms above the sea-green waters of Howe Sound in almost 2,300’ of towering black and white granite. Gaping gullies and tree-lined ledges cleave the face and a sweeping slab known as the “Apron” skirts a large portion of the dome’s base. The monolith, indisputable evidence that I’ve returned to Squamish, contains a lifetime of climbing in itself.

At the base of the Chief is nestled a walk-in campground. Tent platforms scatter along trails among towering firs and cedars and cushy moss, accompanied by bear boxes (there’s a certain resident ever-present terror this summer), a few pit toilets, and a miracle of a large covered cooking shelter equipped with picnic tables, spigots, and a single sweeping counter. On the fringe of the forest, old telephone posts driven into the ground provide framework for a slackline jungle gym overlooking the sound, next to which we cook meals in clear weather. Looking north, Mt. Garibaldi rises from the hills. Its glaciated dome and single point bring to mind a similar familiar view of the South Sister as it rides my memories.

Squamish provides a welcome ego boost. The granite’s geometry is easy to work with when placing gear, the grades are soft (meaning the same difficulty climb may receive a higher rating than elsewhere), and some pitches are simply cruising fun as I reach high, insert my fingers into a crack, sink into a constriction and know with absolute certainty that, no matter if my feet slip, my hand is locked into place and I’m not going anywhere. It’s these pitches that I absolutely love, especially when I’m hundreds of feet off the ground.

However, there’s also something to be said for the feeling of ringing triumphant disbelieving relief that comes at the end of a particularly spicy (mentally challenging) section of rock. When I simply can’t fall because I’m twenty feet beyond my last piece, there’s nowhere to place any gear, if I fall on the slab below there’s a solid chance that half my arm and leg will lose skin (at the least), I’ve got an ever-present niggling doubt that the last piece I placed will actually hold (even though when I put it in the rock I knew it was bomber), the rock is seeping water, I’m feeling exposed on insecure feet and moves that are a bit more technical than I really want to be making at the moment, and my hands are sweating in the sun and my calves cramping–– I guts up, take a breath, tell myself I’m going to damn well stay on the rock, and then I keep climbing…  When I finish the sequence and get an anchor built and clip in safe, profound elation makes itself known. This is how I build confidence and trust in myself.

And then there are climbs where I simply flail. I follow my partner up a climb called Split Beaver classified as an “off-width,” meaning it’s too wide to climb by shoving a fist into the crack and too narrow to fit my entire body into and treat as a chimney. Not only do I feel that these require the most brute full-body strength of any style (I’ve seen it described as a wrestling match with the rock), ascending them can also require an obscene degree of creativity. For the most part, I “chicken wing” my way up, throwing an arm in and exerting pressure against rock on opposite sides of the crack with my hand and elbow. Along the way I also throw my leg in to use as a lever (it becomes very stuck), “stack” hands against fists to extend their collective width, and tumble off the face. Repeatedly. I suppose it’s beneficial for my ego.

Some pretty awesome people swing through the area, as well: the day after climbing Split Beaver I attend a movie showing and guest presentation by Alex Honnold, a climber most famous for free soloing (climbing without a rope) various big walls. He’s down-to-earth, soft-spoken, happy to give advice, and freely talks about still finding himself in terrifying situations. It’s incredibly refreshing to realize that even though the guy does some things that are pretty out of this world, he is, in fact, still human.

When the rain comes, it hits as an unrelenting deluge. Slender clouds snake into the sound, hugging mountainsides and expanding to sock in the region. We retreat beneath the campground’s cook shelter, playing chess and cribbage, sharing music and simply connecting. When I go to sleep, the water pounds my skylight so loudly that I truly question whether the car will manage to shed the entirety.

By night, clanging metal rings up from the town’s shipyard as floodlights cast the Chief in a golden sheen. Communities truly form as food and drink and stories are shared, puppies are mooned over (Basil the Baby Basset Hound constantly stands on her own ears), debates initiated, climbing partnerships formed and back rubs traded. The big dipper and north star shine, ever-present points of light intermeshed among electric towers’ geometric struts. Falling stars appear by the minute, and time simply carries us forward.