Rock and Snow: Just Say Yes

To ski or to climb?

Such are the existential questions of the late fall in the Rockies.

Last winter near Crested Butte.

The question may seem like a wash: it’s all adventure recreation so it’s all good, right? Sure, I’d buy that. But, on the other hand, the two endeavors are diametrically opposed: North and South; Superman and Lex Luther; PBR and Martinis. When skis meet snow, friction is my private enemy number one. I spend the night before buffing out each scratch, filing burs from my edges, applying the perfect coats of wax. All day I strive for glide; I dream of flying over, under, through, into and out of powder, or along a well-packed track.

If I’m flying while I climb, well, something has gone wrong. I’m about to be dangling (hopefully uninjured) from the sharp end while my belayer smashes into the bottom of the cliff. Friction is my main addiction while I climb: jamming hands in cracks and cranking fingers into sharp pockets; smearing, edging and stemming the feet. It’s all about the grip.

That's me on Friday's Recess at the Nautilus in Vedauwoo.

But when it comes to ascending and descending, it’s all just sending isn’t it?

So the answer to our original oh-so-beautiful problem really comes down to a matter of spirit: shall I pull down or shred it up? Fight for my right or go with the flow? Slow and elegant pain, or adrenaline speed floating?

Last week I said both. On Sunday I hiked for beautiful powder turns on my first ski day of the season and then cragged in the sun on Tuesday.

Such are the answers of our time.

Mason Daly, getting jazzed for the year's first turns.

Sunday morning I picked up my friends Mason and Paul at the crack of 10. Mason and I soaked in the sun on one of the finest coffee-drinking porches west of the Mississippi before loading our skis, poles and other tools of the trade into my truck. We drove to the Washington Gulch trailhead, strapped in, and headed out into the blue-bird day. Snowmobilers whizzed past us to go ski the farther mountains with deeper snow. Cross-country skiers with dogs followed in the packed tracks. We headed off the trail, into the woods to fight our way to the top of the hill.

Late November skin tracks are vicious. One second we were breaking trail through the week’s powder dump, and the next moment we’re sliding backwards on pine duff or edging into deadfall tree trunks. As Mason, Paul and I wound our way through the evergreens to the ridge of what locals call Coney’s, we often considered stepping out of the skis to boot pack up.

Two things crossed my mind frequently:

Anyone who follows this skin track is going to be like, ‘what the F were those guys thinking’?

And, Damn, I hope we find enough snow to not break our legs on the way down.

Touring towards powder. Slate River to the left (west), Washington Gulch to the right.

Eventually we gained the ridge above the trees and toured along wind crusts until we found a moderately-sloped open glade that would drop us back down into the valley. We stripped skins, ate a snack, layered up and then entered a gentleman’s debate about who should drop first. Paul had gotten his first turns the day before, I had skied the line plenty last season, so we decided Mason should have the honors. And honor it he did: a dozen unobstructed Champaigne turns.

I went next but should have gone last because I made two turns and immediately lawn-darted myself into the shallow snow pack. As I shook the snow off of myself and straightened out my goggles I knew I’d been too timid: I was afraid of picking up any speed because of the leg-break logs lurking beneath the surface. As I relaxed into the bouncy knee-drop rhythm that I hadn’t felt since April, I put the reluctance behind me. The snow was deep enough to play. Hooting and hollering the whole way, the three of us leap-frogged each other into the bottom of the valley. Pole taps, “Sick dude!”s, “Yeah buddy”s, skins on and we toured back to the car. First turns of the year!

Paul begins the ceremonial ripping of the skins at the top. No where to go but down, down, down.

The first day is all about getting the kinks out of the system: repairing blisters on the tour home.

Paul and Mason skating to the car on snowmobile tracks. Gothic Mountain looks on.

Monday. Work. Enough said.

Tuesday. Climbing. Not enough said.

Squeezer bugs? Check. Rock knockers? Check. Clipper-doos? Check. String? Check.

Paul and I headed down to Gunnison last Tuesday to climb at what I call Mini J-Tree, more popularly known as Hartman Rocks. Large-crystal granite domes and spires provide 360 degrees of climbing on balancy faces and skin munching cracks. Neither Paul nor I had climbed more than a handful of days since last fall, so we went to the Buddah’s Belly area to belly up to some short 5.8s. We endured the 30-second approach, dropped our gear, and marveled at all the solar warming happening on the south face of the rock feature. We’d left Crested Butte in single-digit temperatures that morning.

After deciphering the fuzzy guide book pictures, we stacked the rope, racked up and began scrambling up the sickness. All the pitches were around 70 feet with solid rock and a mix of face and crack climbing protected by both bolts and traditional gear. We swapped leads and got to know each other as climbers, this being our first day on a rope together and all.

The first real sass the rock threw at me came on an unnamed 5.8+ with sparse gear near the top. Three feet below my feet I had equalized two C3s (each with only two lobes engaged on dubious crystals) and a few feet above my head I had equalized one super dicey micro-nut with a somewhat less dicey micro-nut. Near my knees I had feebly tried to sling a chicken head, but without a hands free rest, getting a runner around the runner-length chicken head felt more like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic than actually protecting myself.

Paul cleaning the anchors on top of Buddah's Belly.

I shook out one hand, then the other more times than was really necessary or effective (same with reaching in to my chalk bag) then finally got up the peace and strength of mind to make the two tenuous moves up to a big jug. From that two-hands thank-god hold I hauled my shaking body whale-like onto the low angle top of the climb. I clipped the chains and Paul brought me home. The runner around the chicken head pretty much fell off as I lowered and I cleaned it on the way down to save myself the shame of seeing it sashay down the cliff, still clipped to the rope.

To finish the day off, we hopped on the crag’s namesake, Buddah’s Belly, a 5.9+/5.10- that navigates a short roof and a steep, juggy prow. As I looked at it from the ground, I became more and more confident I could climb it. I saw rests. I saw the bolt clips. I saw success. 15 minutes later I squealed “Take!” with a draw at my waist and began a series of climb-hang climb-hang, characteristic of any steep climb I hop on. I can technique my way through the balancy and even run-out climbs right off the couch, but the steep stuff never fails to punish me.

I finally bouldered my way from bolt to bolt, clipped the chains, and gave Paul a shot at it on top rope. On two of the moves his feet cut out completely and he admirably star-fished into the air with only one hand on the wall.  Sharma, meet Paul.

Paul, rapelling past the "jugs" that lead out of the roof on Buddah's Belly, 5.9+

After relaxing in the sun for a few minutes we retraced the epically-short approach to the car and drove to Gunnison for $1 fish tacos and a microbrew at the Gunnison Brewery. Then we drove back up valley to the land of snow and skiing.

Suuuuuuper hard approach.