Silence and Success

In the bitter chill of a desert dawn, Jamie and I organize our hardware. The only sounds are clinking metal and the low roar of the stove. Although the scene is subdued, or minds silently race with thoughts of the adventure we are about to begin.

We've spent a week climbing the long, multipitch routes here at Red Rocks, Nevada. The desert has dried us out, made us lean and efficient. We feel confident to attempt one of the world's classic rock routes, 'Epinephrine'. There are 18 pitches, three of which are consecutive 5.9 chimneys. We plan a smooth, swift ascent of the 1,500-foot sandstone wall.

We'll climb on a 200-foot lead rope, and we'll carry our lightweight, 'seven-by-fifty' in reserve. Into a small camera bag we shove two bagels, a powerbar, a camera, a space blanket and a pack of matches. Jamie clips a liter of water to his harness. The rack is light: a full set of cams, an extra large cam, an extra medium cam, a set of stoppers, seven slings and fifteen carabieners. At the last moment we leave behind two of the smallest stoppers and one sling.

An hour and a half later we are deep in the underbrush crowding the gully below Epinephrine. We solo some easy rock to reach the rope-up point. We rope up in the darkness, and simulclimb the first few pitches.

A pause as I arrive at Jamie's perch, breathing hard. We are at the base of a gargantuan rock slab, the route proper, an enormous tombstone towering above us, blotting out most of the stars...it is intimidating. Jamie begins to lead again. It is just light enough to see.

A few minutes later I reach Jamie's stance atop a flake in the chimney; he hands me the rack, I clip on a few pieces I cleaned on the way up, and I set off to combine the two 5.9 chimneys above into a single lead. It is dark, frigid and still in the chimney, but outside, orange light, like molten metal, rises and brims on the distant horizon.

After a while I am grunting piggish in the slot where it is cool and dark -- while across the canyon, outside, it looks like the sandtone walls are melting in the gooey heat of sunrise. I can smell the rock beginning to warm. I continue upwards, using any and all techniques to gain elevation. I am ecstatic on this lead, feeling like Ulysses on some demented adventure: I know this will be a climbing experience I will never forget.

Jamie is at least 180 feet below me, out of sight. The rope drag is tremendous and I am just barely able to flop like a wounded seal onto a large, sandy belay ledge. Panting, I grin into the sand and let several precious seconds tick by. Then I gather myself, and build the belay.

Jamie comes up, and we move on, not stopping for food, water, or even a comment. We want to establish, early on today, that we will complete the route. Also, there is no good reason to stop. By 7:30 am we're on the eighth pitch.

At some point later I am following one of the best rock pitches I've ever climbed. It feels easier than 5.9. It's steep, the rock drops away for hundreds of feet beneath you and the holds are small, but perfect. Suddenly I reach the belay and again, as throughout the day, we speak just a few words; Jamie hands me the rack, and away I go...The pitch seems to pass in mere moments. Suddenly I am out of rope. I arrange a belay with my last pieces of gear and call down for Jamie to come up. As he climbs, the sun rises on the rock wall, unstoppable as rising water.

I'm panting in the blast of sunlight and heat, leaning out from the bombproof belay, listening to the creaks of nylon and the click of adjusting carabieners... and staring down at Jamie as he swiftly ascends the crack system. I look at my blackened hands, the dark, dry skin chipped and dotted with blood. That is the sign of a good experience. I blink away a drop of sweat and shift sideways as Jamie pulls himself up onto the stance, his bits of hardware glittering in the glare of sunlight. He clips in and leans out. "That's it, man," he says, spotting the last few pitches, seeing the large ramps we plan to follow up the last 700 feet to the summit. I look down at the canyon below...It's almost straight down, at least a thousand feet. We've come a long way since dawn... "Yeah. We've got it.".

We drink some lukewarm water, tasting of plastic. Jamie screws the cap on the bottle and leads off. Shortly afterwards, I follow, then lead the last technical pitches. We're on the exit ramps. We begin to simulclimb again. We are cautious, however: it's not over till you're back in camp.

Fifteen minutes later we are hiking up slabs just below the summit...still roped, we scramble up some 5.0 terrain, emerging from cool shade to the withering heat which seems to shrink your very scalp. Above, the Nevada sky hovers like a giant, flawless gemstone. A whip of hot air flicks sand up to grit in my teeth.

As I step on the summit I look at my watch: 12:30 pm. We've climbed the route in seven and a half hours; what's more important, we've done it without incident, and the day has been a lesson in commitment and efficiency. Our hike back to camp, involving no rappels or other dangers, finally allows us to talk and laugh freely. On the wall, it had not seemed right to speak; the point there was to simply climb. Jamie and I agree that this is the best rock route we've ever climbed.

Cameron McPherson Smith is a PHD candidate in Archaeology at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia. He is an accomplished mountaineer, climber and a long-time contributor to the literate climbing world.