As we gained the 2nd pitch, l was beginning to settle down. Still sweating, but breathing regularly, the climb had started to flow. The rock was positive, and the solution pockets more than made up for the lack of splitter hand jams. Truth is, l had climbed a lot during the summer, but during the last couple of weeks my focus was more about backpacking - and eating.
Crosby Perry Smith had encouraged me to chase down more European climbing. Crosby, a Steamboat, Colorado local, had grown up skiing and climbing in the Alps. His father, Oliver put up hundreds of first ascents, and taught his son well.
We discussed the Dolomites of Northern Italy at a slideshow during the winter. When you get a nudge from a former 10th mountain division hero, you should heed the task. So, Dana, my wife, and l embarked on a 90 kilometer hike through the Dolomites with the plan to climb and explore arguably some of the planet's most striking landscape. Reinhold Messner, the Michael Jordan of mountaineering, described the Dolomites perfectly; “Each mountain in the Dolomites is like a piece of art”
Crosby Perry Smith had encouraged me to chase down more European climbing. Crosby, a Steamboat, Colorado local, had grown up skiing and climbing in the Alps. His father, Oliver put up hundreds of first ascents, and taught his son well.
We discussed the Dolomites of Northern Italy at a slideshow during the winter. When you get a nudge from a former 10th mountain division hero, you should heed the task. So, Dana, my wife, and l embarked on a 90 kilometer hike through the Dolomites with the plan to climb and explore arguably some of the planet's most striking landscape. Reinhold Messner, the Michael Jordan of mountaineering, described the Dolomites perfectly; “Each mountain in the Dolomites is like a piece of art”
For this trip, I knew that I had tight windows of time to climb. And while taking time to explore is sublime, this trip needed to be surgical. Just a day here, and a day there to get on the rock.
On those days, Dana would be happy to wile away time in some quaint little village sipping tea and looking through the stores.
My Italian climbing partner, Stephan, was a friend-of-friends. We had organized this climbing outing weeks earlier, but Stephan and I had just met the evening before, after I arrived by foot in his village, Selva.
Climbing in Europe was not a first for me, neither was climbing with Europeans. An expedition to Cho Oyu years earlier had placed me in the middle of a strong contingent from Chominoux. I remember feeling as though I was at track practice trying to match their pace each day.
Stephan ended up being no different than the other European climbers l had shared a rope with, and our approach quickly escalated into an event by itself.
On those days, Dana would be happy to wile away time in some quaint little village sipping tea and looking through the stores.
My Italian climbing partner, Stephan, was a friend-of-friends. We had organized this climbing outing weeks earlier, but Stephan and I had just met the evening before, after I arrived by foot in his village, Selva.
Climbing in Europe was not a first for me, neither was climbing with Europeans. An expedition to Cho Oyu years earlier had placed me in the middle of a strong contingent from Chominoux. I remember feeling as though I was at track practice trying to match their pace each day.
Stephan ended up being no different than the other European climbers l had shared a rope with, and our approach quickly escalated into an event by itself.
The evening previous, when Stephan and I talked in depth he asked, “What are you up for? Are you a sport climber?”
The question felt loaded - I do sport climb, and like it, but probably do more trad. I replied with “Whatever you think."
The 45ish, burly Italian scoffed, and said, “Those sport climbers. They are like the kids today… too lazy to buy the sausage and cut it up… they want it pre sliced. They want to have hard grades, a planned route, no thinking, and don't even look around at the views!”
I gulp a little, and nodded, knowing in the back of my mind that areas like Shelf Road is a sport crag I've climbed a couple times a year since forever.
“I can assure you that l am not chasing grades,” I offer. “I would prefer a long alpine sort of a route. An arete, with plenty of exposure and lots of pitches.”
That did not seem very specific as I looked in a circle at the jagged cliffs that surrounded the town -- and region for that matter.
So much rock, and big faces. Lifetimes of routes.
The question felt loaded - I do sport climb, and like it, but probably do more trad. I replied with “Whatever you think."
The 45ish, burly Italian scoffed, and said, “Those sport climbers. They are like the kids today… too lazy to buy the sausage and cut it up… they want it pre sliced. They want to have hard grades, a planned route, no thinking, and don't even look around at the views!”
I gulp a little, and nodded, knowing in the back of my mind that areas like Shelf Road is a sport crag I've climbed a couple times a year since forever.
“I can assure you that l am not chasing grades,” I offer. “I would prefer a long alpine sort of a route. An arete, with plenty of exposure and lots of pitches.”
That did not seem very specific as I looked in a circle at the jagged cliffs that surrounded the town -- and region for that matter.
So much rock, and big faces. Lifetimes of routes.
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Glancing through the guide book, I was struck by the huge number of climbs that were upwards of 12 pitches…some beyond 20. The early season snow that we had hiked through days earlier was still melting off the cliffs.
Dry climbs would be limited to areas that were south facing… still thousands of possibilities. We settled on a 12 to15 pitch (depending if you had the rope to link), moderate climb that delivered on all counts. It was rated 5.9, and had walk-off after a couple of short rappels. Fueled by croissants, and a few of those absurdly tiny coffees, l was sweating after just a few moments, and kicking myself for not packing more food. l dog-trotted following Stephan up the trail. He had, at least for the moment, transformed into a wild animal. I caught glimpses of the rock face in the distance. Without cracks, or bolts, it looked impossibly hard. Blank. But like most climbs, as you get a little closer, details from the bottom pitches become evident, and the whole thing looks more manageable. Already sweating, l wished l could say that l had been carrying heavy loads each day on the trek during the previous days and that my legs were shot. But, I'm a little embarrassed to admit, my wife and I had the heavy parts of the pack shipped ahead on each segment of our trek (a sweet service in the Dolomites that had a moderate price, but keeps legs fresh; even on successive days that feel like doing back to back 14ers.) |
In addition, l hadn’t even included a tent or stove in my pack; Rather, we were sleeping in comfy inns each evening and eating great food in their dining rooms. So, my legs were fine.
When we arrived at the base of our route we saw the other team. Two Italians, both in their 20s, and in the flashy attire.
I can recall that the Europeans of yesteryear used to dress like the UPS delivery guys… not so much any more. These guys were styling. Even from a couple pitches away, they stood out. I felt woefully drab. Like the female peacock rather than the strutting male.
There, at the base of the climb, was the smell of rock, mountain air, sweat from my drenched shirt, and wet grass. I had that familiar pre climb knot in my stomach, the one l feel before each climb, and first experienced at age 10. So many decades ago, l was staring up at a crack in Taylor Canyon in Gunnison, Colorado. It seems like after all this time that feeling would have run its course. After 50 years, It hasn’t.
When we arrived at the base of our route we saw the other team. Two Italians, both in their 20s, and in the flashy attire.
I can recall that the Europeans of yesteryear used to dress like the UPS delivery guys… not so much any more. These guys were styling. Even from a couple pitches away, they stood out. I felt woefully drab. Like the female peacock rather than the strutting male.
There, at the base of the climb, was the smell of rock, mountain air, sweat from my drenched shirt, and wet grass. I had that familiar pre climb knot in my stomach, the one l feel before each climb, and first experienced at age 10. So many decades ago, l was staring up at a crack in Taylor Canyon in Gunnison, Colorado. It seems like after all this time that feeling would have run its course. After 50 years, It hasn’t.
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“Should we bail to another route?” l ask, looking at the climbers above.
Stephan responded, “Are we worried about getting bombed with rockfall? We will be fine, there are no loose rocks, in fact, it is a good enough route that some of the Dolomite has become a little polished.” Reaching out to the face, l could see the wear. The rock, Dolomite, looked a little like limestone, but differed slightly. Dolomite is sedimentary, and, like limestone, is also a carbonate mineral but is made of ‘calcium magnesium carbonate’ instead of pure calcium carbonate. The Magnesium gives it the strength not to dissolve easily. It forms under high saline conditions in environments like lagoons. Stephan flaked out a couple of 60 meter ice lines and tied in. l looked at his rack, and then look back up at the imposing wall above us - six small cams up to #2, a few draws, some runners. Primal. I think back to climbs where l placed more than that in just 30 feet. My standard Sundance Kid quip regarding rack size, “Got enough dynamite there Butch?”, was lost on Stephan. |
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I am washed by another adrenaline surge.
Stephan started his dance upward. Clean, quiet, and efficient. I soon followed. The holds seemed to be everywhere from the ground; Funny how they disappear as you climb.
I would soon see that pitons, like time markers, were dispersed up the route. They had the look of a Neptune Mountaineering display case (a classic mountaineering shop in Boulder, Colorado.)
And then there’s the wood - couple of oak pegs had been pounded in in larger openings, and choked with perlon. They were there, the old rings, angles, and those two stakes - all being used. We encountered at least couple per pitch, as well as at the cruxy points, as if to calm my soul. In the runouts, cams were placed in the horizontal solution pockets, like some of the cracks in the New York Gunks.
Stephan started his dance upward. Clean, quiet, and efficient. I soon followed. The holds seemed to be everywhere from the ground; Funny how they disappear as you climb.
I would soon see that pitons, like time markers, were dispersed up the route. They had the look of a Neptune Mountaineering display case (a classic mountaineering shop in Boulder, Colorado.)
And then there’s the wood - couple of oak pegs had been pounded in in larger openings, and choked with perlon. They were there, the old rings, angles, and those two stakes - all being used. We encountered at least couple per pitch, as well as at the cruxy points, as if to calm my soul. In the runouts, cams were placed in the horizontal solution pockets, like some of the cracks in the New York Gunks.
We tied into an anchor of pitons that l imagined had been pounded in decades ago, and backed them up with a cam.
On that belay ledge of pitch two, I had “come to,” as it were. I experienced that feeling that everything makes sense. It’s the time that the chatter in the head stops and you live in the present.
We were already high above the valley floor with a falling slope below us. A splitter day, perfect temperatures, and a hunk of rock that seemingly stretched endlessly upwards. In the distance there were seemingly never ending waves of rock faces.
Gazing outward, you could easily make out the myriad ski runs and lifts. So many lifts. The Dolomites have been connected by almost 500 gondolas and chairlifts. It is possible to begin skiing on a morning in one town, and end up in another town, miles away from your origin. And with the elevation being so low, the runs were green pastures full of cows rather than the talus slopes that we are accustomed to seeing on a melted out ski area in the Rockies.
On that belay ledge of pitch two, I had “come to,” as it were. I experienced that feeling that everything makes sense. It’s the time that the chatter in the head stops and you live in the present.
We were already high above the valley floor with a falling slope below us. A splitter day, perfect temperatures, and a hunk of rock that seemingly stretched endlessly upwards. In the distance there were seemingly never ending waves of rock faces.
Gazing outward, you could easily make out the myriad ski runs and lifts. So many lifts. The Dolomites have been connected by almost 500 gondolas and chairlifts. It is possible to begin skiing on a morning in one town, and end up in another town, miles away from your origin. And with the elevation being so low, the runs were green pastures full of cows rather than the talus slopes that we are accustomed to seeing on a melted out ski area in the Rockies.
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A few short pitches led to a roof that we could skirt.
Hanging under the roof, clipped to a bolt was an 8 inch cylinder. Unusual. It had the appearance of a wildly out of place hummingbird feeder. Stephan explained that one of their crew, a lifetime mountaineer and climber, had contracted a terminal illness and died a few years previously. This had been a favorite route of his, and as a tribute, the boys climbed up with a bolt gun, placing a bolt to the side of the climb, and hanging a solar LED lantern. Each night it emitted a tiny glow . For the right eyes knowing where to look, there hung a constant reminder of their lost friend, and his passion for the mountains. |
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At pitch 6, the wall gave way to the Arete, and the route meandered from one side to the other - each pitch better than the last.
Consistent grade and rock created an exhilarating experience. Towards the top, we began to linger at belay ledges, drinking in the views. The mountains always fill me with gratitude. For life, health, family, and our world. To climb forces me to live in the present. It feels like a meditation. To experience uncertainty, fear, exhilaration and a host of emotions that we hold at bay in our day to day life is the allure. By definition, an adventure has no clear outcome. Climbing fits that bill - always an adventure. The pursuit of climbs, wherever they may be is my ticket to fully appreciating our world. |
A little Beta:
* Where are the Dolomites? Northern Italy
* Best time to climb: July through September. Massive ice during November through April
* Gear required: Standard rack
* Recommendation of guidebook and or guides : Dolomites, West and East
* Any other tips for a safe trip: Look into Refugios or Boutique hotels. Not much camping
*Best local beer: Sirrifico Italia Nos Tipopils
* Where are the Dolomites? Northern Italy
* Best time to climb: July through September. Massive ice during November through April
* Gear required: Standard rack
* Recommendation of guidebook and or guides : Dolomites, West and East
* Any other tips for a safe trip: Look into Refugios or Boutique hotels. Not much camping
*Best local beer: Sirrifico Italia Nos Tipopils