Fuck moss.
My environmental, nature-oriented, hippie side appreciates the beauty of this soft, bright green fauna that grows abundantly in the unique ecosystem that is the Pacific Northwest. The climber in me hates it.
Indeed, it is a struggle to reconcile these differing perspectives. To calm the inner argument, I settled on loving the moss that grows on the ground and trees, but cringe from its parasitic presence on concrete, roofs, and rock.
Ironically, an early spark of admiration for my man occurred over moss.
It was August and we had met only a month prior. We were in the early stages of mutual curiosity where he wondered, “Does she? Doesn’t she?” and we both wondered “Hmmm, do I?” So we did what rock climbers do – go climbing.
We opted to go to a local crag to which neither of us had been. Demonstrating, if only subconsciously, our similar inclination towards adventure and a lack of desire to flash ego-filled chops on a well-practiced 5.11 at a favorite crag. Carver was conveniently near by. It had bolted and easy trad routes, and likely would not be crowded (since it requires a special card/permission for access).
We completed warm-up climbs on the center section of the wall, then moved right towards an area with trad climbs. I offered to take the sharp end and hopped on the rock. By the third move it became clear this route was not frequented.
As I reached onto each new ledge, I was met with piles of debris and was challenged to find clean sections of crack to place pro. Each step upward got worse, transitioning from dirt, lichen, and tiny pine cones, to carpets of dried out moss from the rain-free summer. I was getting pumped from the extended time needed to yank, sweep, and clean to be able to safely pull and step up.
At about 60% of the way to the chain, I was feeling shaky and not on solid footing. I desperately needed the large ledge above to rest. But, when I reached up, I found a solid carpet of moss. With nothing to hold onto I slid (with a few explicatives) into a gentle fall onto my last piece of pro. I looked over to Rick with a mixed expression of pissed, puzzled, and defeated. I announced “I’m done.”
He smiled and then looked at the pro I placed. I could see in his eyes that he knew bailing would mean I would lose at least one piece of gear. Like a gentleman he offered to finish the climb and lowered me.
Rick hopped on with gusto and made quick work of the lower sections. When he reached the ledge of my demise, I seem to recall his first words being, “oh shit.” He frantically ripped and pulled off moss with one hand and found a hold. He cranked himself up and kept going after wasting a couple of minutes looking for non-existent pro-placements. He progressed forward with reach, cuss, clean, cuss, place pro, cuss, then move. I thought to myself, well, we certainly both cuss a lot when we climb.
His grunts became louder and more frequent as he gained elevation. He was now one big move beneath the chains and more run-out than made me comfortable, considering the ledge decking potential below. No doubt, the seduction of the chains and the large ledge immediately below them compelled him to push forward.
He reached up his hand in a final desperate plea to be done and yelled at the top of his voice, “Awe, FUCK YOU!”
His fist rose as if in a victory pump, but instead of victory there was a hand full of moss. He tossed it aside, desperately felt around, and clawed himself upward in a defiant refusal to be had by a piece of vegetation. He used speed to over come gravity and the lack of holds and nabbed the chain in the most glorious display of testosterone-filled desperation. That was indeed a victory. Man over moss and gear saved. Needless to say, I was impressed with his gumption, valor, stupidity, bravery, strength, and humility as he said, “that sucked.”
We were lucky that day. Other than a few bruises, we escaped injury. But another moss climbing incident would not be so fortuitous.
I was belaying a good friend at another local crag. It was earlier in the summer, not long after the rains had stopped and the moss was still slick and fresh. We glanced at the climb and from the ground, it did not look over grown. She decided to lead it. It was bolted, but oddly so with a small, unprotected upwards traverse from the last bolt to the chains. When she arrived at that last bolt, she paused and studied the scene.
“Looks kinda crappy,” she said.
I told her to bail if it doesn’t feel right.
“Yeah, but I’ve done this climb before,” she replied. “It’s easy.” She reached her leg forward, gently stepping onto the traverse and grabbed a handhold. She began moving over. Step by careful step she edged her way to the finish.
She mumbled between moves. In the last step towards the anchor, she placed her foot onto a large, flat, but slightly negative hold, meeting a slick layer of moss. Immediately she was falling. Because this was an unprotected traverse, she swung uncontrollably into a large jutting wall below. There was nothing I could do to prevent the impact. Swear words flew out of her mouth. I could hear she was in pain.
She sat hanging for a moment and then her adrenaline kicked in. She proclaimed, "climbing!" and, in her determined nature, she finished - this time taking care to remove the moss on the traverse foothold. Upon completion, I lowered her and could see she was shaking uncontrollably while untying her knot. I offered to help, but she said, "nah, I'm good," and made surprisingly quick work of it. Then I suggested we assess the damage. There was blood from random places, but a rapidly swelling, blue-tinted thumb accented by an almost dangling nail was what caught my attention. How did she climb with that?
She studied her thumb as if she were a disconnected bystander. "Oh, yeah, that doesn't look so hot." She mumbled something about her ribs, but rapidly dismissed it, and suggested we do another climb. I wondered from what planet this woman came? I also wondered, who am I to question someone's self-assessment, especially when she is a physician? So, perhaps against my better judgement, I acquiesced. Upon her insistence, she lead another climb, albeit more cautiously. Afterwards, when the pain truly started to kick in, we called it a day.
Later she texted me, “lost nail, broken thumb, broken rib, fuck moss.”
My environmental, nature-oriented, hippie side appreciates the beauty of this soft, bright green fauna that grows abundantly in the unique ecosystem that is the Pacific Northwest. The climber in me hates it.
Indeed, it is a struggle to reconcile these differing perspectives. To calm the inner argument, I settled on loving the moss that grows on the ground and trees, but cringe from its parasitic presence on concrete, roofs, and rock.
Ironically, an early spark of admiration for my man occurred over moss.
It was August and we had met only a month prior. We were in the early stages of mutual curiosity where he wondered, “Does she? Doesn’t she?” and we both wondered “Hmmm, do I?” So we did what rock climbers do – go climbing.
We opted to go to a local crag to which neither of us had been. Demonstrating, if only subconsciously, our similar inclination towards adventure and a lack of desire to flash ego-filled chops on a well-practiced 5.11 at a favorite crag. Carver was conveniently near by. It had bolted and easy trad routes, and likely would not be crowded (since it requires a special card/permission for access).
We completed warm-up climbs on the center section of the wall, then moved right towards an area with trad climbs. I offered to take the sharp end and hopped on the rock. By the third move it became clear this route was not frequented.
As I reached onto each new ledge, I was met with piles of debris and was challenged to find clean sections of crack to place pro. Each step upward got worse, transitioning from dirt, lichen, and tiny pine cones, to carpets of dried out moss from the rain-free summer. I was getting pumped from the extended time needed to yank, sweep, and clean to be able to safely pull and step up.
At about 60% of the way to the chain, I was feeling shaky and not on solid footing. I desperately needed the large ledge above to rest. But, when I reached up, I found a solid carpet of moss. With nothing to hold onto I slid (with a few explicatives) into a gentle fall onto my last piece of pro. I looked over to Rick with a mixed expression of pissed, puzzled, and defeated. I announced “I’m done.”
He smiled and then looked at the pro I placed. I could see in his eyes that he knew bailing would mean I would lose at least one piece of gear. Like a gentleman he offered to finish the climb and lowered me.
Rick hopped on with gusto and made quick work of the lower sections. When he reached the ledge of my demise, I seem to recall his first words being, “oh shit.” He frantically ripped and pulled off moss with one hand and found a hold. He cranked himself up and kept going after wasting a couple of minutes looking for non-existent pro-placements. He progressed forward with reach, cuss, clean, cuss, place pro, cuss, then move. I thought to myself, well, we certainly both cuss a lot when we climb.
His grunts became louder and more frequent as he gained elevation. He was now one big move beneath the chains and more run-out than made me comfortable, considering the ledge decking potential below. No doubt, the seduction of the chains and the large ledge immediately below them compelled him to push forward.
He reached up his hand in a final desperate plea to be done and yelled at the top of his voice, “Awe, FUCK YOU!”
His fist rose as if in a victory pump, but instead of victory there was a hand full of moss. He tossed it aside, desperately felt around, and clawed himself upward in a defiant refusal to be had by a piece of vegetation. He used speed to over come gravity and the lack of holds and nabbed the chain in the most glorious display of testosterone-filled desperation. That was indeed a victory. Man over moss and gear saved. Needless to say, I was impressed with his gumption, valor, stupidity, bravery, strength, and humility as he said, “that sucked.”
We were lucky that day. Other than a few bruises, we escaped injury. But another moss climbing incident would not be so fortuitous.
I was belaying a good friend at another local crag. It was earlier in the summer, not long after the rains had stopped and the moss was still slick and fresh. We glanced at the climb and from the ground, it did not look over grown. She decided to lead it. It was bolted, but oddly so with a small, unprotected upwards traverse from the last bolt to the chains. When she arrived at that last bolt, she paused and studied the scene.
“Looks kinda crappy,” she said.
I told her to bail if it doesn’t feel right.
“Yeah, but I’ve done this climb before,” she replied. “It’s easy.” She reached her leg forward, gently stepping onto the traverse and grabbed a handhold. She began moving over. Step by careful step she edged her way to the finish.
She mumbled between moves. In the last step towards the anchor, she placed her foot onto a large, flat, but slightly negative hold, meeting a slick layer of moss. Immediately she was falling. Because this was an unprotected traverse, she swung uncontrollably into a large jutting wall below. There was nothing I could do to prevent the impact. Swear words flew out of her mouth. I could hear she was in pain.
She sat hanging for a moment and then her adrenaline kicked in. She proclaimed, "climbing!" and, in her determined nature, she finished - this time taking care to remove the moss on the traverse foothold. Upon completion, I lowered her and could see she was shaking uncontrollably while untying her knot. I offered to help, but she said, "nah, I'm good," and made surprisingly quick work of it. Then I suggested we assess the damage. There was blood from random places, but a rapidly swelling, blue-tinted thumb accented by an almost dangling nail was what caught my attention. How did she climb with that?
She studied her thumb as if she were a disconnected bystander. "Oh, yeah, that doesn't look so hot." She mumbled something about her ribs, but rapidly dismissed it, and suggested we do another climb. I wondered from what planet this woman came? I also wondered, who am I to question someone's self-assessment, especially when she is a physician? So, perhaps against my better judgement, I acquiesced. Upon her insistence, she lead another climb, albeit more cautiously. Afterwards, when the pain truly started to kick in, we called it a day.
Later she texted me, “lost nail, broken thumb, broken rib, fuck moss.”