This isn’t a story of an epic. There are no bleed-outs or against all odds edge-of-your-seat almost-sends on a first ascent. This is a story of being in “the zone” – a different kind of zone - one where two regular-ole-climbers cross into an unseen, random bubble -- the “zone of craptitude.”
After a successful but mini-epic ascent up the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney we decided to chill out for some relaxed touristy gawking at beautiful Lake Tahoe and then partake in some climbing at nearby Lover’s Leap.
Several friends have raved about Lover’s Leap, then, when a random woman at a climbing shop in Bishop went on-and-on about the fun, easy trad multi-pitch climbs at Lover’s Leap, we were sold. After bailing on staying longer at Whitney, we had a few spare vacation days and decided to take "the leap."
As we approached the crag's vicinity, the sun’s evening glow shone through the pines. I pulled up the map on my phone and waited patiently - ok, not so patiently - as the spinning wheel-of-death went on and on and on. The map grid painstakingly filled in during the single bar of 3G.
While waiting, I read the guidebook about camping in the area. We were crippled without a full map and tried to follow the guidebook's written directions. We turned left on roads, right on roads, we turned around numerous times, all in an attempt to locate these nearby areas of free camping.
Eventually we were pretty certain we found the correct street, but there were only cabins. We drove deeper. More cabins. All we saw was cabin after cabin. Unless we pitched a tent in someone’s front yard, camping here was a no-go.
Plan 2: The guidebook said there is more free camping further down the highway.
We escaped cabin suburbia and drove on, the sunlight was completely absent now. After locating the narrow dirt road and climbing steeply, the thick, steep vegetated sides of the road were definitely not camp-able. We randomly went left and right on Y’s, hoping to locate a flat enough spot on which to pitch a tent.
Our frustration level was nearing the red-zone after encountering nothing but hillside and trees. Eventually we reached a dead end with a small turn-around large enough to park the car and pitch the tent - yeah.
We climbed into the tent, exhausted. Just as we were dozing off, an engine brake of an 18-wheeler blared through the trees. The lights of cars and sounds of tires and engines whirled past. Despite all that winding up the road, we ended up right above the highway. How is it so many people are driving at 3 a.m.?
As the dawn broke through the trees and gave us forced "relief" from the futile attempts at sleep, we decided to check out the Lover’s Leap campground, reasoning it had to be better than this. It was also near the climbing.
We arrived to find a couple of campsite spaces still available. We grabbed a site, parked the car, hauled our stuff to the walk-in site, and made breakfast. Then, as I cooked, they came. One little innocent yellow jacket wasp checked me out, left, and told his buddies of the goods. Suddenly we were surrounded by not just a few, but dozens of wasps, multiple dozens of wasps. We literally could not eat without almost inserting one into our mouths.
We strategically retreated to the tent. Timing the door opening, with a rapid dive-in, and then handing the food quickly through a small hole in the door. We frantically swatted and waved, attempting to make the wind-flow pressure differential strong enough to keep the damn things out of the tent. They buzzed around and landed on the mesh netting, awaiting our tasty return outside.
It wasn’t long before the sun’s beams moved into the gaps between the trees, turning the tent into a solar oven, while the yellow jackets swarmed outside. The zone of craptitude was proudly displaying its multiple forms of crappiness.
Rick and I looked at each other and knew that the only way to escape the zone was to climb out of it. Yes, climbing solves nearly all problems.
We reviewed the guidebook, rapidly exited the tent, attempted to follow the correct trail, and proceeded to walk right past our chosen climb. After back-tracking and finally locating the climb, a couple was now at the base flaking their rope. Damn.
We then wandered aimlessly, seeking a suitable alternative. How about this? Nope. Or, this? Nope. Desperate, we said screw it, let’s pick anything and climb. We found an easy climb with minimal information. It was mixed bolts and trad. It looked pretty cool, with multiple dike-ish bands intersecting the route. I tied in to take the lead.
Although the first bolt was a good 30 feet up, it looked as though there were plenty of places for pro. Wrong. I kept going higher and higher, looking for something, anything to place my first piece of protection. I was getting scared and my ability to control my fear was nixed from being mentally and physically stressed from Whitney, the lack of sleep, and being in "the craptitude zone" – I was about to lose it. Finally I decided to veer off route, far left, just to get something in.
I studied the route and what lay between me and the bolt that was now above and far to the right. One of the features of Lover’s Leap are horizontal bands of dike-like intrusions. Each band is like a welcomed relief of jugs, but in between are blank faces. If you are tall enough to climb from band to band, the climb is easy. If you aren't tall enough, as I discovered, the climb is considerably more difficult. It was a long, blank, grey expanse of rock between me, the bolt, and the next dike band.
I cussed and struggled with each tier, and then I heard a buzz around my head. It found me. A yellow jacket found me and any little remnants of food on my clothing. With each move of my arm it was swept off my shirt and then it buzzed around trying to get back to its little meal.
The next bolt after my last clip was another 20 foot run out. There were no cracks. A fall would likely mean decking. Then the little shit flew up my pant leg. In a blur, somehow, I simultaneously shook my right leg to dislodge it, moved far left to a seam off route, and slammed in some pro. I yelled down to Rick, “A wasp flew up my pants. I’m done. Please lower me.”
Amazingly, the zone of craptitude did not fully digress into the zone of shit-titude, as I did not get stung.
While I set up to belay I acquiesced to let the visitor and his new buddy eat the rest of my breakfast from my shirt. As they landed and buzzed in alternating, highly annoying cycles, I was glad to have my brake-assisted ATC (the Edelrid Mega Jul).
Rick finished the route, rescued the gear, and declared upon hitting the ground that, even with his 6-foot frame and no yellow jackets, that route indeed sucked. Clearly we have more to explore in Lover's Leap.
As the yellow jackets buzzed around our heads, we realized that even our climbing was fully immersed in the zone and we just needed to get home. After one climb (a partial one for me), we broke camp, packed the car, and started heading home, which required us to pass through Tahoe. We then proceeded to get stuck for several hours in a holiday weekend traffic jam.
After a successful but mini-epic ascent up the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney we decided to chill out for some relaxed touristy gawking at beautiful Lake Tahoe and then partake in some climbing at nearby Lover’s Leap.
Several friends have raved about Lover’s Leap, then, when a random woman at a climbing shop in Bishop went on-and-on about the fun, easy trad multi-pitch climbs at Lover’s Leap, we were sold. After bailing on staying longer at Whitney, we had a few spare vacation days and decided to take "the leap."
As we approached the crag's vicinity, the sun’s evening glow shone through the pines. I pulled up the map on my phone and waited patiently - ok, not so patiently - as the spinning wheel-of-death went on and on and on. The map grid painstakingly filled in during the single bar of 3G.
While waiting, I read the guidebook about camping in the area. We were crippled without a full map and tried to follow the guidebook's written directions. We turned left on roads, right on roads, we turned around numerous times, all in an attempt to locate these nearby areas of free camping.
Eventually we were pretty certain we found the correct street, but there were only cabins. We drove deeper. More cabins. All we saw was cabin after cabin. Unless we pitched a tent in someone’s front yard, camping here was a no-go.
Plan 2: The guidebook said there is more free camping further down the highway.
We escaped cabin suburbia and drove on, the sunlight was completely absent now. After locating the narrow dirt road and climbing steeply, the thick, steep vegetated sides of the road were definitely not camp-able. We randomly went left and right on Y’s, hoping to locate a flat enough spot on which to pitch a tent.
Our frustration level was nearing the red-zone after encountering nothing but hillside and trees. Eventually we reached a dead end with a small turn-around large enough to park the car and pitch the tent - yeah.
We climbed into the tent, exhausted. Just as we were dozing off, an engine brake of an 18-wheeler blared through the trees. The lights of cars and sounds of tires and engines whirled past. Despite all that winding up the road, we ended up right above the highway. How is it so many people are driving at 3 a.m.?
As the dawn broke through the trees and gave us forced "relief" from the futile attempts at sleep, we decided to check out the Lover’s Leap campground, reasoning it had to be better than this. It was also near the climbing.
We arrived to find a couple of campsite spaces still available. We grabbed a site, parked the car, hauled our stuff to the walk-in site, and made breakfast. Then, as I cooked, they came. One little innocent yellow jacket wasp checked me out, left, and told his buddies of the goods. Suddenly we were surrounded by not just a few, but dozens of wasps, multiple dozens of wasps. We literally could not eat without almost inserting one into our mouths.
We strategically retreated to the tent. Timing the door opening, with a rapid dive-in, and then handing the food quickly through a small hole in the door. We frantically swatted and waved, attempting to make the wind-flow pressure differential strong enough to keep the damn things out of the tent. They buzzed around and landed on the mesh netting, awaiting our tasty return outside.
It wasn’t long before the sun’s beams moved into the gaps between the trees, turning the tent into a solar oven, while the yellow jackets swarmed outside. The zone of craptitude was proudly displaying its multiple forms of crappiness.
Rick and I looked at each other and knew that the only way to escape the zone was to climb out of it. Yes, climbing solves nearly all problems.
We reviewed the guidebook, rapidly exited the tent, attempted to follow the correct trail, and proceeded to walk right past our chosen climb. After back-tracking and finally locating the climb, a couple was now at the base flaking their rope. Damn.
We then wandered aimlessly, seeking a suitable alternative. How about this? Nope. Or, this? Nope. Desperate, we said screw it, let’s pick anything and climb. We found an easy climb with minimal information. It was mixed bolts and trad. It looked pretty cool, with multiple dike-ish bands intersecting the route. I tied in to take the lead.
Although the first bolt was a good 30 feet up, it looked as though there were plenty of places for pro. Wrong. I kept going higher and higher, looking for something, anything to place my first piece of protection. I was getting scared and my ability to control my fear was nixed from being mentally and physically stressed from Whitney, the lack of sleep, and being in "the craptitude zone" – I was about to lose it. Finally I decided to veer off route, far left, just to get something in.
I studied the route and what lay between me and the bolt that was now above and far to the right. One of the features of Lover’s Leap are horizontal bands of dike-like intrusions. Each band is like a welcomed relief of jugs, but in between are blank faces. If you are tall enough to climb from band to band, the climb is easy. If you aren't tall enough, as I discovered, the climb is considerably more difficult. It was a long, blank, grey expanse of rock between me, the bolt, and the next dike band.
I cussed and struggled with each tier, and then I heard a buzz around my head. It found me. A yellow jacket found me and any little remnants of food on my clothing. With each move of my arm it was swept off my shirt and then it buzzed around trying to get back to its little meal.
The next bolt after my last clip was another 20 foot run out. There were no cracks. A fall would likely mean decking. Then the little shit flew up my pant leg. In a blur, somehow, I simultaneously shook my right leg to dislodge it, moved far left to a seam off route, and slammed in some pro. I yelled down to Rick, “A wasp flew up my pants. I’m done. Please lower me.”
Amazingly, the zone of craptitude did not fully digress into the zone of shit-titude, as I did not get stung.
While I set up to belay I acquiesced to let the visitor and his new buddy eat the rest of my breakfast from my shirt. As they landed and buzzed in alternating, highly annoying cycles, I was glad to have my brake-assisted ATC (the Edelrid Mega Jul).
Rick finished the route, rescued the gear, and declared upon hitting the ground that, even with his 6-foot frame and no yellow jackets, that route indeed sucked. Clearly we have more to explore in Lover's Leap.
As the yellow jackets buzzed around our heads, we realized that even our climbing was fully immersed in the zone and we just needed to get home. After one climb (a partial one for me), we broke camp, packed the car, and started heading home, which required us to pass through Tahoe. We then proceeded to get stuck for several hours in a holiday weekend traffic jam.
