Musings of a Migrant Science Teacher

My 4th of July weekend began like any other: frantic house cleaning and food stuffs purchasing in prep for our annual 3rd of July party. What? Everyone is always busy on the 4th. Friends and strangers alike descend on bean dip, flag cake and "adult" watermelon, leaving us with enough cheap beer to last for the rest of the year.

This year I was happily joined by my best climbing buddies Katie, Dan, George and Patrick, and our new friend Phil - who all arrived early and made me feel like this was MY party after all.

After a night of corn hole and ladder ball (if you don't know what these games are, I will gladly explain them. I'll just need one of those cheap beers first,) we said goodbye to Katie and Dan and the rest of us set off for Seneca Rocks in West Virginia. Did I mention it was 93 degrees outside? Mmm, superheated trad climbing...

My most terrifying and life changing moments in climbing have been at Seneca. That beautiful fin of rock sits and taunts me to come near, and each time I do it shapes and changes my character.

We had no plan really, just to find an empty line and climb it. We chose the shady east face to start. George and I went off with John, a friend from DC and did three pitches of what we later discovered was a 5.9. A Seneca 5.9 is nothing to be trifled with, in fact, if I had known what it was before I started I wouldn't have even tried. But try I did, and after a hanging belay-threesome (awkward) and a roof, I found myself at the third pitch.

I'm not sure what it is about pitch number three. Pitch one is defined by hope and energy. Pitch two, by an attitude of perseverance. By pitch three it seems I need to be coached and told I'm not going to die at regular intervals. Whatever it is, I need to find a way to deal with it. The third pitch was another, slightly easier route, but it involved an odd dihedral and a pine tree. I couldn't handle both of those problems and a 150 foot drop at the same time. I deep-breathed my way around the tree, demanded a redirect at the dihedral, and pumped my arms out trying to get on to the last ledge.

Anxiety had won that round, and it wasn't pretty.

That night we were treated to the first meal produced by George's new dutch oven: Cubed chicken in an onion soup mix/french dressing/pineapple preserves and beer sauce, served with egg noodles. (Mix well and set on coals for an hour.) ((Longest hour of my life.)) We lay back in the grass to watch the stars as fireworks back lit the camp ground. I've never seen the sky that black. The milky way sat blurry on the horizon, the shadow of my nemesis in the foreground.

God I love this place...

Monday woke us bright and balmy. Knowing the fires of hell, er summer, were on their way we got an early start and headed to the west face. After sweating blood on the stairmaster we set up on Con's West. This is a nifty little route that finishes on the summit ledge, making it easy to top out and rapp off on two ropes.

Patrick and Phill went first making good time. George led next and I followed, grunting a swearing at his expert gear placement. (Read: Impossible to remove.) Every so often I'd hear Patrick yell "WHoooo!" or "Expooooosuree!" and I'd pause and wonder if I could make it. The first pitch is a piece of cake. The second starts in an awkward corner and heads up to an even more awkward flake/chimney.

It took a bit, but I got it. I silently thanked God that no one was around to see me flopping around like a fish. It was at the top of that pitch that I felt the fatigue set in and the anxiety creep up. I wasn't even sure if I could make it off the belay ledge, let alone clean the anchor and gear.

The last pitch started with a "fun" layback crack and ended with some vertical fin shaped things. I banged my knee pretty solidly, but I made it up. Again, with some coaching, but I made it.

It strikes me as odd how much I love following trad climbing, but how reliably I seem to hit this roof. I'm reliving the feelings now as I type, and I'm still not sure what I can do in the future to fix things. I often find myself back on that third pitch. The place where I'm questioning my ability, exhausted, and in need of encouragement. Am I alone there? I've felt like that in work and my personal life as well as climbing. How do you muster the guts to keep going?

I'd gladly take suggestions by the way.

We sat around on the summit for a while before rapping off of Traffic Jam Notch. After going down (still awful) the stairmaster we decided pizza was in order - obviously. I fell asleep in the car 15 minutes later.

Another long weekend spent well with friends.