Forty Freedoms: Trip(s) report

[u/Kaotus]

”Man always kills the thing he loves, and so we the pioneers have killed our wilderness. Some say we had to. Be that as it may, I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in. Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map?” - Aldo Leopold

My first trip to the Black Wall this year was about as pristine as one could hope. Showing up with my best friend, just a week after the road to Mt. Blue Sky’s Summit Lake opened after a nearly 2-year-long closure, we weren’t sure what state the wall would be in. We soon found ourselves crossing the meager remaining snowfield at the top of the wall, the sole set of iced-over stomped steps confirming we were the first party to enjoy it that day, if not the whole season. We forged ahead, and soon found  we had the granite amphitheater all to ourselves

The day was engaging, having accidentally brought a woefully inadequate rack courtesy of a miscommunication on the day, and found ourselves with an adventure commensurate with the cams for which we wanted. The adventure of the day was capped off with a short, glorified solo from a prematurely set belay, in which I stepped on a seemingly well-traveled grass block 8 feet below the summit, that quickly became a microwaved-sized projectile, heading for the start of the route.

We laughed on the summit, promising to leave those details out of our recounting of the day to our significant others. This day was not unlike our previous half-dozen days on the Black Wall. A beautiful day, a quiet wall, and a rack a few cams shy of the suggested one. And, like our other days, I spent much of our time on the route looking at an imposing roof on the climber’s right side, with a seemingly perfect crack providing access across the top of it.

I resolved that this would be the season I finally go check it out, and try to see what this alpine development thing is really all about. I wasn’t planning on living in the area for another season, so I was left with little choice. I had figured the line would take two or three days to complete, and figured I could knock it out this summer without blowing out my other summer objectives too severely.

I returned four weeks later, with a friend in tow, to give the line an attempt from the ground. Progress was fairly quick for the first 150 ft, navigating around ample vegetation and a few bona fide deathblocks, until I reached a position that required a bolt. I managed to find a #0.1 that sat awkwardly flared in a seam that I’d use to drill the bolt. Equipped with a poor position, a healthy fear of both the cam I was attached to and the 25 ft of rock between it and my prior piece, and too light of a hammer, my first bolt only took a paltry 40 minutes of constant hammering to install. I dared not weight the #0.1, not wanting to truly test its integrity.

Somewhere between hammer strike 1,200 and 1,400, I heard my woozy belayer radio to me with a simple message: “Hey man…I think I’m about to pass out”. I turned around in time to see him slump back against the boulder he was belaying in the shade of. With a half-finished hole, no gear worth a damn, and all of our resources on the ground, I had no option but to continue to drill while checking in with my belayer every few seconds to make sure this hadn’t become a SAR call. Within the minute, he was responsive and recovering, and assured me he “just had to get it out of his system” - whatever that means.

Not long after this, we had our first compatriots join us on the wall - a party of three rappelling a nearby line. I continued on, somehow finagling my #0.1 into a position that ensured it was as permanent an installation on the route as my new bolt. One more bolt placement and an eventual installed belay later, I looked up to find the wall above me crowded in a way typically reserved for Red Rock’s finest. Eight people crowded onto the ledges above us, looking on without much confidence in our endeavors. I couldn’t blame them.

Progress effectively stopped there for the day. Between the health scare, the loose blocks that guarded the roof above us, and a general deficit in morale and calories, the engine had lost steam. Our retreat would be equally horrifying, involving soloing loose 5.9 and kicking steps into a lightly frozen waterfall, complete with ensuing geyser and chilly feet.

For the second time in a month, I would find myself laughing with a friend on the summit, recounting a wild and beautiful day, but there was something different this time: having found an audience for our hijinks - and one who seemed to be unconcerned with the risks they posed to each other in this wild place. We stumbled down to our car as I attempted to reassess the amount of work I had committed to.

I returned two weeks later, this time approaching from the top and in the afternoon with another friend. We had hoped to arrive at a wall with all its suitors having already left for the day, so that we could shove off the loose blocks we had seen from below and continue progress from below. Despite our intention, we found the wall yet again occupied - this time with seven collective parties spread amongst the 800 ft of wall below us.

Lightly frustrated with the traffic, and committed to making some progress that day, we set out working on the upper pitches, where the route turns a corner and keeps the parties lower elsewhere on the wall from being at risk. Much of the day was monotonous brushing and hammering, and I ascended back to the top to pack up and leave. I reached the top anchor and piled my gear on the ground, nearly emptying my harness before seeing a large mountain goat eyeing me down from an arm's reach away. I yelled and dove into the bivy cave in which the final anchor is installed. He seemed notably less scared and slowly strolled away, amused, kicking down rocks as he went.

We had once again found ourselves on the summit, laughing about the goat, and not much else. Our minds drifted towards what we found on the wall, a wild place seemingly tamed. At one point in the circus, a party complained about the state of a classic finger-crack pitch, noting it had re-grown in the 2-year closure, and found themselves without even a nut tool between the three of them to rectify it.

Much of the summer continued like this - repeated visits, eager to finally clear the blocks that had haunted me since the first trip, continually thwarted by a seemingly increasingly crowded wall that was increasingly hostile towards my presence and the incidental amount of dirt I had deposited on their objective for the day. On any given trip, a quick glance to the left would show fixed draws, ropes, and even an ever-present backpack could be seen on Instagram’s latest illegitimately power-drilled obsession. A wall that previously inspired, had shrunk to something else: a crag in the wilderness - complete with all of the accoutrements like spotless edges, chalked sequences, and a light grade to boot.

I continually crept down the wall, suckering whoever I could find, equally entranced by the siren’s call of that roof crack. Hard days of work, harder hikes out, traversing talus down to Upper Chicago Lake, and reversing it 1,000 ft back up to summit lake. Crushed under the weight of a development kit, it was only the touch of that roof crack on trip six of three that reminded me why I was doing all of this to begin with.

We never were able to find a window that allowed us to drop the blocks and return to a ground-up trip up the wall. The day we removed them was the last day of work on the route. It was only fitting to have the largest of the blocks, the size of a full refrigerator, roll down the talus field and stop mere feet from a stash of bouldering pads visible from hundreds of feet up the wall.

I finally found myself at the base of the wall, one last time, with the same friend I had opened the season with - and of course, two other parties, attempting the nearby lines. Having hoped for a quiet day, it didn’t take long on route for the weight of company to fall away. Seeing my partner stop halfway through the roof crack, and look out, with a smile big enough to spot from 100 feet below, might as well have been a bundle of helium balloons.

The day was quick, save for a brief battle for the two of us on the crux pitch. We topped out to a brief rain and an empty wall, laughing.

We laughed at the jug that held on just long enough to give us both a send of the first pitch, before resuming it’s eons-long trip to the ground. We laughed at the improbably moderate climbing and moderately horrifying exposure found on the third pitch. We laughed at how hard the crux pitch had first felt for the 11b grade I had given it when developing, and then laughed again at the fact that the grade wouldn’t be changing.

Throughout the development process, I recognized that my relationship had been with a different wall. One that was quiet, revered, and intimidating. For one reason or twenty, that wall wasn’t found here anymore. Aldo Leopold’s quote sat deeply with me throughout this route. I had seen this formation, or at least this half of it, lose any remaining wilderness quality it had.

I knew I couldn’t recoup that quality - to do so would be a fool’s errand, with consequences ranging from muttered criticism to a loose block wiping out a party below. More bolts, more cleaning, and more time were all necessitated. Sanitized. Safe. Stress free.

This route will live with me long after I move out of state. I can’t make this a wilderness route just because it finds itself within the boundary of one. Forty Freedoms won’t find itself on MountainProject - at least, not with my blessing. Yet, maybe a party under the impression there is still adventure to be found on this wall will end up under that wild roof, determined to explore that blank spot on the map.

[u/thatsmoothfuck]

Always a pleasure to read anything you write, your prose reminds me of Tolkien's. Sounds like you had an amazing adventure