by John Bachman

Preparation

It all started with a harmless Gchat on Thursday, November 30:

me: hey so this weekend
how should we work it
?
Matt: thats what i need to know soi can make other plans
me: well i'm down for both days
Matt: drive up saturday?
me: would we have enough time to do the prow?
Matt: you wanna hike twice, climb one/hike one?
to do the prow we would have to leave EARLY
insane retarded early
me: right so maybe we leave saturday and go do some aid at the north end or something
but that might be boring for you
and then hike sunday
Matt: OR we do the first three pitches of mordo wall
and sleep on the wall
for fun
then hike sunday
me: let me just make sure: you're serious, right?
Matt: yeah absolutelyt
there is a huge ledge
me: ok then i'm in
this is going to be the raddest ever
Matt: like big enough for four people tto camp
we can bring jet boil for food
and make soup
me: do we need shelter? like a little tent or something?
i don't have a bivy sack
Matt: i was thinking just bivy
i dont either
i dont know if there is room for a tent
the ledge is about 36" wide and 30 feet long
so a tent wont really fit
me: 36" wide?
Matt: yeah three feet
me: interesting
:)
Matt: :)
this is the best idea evar

After some more discussion of logistics, gear, etc., there was this fateful exchange:

me: one other thing
Matt: ]?
me: it's going to rain fri, 90%
Matt: ah
me: one trip report i read says the last pitches get sheets of water
Matt: hmm
nice
well we can stick with the first three idea
and rap off and hike
me: yeah
Matt: im excited
weeeee
i mean
me: yeah me too
Matt: wiiiiiiiiii
me: lol

And so the plan was made. At the gym on Thursday I pick up my brand new aiders from Dennis with the advice: "Don't die." On Friday I arrive at the GHG with all my gear for a round of packing. We hem and haw over a few items. Do we need water bottle parkas? A groundsheet in case the ledge is damp? I am adamant about bringing my bulky fleece pants. The haulbag isn't quite big enough for all our gear, so we overflow into my Bullet pack and plan on hanging it below the haulbag along with a gallon of water.

We don't quite get everything sorted out, but we're getting antsy to start off so we shove stuff into the half-packed haulbag, throw everything into the car and head for Gavin's, as Matt had to get a rental agreement notarized there. At Gavin's we debate whether or not we need a hammer or bivy sack. We decline the bivy sack, realizing that it's pointless if we only have one, but I ultimately take Gavin up on his offer of a hammer--I'm not looking forward to cleaning any of Matt's rock-placed pitons with a rock, or my bare hands. With no reservations Gavin takes his hammer off the wall and drills a racking hole in the handle with the same vicious Paul Bunyan-like intensity that we first witnessed when he murdered logs in the Adirondacks with a hatchet.

We pick up some food and water from the supermarket near Gavin's house. As we start to head north, I catch sight of the exit to 95, which we have just passed on 93 north. "Is it 95 or 93 that goes to North Conway?" I ask. Matt: "I'm not sure.." Me: "We can call Gavin." Matt reaches for his phone and realizes it's missing. Confusion. We call Gavin on my phone, who obligingly goes out into the rain, and finds Matt's phone in the grass in front of his house. We turn around to pick it back up, fortunately we hadn't gone that far.

On the ride up, conversation drifts to various topics: the climb, girls, the GHG, the climb...during silences we both find ourselves thinking about what we're headed for. At one point we agree that we're not going to talk about the climb any more, hoping to avoid the anticipation and anxiety. I achieve moments when I completely forget about it, but then I remember it again, and find myself trying to imagine what it will be like when, on my first aid lead ever, I have to work my way up a ladder of sketchy bashies. And what will the bat hooking part be like? Wait, remember that thing we said we're not going to talk about?

All of a sudden Matt slams on the brakes and pulls a u-turn. "I just had the best idea I've ever had in my life," he says. We had just driven by the road leading to his aunt's condo by Lake Ossipee, where his mother and his aunt are staying for the weekend. Matt hasn't been there in years, and calls his dad to ask him which unit it is. Worst case we knock on the wrong door and wake up a stranger, right? Fortunately he guesses right and we are welcomed in to a warm house with heat, fire, beds, and chamomile tea. This is far, far better than a rainy campsite off the Kancamagus highway.

At one point as the four of us sip tea and half-watch a television show about today's sexually active elderly, Matt casually jokes that we shouldn't even be sleeping in beds, we should at least be sleeping on the floor (for Mark Twight points, presumably). I respond, "actually we should probably be sleeping on a narrow table or something..." and as I say it, Matt turns his face to me and with big eyes shakes his head intently, as I realize that his mom is not aware of our plans for the next day and night...I quickly backtrack and the comment goes unnoticed.

We get ready for bed, planning for a 5:20 wake-up. When I flip open my phone to set the alarm clock, I am greeted by a headline from CNN.com: "Wind adds to misery of ice, snow." It's a story about the winter storm in the midwest, but it seems like an ominous foreshadowing to our climb tomorrow. I show the headline to Matt, and we laugh nervously. We go to sleep.

The Climb

We drive up to the base, stopping by Dunkies to pick up some breakfast along the way. We arrive at Cathedral, which is naturally deserted, and start to pack up the haulbag for real....extra gloves and hats, sleeping bags, puffies, soup packets, Mountain House, Jetboil and fuel, useful items, cameras, and those fleece pants are coming, goddamit. Water goes into bottles; ropes are flaked out and coiled. It's dawn now, and we realize time is passing, but we haven't completed our preparations yet. Finally the bag is packed, the bullet pack and water jug are clipped underneath it, and I put it on, feeling incredibly awkward. Matt hoists the rack and we make the 100-yard approach.

As we approach, I hear a sound like a stream running. "Is that the sound of water?" I wonder aloud. "No," Matt says firmly, and I understand his meaning. "You're right, I don't hear it either."

When we arrive at the base, we can see that there's water running down in several places. "Looks like the route's pretty wet," I offer inconclusively. "I don't see any water," Matt says. "Right, right, I don't see it either." I am learning already that the relationship between climbing partners is largely based on upholding comforting and expedient illusions (where necessary). This lesson will be reinforced throughout the day.

Despite the three Pepto Bismol tablets Matt had given me to harden my insides for the climb, I'm finding myself a bit gassy this morning. Shortly after I get my harness on I realize that there's no getting around it---I have to shit. I do so, with all the awkwardness that shitting in the woods on a rocky slope invariably involves. I return to the base feeling much better; Matt is almost finished racking up. Finally I'm ready, he's ready, tied in, everything double-checked; we give each other a pound and Matt starts to step up onto a small ledge to make the first hook move. Suddenly he stops. "Oh man," he says. "I have to take a shit." A pause as we both wonder if this is the real deal. "Really?" I ask. A pause. "Yes, definitely." He steps down off the ledge, drops the rack, and walks off into the woods, trailing the still-tied-in ropes. I am amused. I see his head sticking out above a rock, and get out my camera to capture the absurdity of this moment. Matt finally abandons the awkwardness of his harness and goes further into the woods to find a better spot. Moments later, I hear him call out "That was the biggest shit I've ever taken in my life." "Take a picture," I say. He does.

Finally we're ready. Matt steps up and places a hook. We are really doing this, now. Matt mentions that it's only after the first few placements that it all really starts to sink in and your mind makes the adjustment. He's low to the ground on shaky gear so I act more as a spotter than a belayer. It's slow going, but after a few more placements he's up into the expando part of the flake. We talk back and forth as he makes his way across. When he gets to the vertical part of the crack, I'm cold and not as focused on Matt as I was at the start of the climb. This aid climbing is slow business.

Whatever Matt is on right now, it's making him nervous. "Hey man, if I fall all the way back to the red alien, will I hit the ground?" I scan the crack for the red alien and spot it at the base of the crack. He's got plenty of room below. "No," I call back. "Are you sure?" "Positive." I look down from Matt for a minute. All of a sudden I hear a pop and look up at Matt. He looks terrified and is panting, but hasn't fallen. His fifi hook probably shifted on the clip-in biner again. "Was it the fifi again?" I ask confidently. Matt regains words. "The rock just exploded in my face, and the cam dropped...it caught lower down in the crack...it's only in on two lobes." I don't quite understand. Suddenly Matt drops a fist-sized shard of rock down from his lap. It clatters at the base.

My mind is blown. I pant nervously, speechless. Matt has my full attention. I watch as he very, very carefully reaches down to the rack and selects a nut. He places the nut. Everything is very slow, very smooth. Finally he is off the cam. A harrowing whipper is avoided.

Time continues to pass as Matt finishes the lead, complaining about the sketchy nut placements that he's being forced to rely on. I check the time: 11:26. Oh man, it's late already. "How do you feel about leading the third pitch in the dark?" I call up. "Why, what time is it?" Matt says, and I tell him. Silence for a bit. "What you should really have asked me is how I feel about following pitch two in the dark." Hmm, will it really come to that, I wonder?

I am restless and excited as I wait to start the climb. I am looking forward to finally trying this jugging thing I've read about so many times. I joke with Matt: "I'm gonna go for speed. Should I race the haulbag?" Matt: "If you beat the haulbag here I will do anything you want." Finally all is rigged and ready, and I hoist myself up off the ground on my ascenders. Before long I am spinning around and flailing uncontrollably, laughing at myself and the absurdity of the idea that I could beat the pig to the belay. When I get to the first piece in the traversing crack, I struggle helplessly. Unclipping the upper ascender while standing in the lower aiders feels incredibly insecure. Then once I'm back on the upper ascender, the goddam lower ascender won't release! How am I going to un-tension the rope? As I try to lower myself out onto the next piece on the adjustable daisy I realize I tied my backup knot way too short (out of fear) and it's now pulling on the rope, trapping me between the pieces. I quickly learn that I have to take all my weight off the previous piece and step out of the aiders before I can clean it. I clip my aider in direct to the next piece, just like the books say, and it works. I reach back, at full extension, and clean the previous piece. A small victory.

The next pieces are similar, but they get easier and easier each time. It feels like time is flying by, but as I am working my way across to the vertical crack Matt calls down encouragingly, "You're flying man!" "Thank you," I mumble. I get to Matt's crappy nuts, which I can see now were barely in the edge of the crack. They pull out with a single upward yank. Good god.

As I get to the top Matt has me pause for a few photos. When I arrive at the anchor I am confused and a bit nervous as I realize I have to lead now. We re-rack; Matt sets up the bosun's chair; Matt puts me on belay; I attach the hooks to my aiders. I look up at the next pitch. "Where's the first hook hole?" I ask. Matt points to it. It looks impossibly small. "Am I going to have to use that rivet?" I ask next, spotting a brown metal stub sticking out a few feet further on. The answer is obviously yes.

Am I really doing this? It seems that way. We double check everything and I step up and across the anchor to place the first hook. I am pleasantly surprised. The hook holes point down and even have a lip keeping the hook from pulling outward. I shift my weight onto it slowly, carefully. I'm on the hook now. It feels solid; I have to remind myself not to take it for granted. Matt advises me not to stick my butt out so far so as not to pull out on the piece. When I clip the first bolt, Matt calls out: "...and we get to live."

The rest of the hook traverse goes slowly but smoothly and is even fun. I futz around with my aiders, trying to keep them from getting twisted, getting slightly more efficient as I go across. The face is wet, and my gloves are getting soaked, but I am still mostly dry. Matt calls out occasional encouragement, which is much appreciated. I speak only with difficulty as I am so focused on each hook move. This kind of pure, prolonged concentration is rare.

Matt calls out to me to ask me how many bolts I have left in the traverse. I'm only one move away from the last bolt. "Only one," I call back, "and then there's some kind of wire sticking out of the rock after the bolt...OH GOD." It suddenly dawns on me with shocking force that the tiny wire around the corner is not a leftover rivet hanger or a fixed nut, it is the first of the bashies, which I had forgotten about during my complete absorption in the hooking process. Matt laughs as he realizes that he just witnessed my mind getting blown.

I look up and see a frighteningly long line of these wires, stretching up to a bolt that must be 20 feet away. A 40 foot whipper...with all this gear, standing awkwardly in aiders...don't want to think about that.

Once I'm on the first bashie, I winch myself up and look at it. It looks old and weathered, almost like it's a natural part of the rock. One the hand it makes me feel a little better that it seems so fused to the rock, but on the other hand...I decide I'm not going to look at any of these bashies if I can avoid it. I look up and spot the wire of the next bashie. It seems impossibly far away. Am I going to have to place a bird beak or some other absurdity? Up until now I haven't had to step any higher in my aiders than the third step. I wonder out aloud, but Matt reassures me that I'll be able to reach it when I step up. I work my way up and struggle in the second steps; it's awkward and balancey. My whole body tightens as I strain upwards for the wire, holding the gate of the carabiner open as I try to hook it. The wire flops around uncooperatively. "Come on, John! Come on!" Matt cheers me on as if we were bouldering. The encouragement is just what I need as I hold the position and finally manage to hook the wire and sag back on the daisy. Thank god.

It's slow going, but finally I reach the bolt at mid-height. Inwardly I know that the bolt makes me safer but despite the newfound security I still feel pretty exposed. More bashies.

I am only a few bashies from the anchor when I hear Matt yell "Oh fuck me!" Matt had earlier described to me a cardinal rule of aid climbing: that you don't yell cavalierly "oh shit" or something similar unless something really serious has happened, because it freaks your partner out. So this must be serious. "What is it?" I call back. "We forgot to give you the haul line," he says.

Oh shit.

I look back at the traversing pitch over at Matt as I try to understand what this means. It could be a trip-ender at best. "Well, worst case we rap off and bail from where we are, right?" I ask. "How are you going to rap with only one rope?" Matt responds. Shit, this could be serious. My mind explores a few alternatives but I realize I can't think about this yet. I'm still standing on a bashie! "I can't think about that right now, try to figure something out and we'll talk when I get to the anchor," I call back. Matt agrees. It's getting late and it's very clear that Matt will, after all, be following pitch 2 in the dark. And we have all of pitch 3 to go before the ledge.

I get to the anchor. There must be a solution to this, there always is. I wonder if we can use the solo aid technique of hoisting the bag off a releasable fifi hook. I call back to Matt to see if he has any ideas yet. He's working on something. Soon Matt calls up to me and tells me to start pulling on the rope. Aha! He must have attached the haul line to the lead line, expecting that there'd be enough rope left to pull the whole thing through. But wait, then the haul line is going to go through all the draws---how is this going to work? And how is the knot going to get through all the draws?

I start pulling, look back at the far anchor, and can see the haul line being pulled through the first draw. Matt lets out a whoop: "It worked! I am a fucking GENIUS!" I keep pulling smoothly and watch as the ropes, which I can see now have been duct taped together, work their way up and across the face to the crack below me. Before long I have the end in my hand; I tie it off so I won't drop it (that would be very, very bad) and work on the duct tape. Damn, Matt really taped the crap out of this thing--he even added extra tape so there would be a smooth leading edge where the ropes were attached. Nice work. Now what though? "I can lower the bag out from each bolt," Matt calls up. "It's gonna suck for me, but you get to haul normally."

As he continues to work at the lower anchor, I'm setting up my first big wall anchor, complete with multiple equalized attachment points. At one point I go to unrack a double-length sling to use as a clip-in point, and as I pull it off the biner, I realize that it was not one sling, but two, and I am now watching the loose single-length sling float down through the air below me, my first piece of dropped gear. Oh shit. Not an extremely serious mistake, but definitely one to shake the confidence.

And yet still, I watch as improbably, miraculously, and yet somehow inexorably, the sling drifts below and lands precisely in the loop of lead rope hanging below me. My mind is blown. "It landed in the rope! Ha!" I start to pull it up, slowly, smoothly. As it gets closer I can see that not only did it miraculously land in the middle of the rope, it folded itself perfectly in half over the rope, so that it is able to balance and slide over the loop of rope as I hoist it up. Higher, higher...and then it's back within reach. Though on a small scale, this is one of those chance events, I realized, that you read about in climbing stories all the time: a rope somehow tying itself in a figure-eight knot as it's being pulled on rappel (bad), or a rope somehow looping itself over a flake, saving an otherwise-doomed falling climber (good).

I let out a whoop when I get the sling back. Matt is psyched. "Man, we are getting so lucky," he yells back. "Mark Twight is on our side." I don't feel particularly lucky, but it is certainly a better spin to put on the situation than the alternatives. Comforting and expedient illusions.

I finish rigging the anchor, acutely aware that Matt's life hangs on my setting up the jugging line correctly. It's simple, just a sling with some locking biners and figure eight knots, but I feel that I can't check it too many times.

Once my work on the anchor is finally done, and it is Matt's turn to suffer below, I finally turn to take in the view for the first time all day. It is beautiful, with the sun setting and the lights coming on in the valley below. As the sky darkens, we realize that we have a full moon to illuminate our struggle, which is very comforting. My position is mind-blowing, hanging from these three bolts over the valley as night approaches. At one point Matt calls up, without me saying anything, "It's pretty amazing." We're thinking the same thing.

As I look out over the trees, I start to realize that this is the most "extreme" thing I have ever done, not necessarily in terms of risk or physical effort, but certainly in terms of the prolonged exposure to fear, and the level of mental and emotional control required. I also sense the absurdity of it all, of climbing in general and of our position on this wall in particular.

And yet, as I find myself starting to consider the big picture of the whole experience, I start to find it too much, a little too overwhelming. I have to bring my attention back to the small things, the things that are directly in front of me, relevant and immediate: my tie-in knot; my cold hands; and the anchor, the anchor, the anchor. I make a mental note to process the big picture later. I call down to Matt, "I can't really see what you're doing anymore so I think I'll just check the anchor for the 15th time." Pause. "You know, I can't really say I'm against that," he says dryly.

It's dark now, and Matt has begun the traverse. I can't see what he's doing anymore, but it sounds miserable. I see his headlamp go on and off; I hear the haulbag skitter across the face; I hear him swear. He yells up something about the tagline, but I don't really hear or understand it. I'll ask him later. Occasionally Matt calls up to me to haul. I have set up a leg haul, and I stand up in the aider to winch the bag up, but find it doesn't move. Am I doing this wrong? Matt hoisted the bag from the first pitch so easily. Am I that weak? Every now and then the bag surges upwards. Matt must be helping it up. After a few rounds of this I call out to ask if the bag is getting stuck. "No, it's not stuck dude, there's just so much rope drag from the haul line going through all the draws," Matt yells up from the void. "When the bag moves, that's because I'm lifting it up myself." Duh. Somehow in the darkness I had forgotten about all the rope drag.

At one point I yell down to Matt: "Are you leading the third pitch or am I?" When I ask this, I have already implicitly assumed that Matt will lead the third pitch; it's late, it's dark, and Matt is faster and more experienced, hence he is obviously leading the third pitch, right? I am surprised by his response: "I don't know, what do you think?" I realize he hasn't come to the same conclusion, and I find myself considering the possibility of leading again. The third pitch is my pitch, after all. If Matt is willing to let me lead it, then I should lead it. Bolt ladder to A1 crack. Can't be that bad, right? The gear placements are supposed to be "better than bolts." I know I can do this. And if I can do this, I can't let my nerves make me back down. If I back out, regardless of the outcome, I will always remember that I copped out and made my partner do more than his fair share just because I let my fear run away with me....Bolt ladder to A1 crack....So what if it's dark?...This thinking process takes some time, but eventually I come to terms with it: I will lead the next pitch. Let your fear propel you upward rather than down. Punch through the belay.

The hauling and traversing goes on and on. Every bolt passed is a boost to Matt's morale. "Small victories, John, small victories," I hear him say after each one. "Are you using the Deucy method?" I ask Matt at one point, referring to a technique of following traverses, as named by John Long. "What the hell is the Dookie method?" I think I hear him say. Inwardly I find this very amusing, but don't mention it.

I struggle to make myself comfortable at the belay, alternately hanging from my harness with my hip against the dripping wet wall, and standing in an aider with my right foot. The aider is more comfortable, at least until my foot starts to go numb and I have to hang on my harness to unweight it. It's cold now, and though I'm not shivering, I look forward to every haul as an opportunity to warm up again. My leather gloves are soaked and my exposed fingertips are cold. I periodically swing my arms around myself and do arm circles in an effort to get the blood flowing again. The water is in my shoes now. I start to notice that there is ice on the rope. Wow, I guess it's actually pretty cold.

When I finally look back down I am surprised to see Matt just below me. He jugs up to the belay and we work through the confusion of getting everything clipped in and organized. Will we bail or will we push on to the ledge, where we will find redemption, hot food and sleeping bags? And I don't know what Matt's thinking, but I don't have it in me to suggest bailing after he suffered through that miserable traverse. Matt and I look up into the dark, trying to see the ledge. "Is it that one?" I ask, looking at a roof-like formation a horrifying distance away. "No it's that one right there," Matt says, pointing instead to a formation up and right that looks incredibly close. If it's that close then we can definitely make it, I think. "Are you sure?" I ask. "I'm sure," he says. "Oh man, then we're fucking going," I say, fired up now.

I am determined, but still a bit unnerved that I have to lead again. Bolt ladder to A1 crack. My fingers are really numb now, and I decide that I have to change to other gloves if I'm going to continue. I put on windstopper fleece gloves and almost immediately my hands feel warm. The warmth boosts my confidence and I get ready to go. I stand up in my aiders off the anchor and reach the first bolt in the bolt ladder. I am dismayed to find that the next bolt is unnervingly far away. I haven't had to top-step all day, but I realize I may have to learn now. I am not too happy about this, but there is no alternative. I strain up, hoping I don't fall backwards, and manage to get the carabiner nose through the bolt. When I am on the second bolt and headed for the third, I realize I haven't clipped the rope in to any of the bolts yet. That's bad, and a bad sign. But I don't let myself worry about it. I clip a draw in to the second bolt and move on; the first one is out of reach already.

My fleece gloves, which were so wonderfully dry and warm when I started out at the belay, are already soaking wet. Instinctively I put the gloves in my mouth and suck the icewater out of them and spit it out. Matt must be perplexed by this sound, but he doesn't ask me what I'm doing and I don't offer any explanation. The water-sucking seems to help a bit, so I keep doing it. But before too long I decide I need to take things a step further and take the gloves off and wring them out. I am amazed to see how much water comes out. Putting the gloves back on after wringing them out is a struggle, but is well worth it for the boost in warmth. I repeat for the other hand.

I continue like this for a while. It's slow going: an unnerving top step to a high bolt, work a few steps up and then hang; wring out the left glove and put my hand behind my neck to warm it up; put the glove back on; repeat for right hand; then walk up in the aider to reach the next bolt. Matt calls up "This is some hero shit man, you will be looked upon favorably in the trip report." "Really? Thank you," I mumble again, very thankful for the confidence boost. I feel like I'm epicking, but continue to push myself upwards.

At one point I realize I've put one of my daisies through the tail of my other daisy. This is trouble: I can't unclip the daisy to fix it because I'm already weighting it. I realize I have to clip myself in direct to the bolt and wiggle the daisy off of the biner to get it free. It's slightly nerve-wracking being attached to the bolt by just a quickdraw, but that's the least of my worries right now, and besides, I'm protected by all the bolts below. I manage to free everything and rig back up to continue, but my enthusiasm is waning.

Eventually I look up and can see that I have only one bolt left before the crack. The crack looks like a big reach above the last bolt, and I am dreading the idea of a blind gear placement in the dark from the top steps. I haven't had to place any gear all day, so I'm not exactly in the zone. Hell, I haven't had to place any gear since October, when I placed three pieces on Whitehorse. At the same time I can now see that the ledge that we spotted from the belay is most definitely not the one we're heading for. The climb heads left, away from the ledge, and plus, the pitch is supposed to be 120 feet long, and I've only done seven bolts, which means there is a lot of crack to climb up ahead. My mind balks. Am I really doing this?

Matt and I talk. "How are you doing?" he asks. I tell him that I think the ledge is much further away than we thought. "We should make a decision," he says. I think out loud: "Well, there's a lot of crack left to go, and I'm not looking forward to placing gear in the dark, and I'm really wet, and even if we do get up there, if the ledge is wet then our bags will get wet and we'll be in trouble." Matt: "I'm pretty sure the ledge will be wet, considering that the whole wall is running with water." I know he's right. I am miserably wet, but still fairly warm from all the physical struggle. However, I imagine myself arriving at the top belay and think about how long I will have to wait until we can get the haulbag up, pinned to the anchor without a puffy jacket or a sleeping bag. I will freeze.

Matt continues, "The other thing is, if we do get up there, I'm pretty sure I won't survive the night." He says it so dryly, calmly, that it takes me a moment to realize what he's just said. I suddenly have conflicting feelings of concern and relief. Concern because I didn't know Matt was in such rough shape, and relief because I know that this means that we are definitely getting off this thing. And yet Matt continues quietly, "...unless you feel really strongly about continuing, in which case..." What?! The idea of continuing after a statement like that is obscene. Is he crazy? We're getting off this thing. When I think of how much work we put in, our creative problem solving with the haulbag fiasco, our persistence in the face of darkness and wetness, I do feel a twinge of disappointment, but this feeling is overwhelmed by the feelings of relief that the ordeal will soon be over.

I make ready to be lowered off the bolt I'm on. It takes some doing to free the biner that has my aiders on them, but I manage it after some struggle. Matt lowers me to the next bolt and I clip the rope into it as a backup. Matt lowers me the rest of the way as I tram in to the rope with a quickdraw. I feel like I'm cleaning a sport route. "Just like Rumney!" I tell Matt, and we both laugh at the absurdity of that statement.

Back at the anchor, we get ready to descend. We make a pact not to fuck up and die. And so we proceed, talking the whole process out deliberately, checking each other. Slowly our escape unfolds: we attach ourselves to the anchor, free the rope, and tie it through the rap rings. I will rap first and give Matt a fireman's belay as he rappels down with the haulbag attached to his harness. I am a bit spooked by the idea of rappelling down in the dark by headlamp, so I take the step of tying knots into the end of the rappel rope. But when we drop the rope, I notice that there's no tug on the anchor. "That means it hit the ground," I exclaim, pleased. We repeat for the haul line, and it also disappears with no tug. "Rope!" I call, joking, as if there is a crowd of people below who might get hit.

Finally I am rigged and ready. Inwardly I am glad to be going first. I rappel down and catch sight of the bashies I climbed earlier. There are icicles hanging off of the wires. Damn, I guess it's pretty cold. I call up to Matt "There's ice on the bashies," and he mumbles something back. I continue lowering, temporarily unnerved as the rappel becomes free-hanging, and remind myself to focus on the rope ends, to develop good habits if nothing else. Soon I am down. The ground feels strange beneath my feet. I quickly free myself and call up to Matt that I am off rappel.

I give Matt a fireman's belay as he descends. As he passes the bashies, I hear him shout, "Holy shit, there are icicles, I didn't realize what you meant! Hold me while I take a picture." Before long he is on the ground again, with the pig dangling underneath his harness.

We are safe, but neither of us is ready to rejoice yet. We still have to get the ropes down and get all the gear back to the car, which is no small feat in our present state. We have been on the wall for 12 or more hours, during which time I have had less than a half-liter of water to drink and only a single Clif bar to eat. I am doing surprisingly well, but I am waiting for the other shoe to drop and reach complete exhaustion.

Pulling the ropes down turns out to be serious toil. It requires us to take turns hauling with an ascender, dragging the rope out as we lean back and walk down the hill. I am desperate to drop the rack, which suddenly feels crushingly heavy, despite the fact that I've been wearing it for hours with relatively little discomfort; but I know that it will be more work to take it off and put it on again than just to leave it on. Finally the ropes are down. Coiling the ropes also turns out to be serious toil. My shoulders burn as I drape the strands over my neck.

We make it back to the car, which is fortunately still there (small victories). I free myself from the crushing weight of the rack and my harness, which floods me with an overwhelming feeling of relief. We pack hastily, and I shove the haulbag unceremoniously into the car. The water jug we hauled has sprung a leak and needs to be disposed of, but in our dehydrated state we end up chugging nearly the entire gallon before dumping the remainder out. Finally the time comes for mutual congratulations, marking the end of the adventure. A fist-to-fist pound or a handshake doesn't seem to do justice to this experience. We give each other a hug.

As we drive away, we start to process. Matt tells me more about his ordeal following the traverse; I tell him about the waterlogged third pitch. We start to unfold all the the thoughts we had been having at different times along the climb; we describe the fear and the focus we both experienced. We speed toward food and warmth.

Afterword

That night we had a feast at Horsefeathers in North Conway, complete with boozy hot chocolate. Matt is adamant that we need to start drinking heavily before the weekend is through, otherwise we may never climb again. "Aid climbers need to have short memories," he says. It is strange to be back in the world with normal people, who will never understand the experience we just had or even care about it.

Somewhere along the way I am starting to notice that despite the fact that they are warm again, my fingertips still fill leathery and tingly. Could I really have gotten frostnip? My hands did go numb a few times, but I thought I rewarmed them. The wetness and water lulled me into thinking that they wouldn't freeze, I guess. I know that there's no serious damage, but the leathery feeling is unnerving. Matt confesses that he hasn't regained sensation in his thumbs yet.

We return to the condo, hoping to arrive before Matt's mom and aunt are asleep. The 14 mile drive is a struggle for both of us, as we are desperately tired now. Matt is hitting the wall, and I am very close, unable to fix my eyes on a single point. Even when we arrive, there is still more work to be done--if we are hiking tomorrow we'll need dry clothes, so I hang up all my wet gear by the wood stove downstairs. I change into dry pants. I clean the cheese and broccoli soup powder out of my Bullet pack (some of the packets didn't make it). Finally I am done, and collapse in a heap in the living room. My legs feel dead. I am a bit skeptical about the idea of going hiking the next day, but not ruling it out.

The next day we sleep late; I wake Matt up at 10:45. It is a gorgeous day, and we decide to go hiking after all. We plan to run up the short but steep Caps of the Ridge Trail on Mt. Jefferson. If we don't make the summit, so be it, but at least we'll get a view today.

On the way up, we stop at Dunkie's again. We are greeted by the same woman as yesterday. "So where did you guys go yesterday?" she asks. "We were up at Cathedral Ledge," I reply. "Oh, so you were climbing with the hooks and everything?" "Yep!" We both respond. I am amused. Any other day this comment would have been a non-climber's reference to carabiners, but in this case, we literally had been climbing on hooks...

The drive to the trailhead takes over an hour. We rig up for a fast and light hike, bringing little extra gear. Matt is crushed when he realizes he cannot find one of his boot liners, but a cell phone call to Pete reveals that it got dropped on the stairs when we were packing the car.

The hike goes quickly, but we realize we are running out of time and are climbing into increasingly steep and exposed ground above treeline. We agree to turn around if it looks like we won't have enough time to make it back down below the steep parts while it's still light out. After we make a wrong turn onto the Cornice trail and have to backtrack, we realize that it's time to bail; we've made good time on a spectacular day and have no regrets. The descent is rushed but successful; we return to the car, pause for a few photographs of a spectacular moonrise over Jefferson, and cook up some Mountain House in the parking lot.

To the GHG! The return trip goes uneventfully, unless you count a raucous rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. Back in Somerville, we clean out the car and carry everything upstairs; we spread all the gear out on the carpet to rerack it; inspect and untangle ropes. Looking at all the gear spread out in piles in front of us, I realize that we have a real big wall rack, the kind that I used to marvel at in pictures on rockclimbing.com. That's us now.

The night goes on, and we watch climbing movies, surf the Fish website to look at haulbags and portaledges, and drink more beer. At 1am it dawns on me that the weekend is over. With any luck, I'll forget enough of it to want to try Mordor Wall again.

Racking up at the GHG (J)

John caught in the "Orgy of Aluminum and Nylon" (M)

Racking up at the base (J)

Cathedral ledge at golden hour (J)

The haulbag with everything hanging from it (J)

The first pitch. It's two or three tenuous moves to the expando flake which is the horizontal section in the photo; then the crack goes up vertically to the belay which is at the top of the corner (J)

Still racking up at the base (J)

Matt attempting to crap while still tied in to the ropes (J)

Matt about to start across the expando flake (J)

Matt working his way up the vertical crack. The bolt before the belay is barely visible at the top of the corner (J)

Matt at the first belay, trailing the haul line (J)

The long line of shady gear runs all the way down to John (M)

Textbook aid anchor you can see the haul line from hell still clipped on the right... (M)

Yes John, it is a big scary world of aid climbing up here (M)

John looks strangely calm seeing as he is hanging on an old rivet (M)

Looking back towards Matt from just below the second belay, down the line of bashies and across the bathook traverse towards the first belay (J)

Self-portrait at the second belay (J)

The view from the second belay, late in the day (J)

Matt arriving at the second belay in full darkness and readying the bosun's chair (J)

Self-portrait by headlamp (J)

"OK Matt, let's look happy for this one." (J)

mmmm MMMMM mmmm bashie popsicles for dessert (M)

Matt at the first cap with Jefferson in the background (J)

The view to the south from the first cap (J)

John at the first cap (J)

Jefferson summit at the trail split (M)

Jefferson summit at the trail split (M)

Mt. Washington in the background (M)

The "Caps of the Ridge" (M)

The sunset from the first cap, on our way down (J)

Matt looking out at the sunset (J)

Moonrise over Jefferson (M)

Back at the GHG alive and well, hmmm maybe just alive... (M)

by Matt Mendonza

OH SHIT!

Screeeeeeecccccchhhh, the tire squealed as I cut the car hard to the left across the road and into a parking lot.

John looks at me like I am crazy and says "What happened?"

I had just remembered where I was. That gas station and the little shady diner jostled my memory and the condo on the lake seemed to bubble to the surface mixing with earlier days phone calls about my mother and aunt coming up for the weekend. John and I were heading to North Conway in the rain looking for a opportune spot to bivy and the thoughts of the ski lodge pulled us down a dark road and past the lake. I pulled the car up to a row of identical looking condos and realized I had little idea where to go. I decided on a condo that seemed to be right and rang the bell and lucky stars we had a warm wood fire and some chamomile tea and happy thoughts of aid to drift off to sleep with. The alarm woke me less then 5 hours later, groggy and tired i suited up and soon john was cajoling me to hurry up. We hit the road and a fortunate dunkin donuts to caffeinate and eat something although my nervous stomach didn't want any food.

Arriving at the gas station on the road to cathedral we tried to get that last big wall poop out becasue we weren't bringing a wall john and would just have to hold it, so after some time, we finally arrived at the parking lot and were ready to go gear up and go.

Speaking of gear as I flash back to the previous night. John arrived at my house at 5ish and we needed to do a quick gear organizing and pack the haul bag. I banked on a quick 30 minute stop and we would bounce, but the aid gods were not shining on us. The cluster fuck factor (which is an intrinsic aid climbing constant much like the speed of light or planks number) started to multiply itself across all the gear and soon it was 7 o'clock and we were stuck in an orgy of aluminum and nylon. We decided we had to leave now regardless and we would deal with the shit later and started throwing gear in the car. On top of the aid gear we were winter hiking sunday and did i mention planning to sleep on the wall? so the gear was plentiful and merry. We managed to just barely fit all the requisite gear in the haul bag and were congratulating ourselves when we realized neither our puffies nor any water was in the bag. Fuck it, it will work out later and we were off, a quick stop at gavins to get a letter notorized (no, it was not my will) and gav offers a bivy and a hammer, i try to decline both but john is insistent that he will not be able to clean my pins without one, gav donates his hickory hammer and drills a kepper hole in it for us and we are off, until i realize i cant find my cell phone, john calls gav and he finds in outside in the grass in the rain, we head back to gavs to get he phone which turns out to be a good thing cause we forgot how to get to cathedral and had been headed up route 93 instead of 95, anyway now we are REALLY off, we back to where i was...

we spend way to much time racking up and packing the haul bag. and the bag that goes under the haul bag, and the gallon of water that goes under the bag that goes under the haul bag, and the pee bottle and as a last minute thing a roll of duck tape under all that, oh yeah and the bosun's chair cause hanging belays can go fuck themselves. We each now weigh and extra 70 or so pounds and we start the trudge up to the cliff.

"Do you hear water?" John asks
"No" i reply
"are you sure it sounds like a waterfall or a stream"
"Nope there is NO WATER" followed by a knowing look "do you hear any water???"
"not anymore..."

we arrive at the base and notice something that some might call a river, or others a torrent, running down mordor wall. we thought it might be a little damp and were undaunted. shells were donned purely as a theoretical precaution, ropes flaked, rack on, we were ready to go, except john had to poop, and ran off into the woods, GAH man i can only keep this false self confidence up for so long we need to go go go, john returns i take the first step and, yeah i need to poop too, i run off with ropes attached convinced i don't need to spend 10 minutes to unrack and 10 more reracking, thats what they make the leg loops droppable for right? wrong. unrack poop rerack and we are off for real. I launch into the crux which starts from the very first placement, a hook to a rivet, to a small cam on some slimey moss gets me into the expando flake, (for those not in the know expando flakes are no securely attached to the wall and will expand when weighted, so nuts and cams no longer fit or they fall out.) I move quickly through the dripping water and with no major events just normal aid sketch and make the vertical crack where i assumed everything would be easier, i assumed incorrectly. About five moves up this crack i joke with john about how the .3 blue camalot is about to be used even though i told him it was dumb and not to to buy it, i bounce test, all is well and i step onto it. I am working on placing a nut when all of a sudden pop, a rock hits me in the face, and i start falling, then just a suddenly i slam to a stop and self asses. face is ok, fear level is high lets get that under control, good, breath, check the piece, HOLY FUCK, john chuckles at me not understanding yet, i try to explain but my mind is racing, i cant talk, i feel the rock on my lap and drop it, john understands immediatley and goes into attack mode on the belay. I asses the piece, the cam has ripped a large chunk of rock out and whacked me with it, it then fell about four inches and i took a static fall onto my daisy and the piece, two cam lobes and not touching rock, of the other two, one is touching and one is maybe 1/4 of the way in. I am not happy looking at the whip that would come if this blows. everything slows down when the fear hits, every movement takes days, every heart beat and breath is felt and savored, even lick of wind and drop of water is clear and contrasted, the next piece was a marginal nut but i got off the ghetto cam and replaced it below myself with minimal confidence. I continues up the rest of the crack on marginal nuts and a camhook that gave me pause, and one dropped blue alien from my shaky hands that landed softly in a pile of leaves. and before i knew it i had clipped the fixed bolt and was building an anchor. John wanted to race the haul bag (HAHAHAHAHA) and off he went cleaning and I hauling. The bag arrived about a minute later, while i busied myself with setting up the chair drinking water and peeing in a bottle, john made his way up the aid pitch cleaning my gear, at that point the days climbing from my perspective was over, John was leading the next two pitches i just had to cruise around and follow him. I had even managed to stay somewhat dry, the sun was out and everything was looking good. ah how my mind deceives me...

John arrived in short order and we reracked and John was quickly out on the sharp end for the first time ever. After a few "oh gods" and "are you kidding me?" and "that hole is so small" (no this wasn't porn) john was on his first hook, looking only mildly sketched and perhaps a little green. step up deep breath step up and hook two is in, shaky transfer and then bam thank gawd the first bolt, I was worried as John has never used hooks and a fall there would have been UGLY for him, for me, for the haul bag everything, at that point i was set, john is on his way, i am somewhat comfy in the belay seat and the weather is not so bad. but the water, the fucking miserable miserable water. fuck the water. it was dripping down the wall, and my left side which was against the wall slowly got wet, the pansts, my socks my shoes, my shirts, nothing to do though, suck it up and feed out slack, john was climbing and honestly aid belaying gives one time to enjoy the sights i wasn't out there leading and could do nothing to help him anymore so i went off into my own introspective world, thought about lfe, spent a lot of time looking at the land scape and pondering the forest years ago before it was developed, meandering daydreams to pass the time as with occasional glances at john to make sure he was alive. After what seemed an eternity i was getting cold, i yelled to john

"how much farther to the crack?"
"there is one bolt and then i see some little wire thingy, Oh God OOHH GOOOD" john replies

the sinking sound of dread and the understanding that john had just realized that the little wire thingy was the first bashy and he would be hanging off, and that and many more little wires were in the near future, I chuckled to myself as i had been there and had the same thoughts and reactions, though i had buried them deep, hidden down in the back recesses of my brain because thoughts like that can't live near the surface, a thought like that near the surface when aid climbing can quickly spiral out of control and break your mind and leave you a gibbering mess, so it was with my chuckle that john made his first step onto the thin bashie seam, at some point close to then he looked up to scope the line and saw the next bolt, i forget the exact verbiage but lets suffice to say john was not please with its apparent infinte distance from his current location. I again retreated to my own world, ignoring the growing discomfort in all of my body. At this point i got my puffy out of the bag under the bag but above the water with much difficulty, i considered the headlamp i saw and figured might as well get it out now, the next thing is john yarding on the rope because he is within clipping distance and got a touch of shut fever, i have a gri gri and cant give slack because of th tension, i get the slack out and john goes all elvis meets zen until he clips and realized he is safe from the possible 40 foot whipper, it is at this moment i am admiring my text book anchor PERFECT everything in line, i start running the list in my head as john is now 2 steps from the anchor, as soon as john is anchored in and ties the haul bag off of that gold biner there i can let it swing and then take the sub anchor down, then i can get on the lead rope on jumar and set my first lower out rappel then i need to..... gold biner.... in front of me..... the one john needs.... the one with the haul line...... the haul line that is in front of me...... FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK, "what sup matt???" FUCK FUCK FUCK we forget the fucking fuck fuckmfuck haul line fuck fuck fuckFUCK. John is in the zone and says "i cant deal with that now you think about the situation and i'll talk to you when the anchor is done. FUCK now what, with the haul line at my belay john cant get the bag, the bag is way to heavy for me to carry while jugging, i dont have the gear to rig a release for an unassisted haul from above, FUCK, think matt think, i am slowy realizing the trouble we are in, John can't get down, I can't get to John with the bag, I can't get down, FUCK, *light bulb* i go aggro i start untying shit, grabbing rope, i beef up the anchor reattach myself and then grab the mother fucking roll of duct tape, that last minute bastion of hope. I have devised that if i tie the end of the haul line to the lead line and taper it so that it is very smooth and there are no bumps maybe john can pull the haul line through that draws all the way up to him, there are two main issues here

1) The line starts to pull then get stuck because there are two ropes tapes together, we can't pull forward or back and we are fucked,
2) It we have used more then half the lead rope john wont reach the haul line, i can untie and then tape the tag line to the lead line and let the slide out, but if i can't get the lead line back i am stuck 120 feet of the deck with NO ROPE

fuck it we don't have options

amazingly it work and we used just less then half the rope so i don't need to sketch toooo bad. John rigs the haul and my anchor in the fading sunlight and i start the first lower out by the blusish glow of the moon. the second pitch i am cleaning traverses from left to right since i am ascending the rope i have to lower out on rappel from the piece i am in until i am under the next piece then jugg up to it on the ascenders and repeat the lower out. this is made more difficult by the fact that

A) its now night time and cold
b) the wall is a sheet or running water
c) the haul bag is in every piece and i have to unclip the weighted rope for the bag and flip the weighted rope over my head and body while in aiders,
7) its snowing now
II) my ascenders are having problems with untensioning because i have to get so high to unload the bag.
2a) its dark and we are climbing by headlamp

I make a critical mistake in one of the bag drop by accidentally clipping my lower out line to the bag, i have to then lower out using a cordlette which causes me much pain and suffering but doesn't cost us any time really. The one and only thing that got me through this section was John hauling. The bag was under insane friction as it was running at a 90 degree angle through a draw, under tension, and also had my rope which i was jugging running along side it. every time john would try to haul i would hear grunting and straining as he tried to push his entire weight down on it, at that point i would grab the bag and lift it up, a little rope would move through and john would say, every single time "oh, there it goes" i never told him the whole time and the humor in it gave me the fortitude to press on. I arrived at the belay with the haul bag in tow.

As i arrived i had warmed a little from the efforts below but john had no such luck, he was standing still in the now growing snow and the belay was in a small river comparable in size to something like say the mississippi, the amazon, or nile. I was instantly colder and wetter and the water ran down my sleeves and especially down my pants and into my socks. I have gor tex boots so the water filled my shoes and wouldn't drain out, johns fingers were numb when i arrived and mine soon joined his, we assesed, i pointed out where i believed the ledge was and john took off. The glow from Johns headlamp was soon out of sight and i was alone, i turned my headlamp off to conserve batteries an plunged into the darkness of my personal purgatory, the water never ceased no matter which way i positioned myself, on my knees on the chair on my feet the water was always running into me somewhere, i slowly became colder and colder and retreated to my thoughts to escape the reality. I tried to imagine warmth, remember its feeling, i would wiggle my toes and fingers to make sure they could still move, the snow picked up and the wind gusted in now and again and i firmed myself mentally, as long as john was climbing could hang on, i just kept myself detached from the moment and focused on anything else, the moon the water a thread on the rope, laser focus to stop feeling the pain, it satrted to get real bad around now, my feet were numb and i was having some trouble moving my toes, i couldnt feel my hand and it was getting harder and harder to manage the ropes, the ropes were also now frozen stiff making using then difficult and painful, the cold in my legs crep higher, my calves stared tingling and losing feeling and my quads were locked up and cramped, my fingers were barely able to grip the rope, i would take turns between putting them in my armpits and sucking on my fingers for warmth, i could hang in there though, if john just made the ledge i could start moving, i would warm up, it would be ok, innumerable time passed, i looked up and john was still on the bolt ladder, he had made a mistake and clipped his aiders through his other daisy, he was stuck and slowed down, i yelled encouragement when i could, i started to get more desperate, i thought about quitting climbing, about dying, about being on the ground, oh god the lovely wonderful ground, fuck it this is no good we gotta get off, i called to john and asked him how he felt, not wanting to be the one who suggested bailing, i skirted the issue for a minute talking about the progress and the temps, before giving in and asking what he thought about bailing, he was feeling as bad as i was, cold to the point of danger and unsure how much longer it would be until we could establish on the ledge and be safe. We wanted dirt, John set up a lower off in seconds it seemed, and was back at the belay in a minute, the cluster fuck factor needed to be reduced we reracked simplified the anchor, tied in direct with slings untied from the rope and set the rappel, things were getting simpler and simpler, i was going to rap with the pig because john hadn't done it before, we clipped the huge pig to my harness and undid all the haul system, the rap set, john headed down, this seemed to happen so fast it was staggering, I was alone at the belay, the huge weight of the pig between my legs, i pressed my head against the wall unable to hold it up any more. Then my light went out, you have to be kidding me, fine i can deal with this. I can sorta see because of the moon, i have warmed up a little from all the cluster fuckering a the anchor i can do this, then i check the headlamp and i had turned it off when i banged my head on the wall, soon enough john calls off rappel and i try to get on rap, the bag is too heavy and i can't so i hang and aider directly off the bolt and do an assisted one legged squat with the haul bag so get up and unweight the anchor, i have john firemans belay me so i can use both frozen hands to clean the anchor. i get on rappel and make the sweet descent to terra firma, the frozen ropes barely make it through the belay device and the ice rubbs off them as they slide through leaving a small snowmans worth of snow on my lap. I hit the deack with a sigh of relief and fall backwards and catch myself on the rapp lines, fucking haul bag, i walk down a little farther and we start to try to get shit together to walk back to the car, we are RETARDED, we can't speak in complete sentences, we have trouble unclipping the bag and moving quickly, we start to pull the rope and its not moving, we pull harder, we pull together, we have to put ascenders onto the rope and pull hard to get the rope to move, it is so frozen it is having trouble moving through the rap rings. Finally its free and we stack coil the and start a slow dark trudge to the car.

we make it to the car and realize how wiped we are, we have had about 400 calories of food in the last 14 hours and a half liter of water each, we go back and forth and chug the better part of a gallon of water from a jug that sprung a leak in the descent, then its off to find food, we hit horsefeathers after getting booted from flatbreads cause they were closed. We had a very cheery waitress who served us a concoction of mint alcohol and hot chocolate, after the ordeal being among normal people seemed so strange, we had just been through serious stuff, pushing the limits, testing life and death and other such lofty things and now we have hot chocolate, the juxtaposition of the mental state i was in with the setting broke my head a little. we ate food recounted our blessing that we were on the ground and assessed the damages, we both have mild frostbite on some fingers me in my thumbs and john in his middle and index, we ate lots of food and headed back to the condo

the drive was sketchy hard to stay awake hard to focus, i was barley in control heading back, we made it to the condo i walked inside and hung up my wet clothes and put on jeans and hit a wall, i was out, i fell asleep every time i sat down. at one point i fell asleep standing up and layed on the ground for a moment, we decided to just sleep in we were too wrecked to care about tomorrow, i gave up on trying to do things and went to go to bed but was still so cold even the fire couldn't warm me, i took a shower and that helped, my fingers were still messed up but i couldn't stay awake any longer and crash i was out, john woke me up 11 hours later, i hadn't' moved an inch, i was wasted head to toe, hurt all over but satisfied in a way that only a hard wall climb brings out, we went for it, in bad conditions in the cold, in the dark snow wind rain ice we were out there, we pushed the limits and while the wall was short and the grade not impressive, we had gone far beyond what we had hoped and come out on top, i forget the pain, the cold, the suffering and defeat already and am left with a burning drive to be back on the wall for another adventure