Fade to Black
The Black Canyon of the Gunnison. A quiet, off-the-beaten-path National Park located on the eastern edge of the Colorado Plateau. Well, it would be quiet, if not for the constant roar of the river below. At times, that sound hits as soothing white noise as you drift at a belay and let your gaze wander downriver to cascades, rapids, and dreamy emerald green swimming holes where you imagine river otters, plump cutthroat trout, and your lover naked in the sunshine. But more often, that sound feels more like a loud and constant reminder of the loneliness of the place. There is truly no one around. And if they were, they certainly wouldn’t hear you over the volume of the river as it drops 245’ in just a mile. You’re on your own out there. You probably aren’t even going to see another climber. And given the recent National Park budget cuts, you aren’t likely to see a climbing ranger or any type of park staff either. It’s just you and your partner. And you still have a long way to go.
There is a point each afternoon when you notice that the sunlight has turned to gold and the canyon has started to glow. Swifts and swallows are suddenly dancing everywhere, seemingly celebrating the beauty of it all. But there’s a thought that you have been kicking around in your head all day and suddenly it’s front of mind, as loud as the river is below: Will we make it to the rim before darkness hits?
Molly Mundy on Comic Relief (5.10, 8 pitches).
Geologists say that the swirls of pegmatite that stretch across the Painted Wall are the result of watery magma that was pushed into the surrounding rock, but I have my doubts. Those ribbons of white all appear to me as great ancient creatures – giant serpents, stallions, and dragons – trapped in stone. I wonder about their origin story. Perhaps they simply ventured into the canyon one day and didn’t make it out before dark. Lost to darkness and then lost to time, they remain in the canyon forever petrified and fossilized, serving as a cautionary tale to all who enter. Is that our fate too? The mind starts to wonder and the doubt begins to build. The river just keeps roaring. Oh man, those warm Mexican beers and the comfort of that quiet campground… I can smell the rich piñon woodsmoke from someone’s campfire. We’re getting close. On belay! Go, go, go. Darkness threatens as we simul-climb the exit ridge, racing against the loss of light.
Daniel Dunn, with doubts front of mind.
I know that the romantic notion of self reliance in the American wilderness is both overly dramatic and flawed, but for me, it does feel spectacular to feel so small and to truly be on your own in such a powerful landscape. On this recent trip in Colorado, that self reliance didn’t just manifest in being alone in the proverbial wilderness. As a climber, it came in the form of a lack of fixed protection. A noticeable lack. With over 40 pitches climbed on this trip, I encountered exactly one bolted belay station. One. Climbing mainly in the Black Canyon but with a couple of bonus days in Eldorado Canyon on the Front Range, I didn’t encounter a single protection bolt. The Black hardly even had pitons, stuck gear, or tat. Just the rock. Just the rack. The whole natural art of protection, as they say. It was incredible – creative, artistic, and empowering. Just my brain and my interpretation of how to interact with these features in front of me. I loved it.
Placing gear and building anchors in this setting became an extension of the movement itself. The process was more than athleticism and what I engaged with was a raw, gritty, and cerebral experience. I find great value in encountering uncertainty in my climbing. Will I have the gear I need for the anchor? Will I make it back to the rim before dark? What if we have to bail? Can I really do this?? Nothing about the day is guaranteed. This isn’t what I want or need every day I go out – in fact, part of my process sometimes requires that I set myself up for as close to guaranteed success as I can get. But being able to access these types of climbing experiences is really important to me. Whether that uncertainty is found roadside at our beloved Cathedral Ledge or deep in the remote depths of the Black Canyon, it’s good to know these places and these experiences still exist.
Racing the darkness.
It’s a drizzly and grey morning in New Hampshire. Home in our cabin and sore after a delightful day of clipping bolts at Rumney, I smile as I think about a team of climbers dropping down a long gully, committing to their climbing plan in the Black. The doubts are likely circling in their heads but the excitement builds as they turn the corner and finally see their route. The river roars. The swifts dive. A piñon pine stands with solemn posture. In the eight centuries since it sprouted, some things haven’t changed at all.
High on Cloaked Interpretation. The river roars.
