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Sunday 21st What an amazingly beautiful day. It's so not Summer anymore, and yet this brilliant day shines down upon me like a memory of Summers long past. Zoe, my landlords cat, begs for freebie affections and then just lies at my feet on the front porch to bask in the sun. So warm it is that I remove my jacket. After a few minutes John Peterson and his Subaru draw up and once again I'm on my way to new adventures. My god, what a glorious day. I had thought that today would be a day spent entirely at Ragged mountain. It seems weird that I have never led anything at Ragged. The last time I was there I was toproping with Leon and Leila in the late Spring of 2000. That was just before Leon got this whole lead-climb thing going with us. It really is kind of weird because I've climbed on a bunch of Connecticut crags (Sleeping Giant, Cat Hole, East Peak, Pinnacle and even West Rock) but I've never even considered going to Ragged. I guess I had this idea in my head that it was only for top-roping? I don't know. It was going to be nice to check it out in any case. John, however, had a slightly altered plan. We would hit Ragged today, but it wasn't going to be first on the list. Initially we would go to Chauncey Peak, which overlooked Meriden's Bradley-Hubbard reservoir. We would hit three separate crags in this area. John indicated that climbing there was definitely frowned upon by the local ranger and that we would have to be discreet. So no parking at the reservoir itself and keep the gear in the packs until we reach the crags, which are well out of sight. After a medium length hike, during which John seemed to get momentarily lost and then we found ourselves scrambling up a low crag-line to the top of a ridge, we eventually reached the vicinity of our first climb. It was on a wall facing the reservoir, a wall called Looking Glass, and the climb itself was …
Nuthatch 5.6 ** I had no idea where this might be, but this was no problem because John had been there before. Nuthatch is, according to John, one of the finest 5.6s in Connecticut. Needless to say he is mystified by the short shrift Mr Nichols gives it in his guide. We walked towards it along the top of the ridge above Looking Glass, admiring Autumn's fantastic colors and enjoying our apparent insulation from the civilized world. After we suited up John took me down a fairly hair raising descent down a gully which ended in a tricky little chimney. Yikes. At the base I found him under the necessary line. Dude, he said, go for it. So I did. Nuthatch is definitely a nice route, excellent protection and mild difficulty. I particularly enjoyed squeezing myself into the chimney slot, resting there semi-comfortably under a miniature roof, before figuring out the exit sequence. At about four fifths of the way up I stopped and looked over my shoulder at the golden red carpets of the Fall and that blue perfection of cloudless skies reflecting off a wind-rippled reservoir. I topped out, set up a decent anchor and belayed for John's climb. Early in John's ascent he seemed to be casting about a little for the next necessary move when he cursed loudly. I asked what happened and thought he had said that he'd been hit between the eyes with a rock. I thought I must have dislodged one and felt no small embarressment for having missed it. I sat mute above him while he continued his climb, seemingly unfazed by a little blood streaming from the bridge of his nose. I'm pretty sure I uttered some sort of apologetic grunt, but I don't recall if he made any acknowledgement. Later I was to find out it wasn't my fault at all. Assuring himself that I found Nuthatch a genuinely cool line, definitely worth all the damn hiking and that rotten bloody descent of death, John fixed me with a steely glare and said that we were next going to one of the crappiest little crags in Connecticut. The Aviary on nearby Lamentation mountain (which also overlooked the reservoir). John, it seems, has something of a pretty rare obsessive-compulsive disorder. Apparantly he feels compelled to climb at least one route on every single crag noted down in Mr Nichols' little book (which is odd, because John never misses an opportunity to impugn the general usefulness of the Traprock guide … or at least the sanity of it's author). Nevertheless, we would be doing something there, anything there … he didn't care just so long as he could tick (kick) the Aviary off his list. He got me to choose the route. So I chose one whose name appealed to me more than anything else …
Titmouse 5.6 * Walking along the base of the diminutive Aviary it seemed pretty ordinary. Even the guide admits that "this broken, rather unappealing cliff … for birdbrains, ornitholigists, and climbers who have been everywhere else." So primed with this desultory derision I declaimed that this darned diddlysquat dungheap was undeserving of our daring-do. Something like that anyway. John merely told me to shut up and indicated that he probably wouldn't enjoy it much either. But where was that blasted Tit? I was doubtful that we would even find it. My misgivings, however, were misplaced as the line-drawings in "Traprock" are actually really good and John found the route pretty fast. It started as a thin weedy crack in a right-facing dihedral (like, as the book says, an open book) which tapers to a troubling smoothness at its apex, where the book sort of closes. Then you have to step right before going up and around the top towards the finishing face. John had mucho hassle at the top of the book, taking a lot of time to work out the protection before making the dubious rightward moves, but he didn't weight the rope. It was certainly interesting to hear that he was sorta/kinda gripped for a moment there. Of course I went for the jugular and immediately questioned his manhood etc. "Bite me."TM John Peterson Ltd. I followed his line, having no trouble (top-rope is a far kinder world than leading) I topped out fast enough to feel a little full of myself about it. John even admitted I seemed to make it look easier than it was. We had earlier glanced at the route a few feet to the left which looked like serious climbing and he offered to belay me if I wanted to top-rope it … after a momentary pause I agreed to try … I almost wish I hadn't.
Broadwing 5.9+ ** They're not kidding about the "with difficulty" part. I slipped and fell about five times trying to get past that little bit. John was fairly howling with laughter at my struggling, flailing form. Eventually, after a herculean effort, I pulled the necessary moves. At the top I growled something like why doesn't he try it. But John's no fool. "No dude, maybe I would be interested if you didn't have to hang on the rope so much down there. But you did, so I aint." Our next climb would be much more fun, he promised, and soon we were on our way to the day's third crag … also on Lamentation mountain, this one being the far more interesting Evening Wall. We were going to a route that he had climbed but once before …
TNT 5.9- ** John offered it to me. I have never actually led anything this hard before. Oh sure I had done Thor's Hammer (5.9) with Leon last winter … but it was Leon who led the crux pitch on that one. Actually the hardest thing I had led to date was 5.8, once (and that wasn't real clean either). Hmmm. "Ok." I said. I was getting a lot of confidence climbing with John. I have this idea that he probably has a good grasp of what I can and cant do at the sharp end. He seemed to think I might be able to cap this one. I did too, but the crux gave me one hell of a fight. I had worked my way up to the chimney and finally gained a big fat ledge upon which I could rest just a few feet beneath the roof. It is the roof, you see, that marks the crux. So far it had been pretty easy and I was feeling fairly strong. The camalots were proving all-important, everything else being mere baggage, and would ultimately be the reason I could finish the climb. The chimney was pretty broad and I would struggle up to the roof on no less than three occasions, stemming madly or wedging my back against the left side, to place ever higher cams. There was, however, an absolutely fantastic hold on the right side up there in back of the notch. After each time I would back down to the ledge below and take a break. After one long final rest and lots of strategy-talk with John I turned up the juice and just went for it. I crawled as high as I could under the roof and found a miserable stance from which I would go for the glory. My right hand went up to the right side of the roof and found a little side-pull. I reached up with my left on the other side into the smooth crack above the roof and, with next to nothing for the feet, I hauled myself into a situation where there had better be something nearby to grab or I would fall. There was something, it was lousy, but I wasn't falling. My feet scrabbled a bit and the adrenaline shot helped me to hang on a bit longer. Reaching higher, I shifted weight further to the left, now with both hands jamming away in the crack I was halfway laybacked as I surged my torso a little higher still. I reached up again but everything was still lousy so I just kept moving. Down below John was watching me closely, he could see that with the smallest slip I would certainly fall … and it would be a pretty big one too. Somehow I didn’t fall. I managed to jam in a #1 camalot and then run it out to the end, reaching for the final holds which were (mercifully) jugs and hauling myself breathlessly over. I gasped for air like a fourth-placed olympian. Oh god that was hard work. I asked John to give me a minute to recover before setting his belay. Yehaww … a 5.9 (almost) trad lead done clean as a whistle. Hey, I feel great! I FEEL MIGHTY! Wait a minute. I feel hungry. John wrestles his way up the line and it's not a trivial trip for him either. When he gets up beside me we agree to immediately head into town and gain sustenance. McBlearghyuk was the choice, it was the second choice … but the first choice was infinitely worse and I had to practically beg John to go elsewhere. "John, dude, hamburgers are bad enough … but hamburgers that are square? That's just so not right dude!" After choking down our McGristles, Frylikes and aprox-Cokes we threw up in the carpark and drove off to Ragged Mountain feeling grey and listless. Yet it was such a gorgeous afternoon that we were feeling much better not long after parking and hiking into the RMF's own little piece of heaven. The RMF have worked out this wonderful deal with the local robber barons … yes, they can own Ragged Mountain and its environs as long as they … and this is true … don't do anything with the land at all, ever. They paid good money for this deal. Why did they do this? So they, and countless others, could legally climb on the cliffs of Ragged Mountain. That's all. They have tried to sneak in some very minor stuff, e.g. trail improvements and the odd bolt, but there's a lone madman (apparantly) who opposes even these and it's occasionally an iritating situation. Poor bastards. Anyway, after we took some photographs of the cliffs (the colors of the leaves are just unbelievable this time of year) John led me to the base of the cliffs. We stood for some minutes under Knight's Gambit (5.7**) where John ground his teeth a bit over the chopped bolts. We then moved on to the next climb …
Vector 5.8 ** That Weissner guy was one incredible climber. 1935? Holy cow. Anyway, John sat patiently while I organized my rack enough to be able to make sense of it and hand over what he wanted. I had hung the #3.5 camalot, which is kinda big, on the sling but John disdainfully removed it and threw it into the dust. Horrified I picked it up, dusted it off and placed it gently in my backpack. Nasty man. John waltzed his way up the first half of the route with zero pause for thought. He reached the small overhang, found it was a crux and … lo and behold … had to actually hang on the rope. Not once did he make this transgression, nor twice, but three times - yea - three and by the rood I say this to be true. Oh yea, how the mighty are brung low. Ok, so this was not proving to be John's best day. He called down. "I need that camalot." Ever sensitive to my partners psychological state of being I pilloried him mercilessly for both this unmanly display above and his earlier disdain for said camalot. Nevertheless, he put himself on anchor and used the rope to haul up the piece. Some dude-like beings passed by me and made their greetings. Hey. Hey. What are you climbing? Vector. Nice line that. Yeah it is. Seeya. Yeah, seeya. John finally made it past the overhang and rapidly made good on the rest of the ascent. It was as beautiful an afternoon as the morning had promised. Warm orange light from a sinking sun countered by a light breeze. I followed up the route and grunted my way through the overhang. Eek, that was tough. John asked me if I thought I would do it on lead. I don't know, maybe not yet, it seemed a longer crux than on TNT. Then again, the pro was definitely good. I would probably hang around at least as long as John did. But I am a shade lighter than he, so maybe I wouldn't. Hmmm. I'll get back to you on that one John. As the big guy had sucked up some time up there, something for which I am normally the responsible party, he said we didn't have enough time left for me to be similarly troubled on Carey Corner (5.7 **). So he said I could finish the day by leading an easier route …
Ancient Way 5.4 ** This was a highly enjoyable run. I only placed two pieces, including my beloved #3.5 camalot, running it way out on the end. Too damn cool. I sat down to belay John up and as he performed a vertical sprint a dying sun sank beyond the southwestern horizon. Above us a crescent of the moon had materialized and the big deep blue was turning a deeper shade of purple. The wind had picked up. It was getting cold. Time to head home. Another magnificent day of climbing in Connecticut.
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