Blackout: A Museum Climb

The four-runner bumped, shaking its black frame side to side, as Public Enemy belted heavy, old-school beats. The SUV parked on the side of 120 between Tenaya Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, and with the bass still booming three monkeys fell out of John’s rig.

“You’re lagging boys.” Linh’s gear leaned against his silver VW van and he swooped down, shouldering the pack.

“Lucho was busy stealing cutlery.” I pointed to my dirt bag friend’s left pinkie. A few days prior a renegade crash pad had smashed his tiny digit in a pebble wrestling fall; he’d MacGyvred a splint from a bit of athletic tape and a broken knife. “Lucho’s got class now. Look at that martini finger.”

Lucho’s pinkie protruded with aristocratic authority as he grabbed his backpack.

"No wait. Dude, you're like Dr. Evil in Austin Powers. Tilt your finger to your mouth and say 'I will hold the world hostage unless you pay me one million dollars.'"

“Funny James.” I chuckled, Lucho didn’t. He blazed into the woods.

John, Linh, and I marched behind, following Lucho to the South Whizz Dome. The thirty minute approach felt like the long part of half an hour; Tuolumne’s altitude had me wheezing for breath. After hitting a small slope of granite, we turned the corner of a dome and saw the wall. South Whizz defines Tuolumne rock climbing- a hundred fifty feet of technical steep edges and knobs. The majority of the routes are hard, run-out, ground-up test pieces from the day when climbing was dangerous and sex was safe. John made the first ascent, on top rope, of a beautiful black streak in the middle of the wall. From a ledge sixty feet off the ground, Blackout follows a series of steep, walnut knobs for sixty feet. Kurt Smith onsighted the route, drilling two bolts on the lead, snagging the first lead ascent, and solidifying the 5.11 route as a serious undertaking. The route with its old bolts, and scary old-school vertical climbing is a “museum climb.” John stood below the streak, poured out the rope, and rack-two quick draws and a couple of cams.

John tied into his Beal Joker, a 9.1 mm piece of dental floss that he claimed was a rope, grabbed the light rack, and free-soloed a sixty foot crack on the far right side of the cliff. John Bachar climbing career began over thirty years ago in Southern California. Since then, he’d become world renown for his bold climbing. He moved smoothly, placing his feet with impeccable precision, and torquing his fingers into the crack with just the right amount of pressure. He set a belay and Lucho scampered up the direct 5.10 unprotected face to the ledge. The peanut gallery (Linh and I) sat on the side of the cliff, taking photos and slandering as the two men steeled themselves for the next pitch.

Off the ledge, John placed a shitty piece of gear to protect against ripping out the belay in case of a fall. After fifteen feet of delicate climbing, John clipped a quarter inch rusty bolt. Another twenty feet passed before John had more protection-another rusty quarter incher. He moved slowly, placing his feet, shifting his hips and transferring his weight onto the overhanging knobs with the elegancy of a danseur. Though French in technique, his footsteps had a funky groove to them like Flavor Flav was still rapping in his head. He danced his way, unprotected for thirty feet, to the top. For a guy twice my age, John’s got three times the technique and four times the balls.

 “Want me to belay ya up here?” John yelled down to Lucho. The day before I’d sent Cowabunga- a steep finger traverse underneath DAFF Dome; Lucho felt pressured to send too. The constant competition between us, a little Kodak courage, and a sprinkle of machismo fueled Lucho when he shouted back.

“Lower back down. I’ll lead it.”

My eyebrows rose. “Lucho, if you die I’m getting your Tacoma.”

Lucho flaked the rope, readying the gear and himself for a little excitement.

“And I’m going to steal your girl in the city.”

Lucho shot laser beams at me with his eyes and shouted, “Fuck you clown.”

I chortled as Lucho tied in and cast off. His left pinkie, stuck in its splint, pointed skyward as he crimped his fingers around the sloping knobs. A pair of oversized, old school, clunky boots stabbed at the delicate footholds. Where John had climbed slow and precise, Lucho climbed quickly, frantically. Lucho’s always been scrappy; his legs pedal faster than Lance Armstrong and he screams at every hard move, thrutching between holds. I’ve broken my back climbing, it’s not fun. I didn’t want my friend to have the same scars. I watched, tilting forward, as Lucho moved. The first fifteen feet went by quickly. Lucho scampered on the rock and clipped the first quarter inch bolt.

 As the climbing steepened, Lucho’s technique faded. His hand stabbed for a tiny knob, realized its poorness, and shot again. The splint scrapped against the black rock when he moved his left hand. He twitched from the pain as his feet skated, looking for purchase. Not good. I’ve seen autumn leaves shake less.

 “You got it Lucho,” John shouted. Lucho’s labored breathing echoed across the granite wall. With his feet splayed out in a tentative stem, Lucho switched hands on a tiny nubbin, desperately shaking out the lactic acid from his forearms. I wondered if I’d be driving away in Lucho’s Tacoma.

“Forgot to use my feet,” Lucho responded. There are some things that shouldn’t be forgotten. Lucho stared at his blocky boots, focusing on producing a steadier rhythm in his feet. It’d be bad if he blew it. Technique slowly worked its way back into his boots as he continued upwards. Half way into the thirty foot run-out, he stuffed two crappy lobes of a cam into a water pocket, purely psychological protection. He continued increasingly steadier as he neared the top.

Soon, Lucho mantled the edge victorious, after a slow ten minutes of climbing. There was no cry for joy, no shout of elation, only an invisible swelling inside his chest- he’d sent. I smiled, happy that Lucho would still have his Tacoma that day.