Getting Addicted to Crack Climbing
- Details
This article originally published in Spring 2011 issue of Adventure Insider Magazine.
“Get two good hand jams and just do a pull up.” Brian calmly informs me. “Oh, just a pull up with a hand jam? Is that all?” “Yep, there are no good feet, you just have to go for it.” Brian's instructions do not inspire much confidence, but I do as I’m told and put my flat hands into the crack as far as I can and retract my fingers into my palm to create counter-force between the heel of my palm and the top of my knuckles against the warm sandstone. It feels as if I am climbing on 100 grit sandpaper as I apply enough force to effectively hold my body weight, if just barely. I can feel the skin being grated off my hands. This sacrifice, to be repeated time and again the next few days, it's a rite of passage into the world of crack climbing. No tape on this trip, it is a sacrifice after all. To those that are strictly face climbers, cracks are something of a mystery. I have always been intrigued by cracks and those that venture to some of the most remote corners of the world to climb them. As the owner of Front Range Climbing Company, Brian is a climber with an ability far beyond what I can even comprehend. Luckily, he is a good enough friend to tolerate my weak climbing abilities and complete lack of crack experience and invite me along with a few other guides, Mark, CJ, and Josh from Front Range Climbing Company to a desert climb outside Moab, Utah. Although the area surrounding Moab lays claim to some of the most visited desert climbing meccas in the world (including Indian Creek) there still are some areas that are relatively unexplored. Tusher Canyon is a favorite spot of Brian’s. Located about 30 minutes northwest of Moab, Tusher could almost be considered deserted wilderness. In the three days I spent climbing in Tusher Canyon I saw only one other vehicle, the driver of which was apparently too preoccupied with air conditioning to exit. Thankfully, this lack of spectators allows me to retain some of my dignity as I begin my pull-up and flail with my feet for anything they may help in my desperate bid for ‘up.’
I finally manage to complete the opening move and begin to link hand jams with wedging my foot into the crack and twisting it to create something to stand on, a process known as ‘jamming,’ progressing about two body lengths much to the surprise of myself and all parties concerned. A rest is in order and I take the time to examine my hands which roughly resemble hamburger meat and leave small blood stains on the already red sandstone. I smile. The joy of being here overcomes the pain from my hands. Onward and upward! After a few more moves the crack begins to open until it’s large enough for me to arm-bar for my life. I rest. I can hear my belayer, Mark above me feeding me some much needed beta and I contemplate the next move. I Rest. Using what can only be described as an awkward shimmy I mange to move up higher into the expanding crack and make use of a chest jam. I rest. After what seems like an eternity I work my way high enough to make use of the coveted, but rarely used, ass jam. It becomes a shimmy up the crack using any means available. Chimney, counter-force, jams, it’s all fair game at this point. I rest. I feel slightly trapped as I struggle (in what can only be described as flailing) and finally see Mark, a welcome sight. I was exhausted and at the time was thinking maybe the desert was just too much for me. Maybe I had bitten of more than I could chew. Maybe these guys are just too far out of my league. But as the exhaustion was overcome by a feeling of euphoria I realized the two days I had left wouldn’t cure my new-found lust for crack climbing. Who knows, it may even become love. That night we sat around the campfire. Mark played the guitar and sang. We all drank and joked. We laughed and told stories and made fun of one another. We slept in the sand and in the back of trucks. Out here the wind blows the fine sand into every nook and cranny and my sleeping bag was no exception. The next morning broke cool and bright. Brian and Mark were already up making breakfast. I would need as much bacon as I could consume if I were to make it through the day’s activities. I eat. I silently question what I am doing out here with these guys. Then I hear Brian ask “ready?”, and I do what I always do, get up and grab some gear. The names escape me. Rubber Duck, Merge, Pile of Shit - Monkey Nuts, and a host of other oddly named routes chew at my hands and build my fondness for cracks, fueling my desire to return. There were triumphs and heartache and pain. Lots of pain. But mostly there was love. Love for the rock, the climbing, the people. But mostly there was love for the place.
Seeing the rock in Tusher Canyon is nothing short of inspirational. Some blood red, some gray, some black. Multi-colored layers on all. Cracks can extend 300 feet into the sky on what may be some of the straightest, sharpest lines rivaling those made by man. A religious experience to be sure. On the last day we climbed the Echo Pinnacle. The Pinnacle climbs 270 straight out of the desert and at the top of the first pitch there is a large protected ledge and window that looks out to the East and West. Here we eat, talk, joke and laugh. We drive out of the canyon on that third day with the intense desert sun setting behind us as I reflect on the past couple of days. Cracks, it turns out, are all that I had expected and more. I expected the climbing to be hard. I underestimated them. The skin will regrow, but what will forever remain is my desire for more cracks.
“Get two good hand jams and just do a pull up.” Brian calmly informs me. “Oh, just a pull up with a hand jam? Is that all?” “Yep, there are no good feet, you just have to go for it.” Brian's instructions do not inspire much confidence, but I do as I’m told and put my flat hands into the crack as far as I can and retract my fingers into my palm to create counter-force between the heel of my palm and the top of my knuckles against the warm sandstone. It feels as if I am climbing on 100 grit sandpaper as I apply enough force to effectively hold my body weight, if just barely. I can feel the skin being grated off my hands. This sacrifice, to be repeated time and again the next few days, it's a rite of passage into the world of crack climbing. No tape on this trip, it is a sacrifice after all. To those that are strictly face climbers, cracks are something of a mystery. I have always been intrigued by cracks and those that venture to some of the most remote corners of the world to climb them. As the owner of Front Range Climbing Company, Brian is a climber with an ability far beyond what I can even comprehend. Luckily, he is a good enough friend to tolerate my weak climbing abilities and complete lack of crack experience and invite me along with a few other guides, Mark, CJ, and Josh from Front Range Climbing Company to a desert climb outside Moab, Utah. Although the area surrounding Moab lays claim to some of the most visited desert climbing meccas in the world (including Indian Creek) there still are some areas that are relatively unexplored. Tusher Canyon is a favorite spot of Brian’s. Located about 30 minutes northwest of Moab, Tusher could almost be considered deserted wilderness. In the three days I spent climbing in Tusher Canyon I saw only one other vehicle, the driver of which was apparently too preoccupied with air conditioning to exit. Thankfully, this lack of spectators allows me to retain some of my dignity as I begin my pull-up and flail with my feet for anything they may help in my desperate bid for ‘up.’
I finally manage to complete the opening move and begin to link hand jams with wedging my foot into the crack and twisting it to create something to stand on, a process known as ‘jamming,’ progressing about two body lengths much to the surprise of myself and all parties concerned. A rest is in order and I take the time to examine my hands which roughly resemble hamburger meat and leave small blood stains on the already red sandstone. I smile. The joy of being here overcomes the pain from my hands. Onward and upward! After a few more moves the crack begins to open until it’s large enough for me to arm-bar for my life. I rest. I can hear my belayer, Mark above me feeding me some much needed beta and I contemplate the next move. I Rest. Using what can only be described as an awkward shimmy I mange to move up higher into the expanding crack and make use of a chest jam. I rest. After what seems like an eternity I work my way high enough to make use of the coveted, but rarely used, ass jam. It becomes a shimmy up the crack using any means available. Chimney, counter-force, jams, it’s all fair game at this point. I rest. I feel slightly trapped as I struggle (in what can only be described as flailing) and finally see Mark, a welcome sight. I was exhausted and at the time was thinking maybe the desert was just too much for me. Maybe I had bitten of more than I could chew. Maybe these guys are just too far out of my league. But as the exhaustion was overcome by a feeling of euphoria I realized the two days I had left wouldn’t cure my new-found lust for crack climbing. Who knows, it may even become love. That night we sat around the campfire. Mark played the guitar and sang. We all drank and joked. We laughed and told stories and made fun of one another. We slept in the sand and in the back of trucks. Out here the wind blows the fine sand into every nook and cranny and my sleeping bag was no exception. The next morning broke cool and bright. Brian and Mark were already up making breakfast. I would need as much bacon as I could consume if I were to make it through the day’s activities. I eat. I silently question what I am doing out here with these guys. Then I hear Brian ask “ready?”, and I do what I always do, get up and grab some gear. The names escape me. Rubber Duck, Merge, Pile of Shit - Monkey Nuts, and a host of other oddly named routes chew at my hands and build my fondness for cracks, fueling my desire to return. There were triumphs and heartache and pain. Lots of pain. But mostly there was love. Love for the rock, the climbing, the people. But mostly there was love for the place.
Seeing the rock in Tusher Canyon is nothing short of inspirational. Some blood red, some gray, some black. Multi-colored layers on all. Cracks can extend 300 feet into the sky on what may be some of the straightest, sharpest lines rivaling those made by man. A religious experience to be sure. On the last day we climbed the Echo Pinnacle. The Pinnacle climbs 270 straight out of the desert and at the top of the first pitch there is a large protected ledge and window that looks out to the East and West. Here we eat, talk, joke and laugh. We drive out of the canyon on that third day with the intense desert sun setting behind us as I reflect on the past couple of days. Cracks, it turns out, are all that I had expected and more. I expected the climbing to be hard. I underestimated them. The skin will regrow, but what will forever remain is my desire for more cracks.