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A Story About Climbing
Loosely Based on the Real Life Adventures
of Amy and Sandy in Cochise Stronghold, Arizona
1/30-2/2/2000
Author: Amy Hoeptner, Chairperson, NMMC Climbing Section
There is no historical evidence that the legendary Apache Chief
Cochise was a rock climber, but I have my suspicions after spending a
weekend in his one-time southern Arizona hideout. The area is
characterized by clean, granite domes, reminiscent of a certain
California valley that starts with "Y", in their quality.
By cloaking this comparison in anonymity I hope to forestall
accusations of heresy that could result from such observations.
"Are you now or have you ever compared a certain Arizona
climbing area with Y·?" But I digress. Our trip included only
two climbs due to inclement weather, but what it lacked in quantity
it made up for in quality of climbing and life in general.
We had heard good things about this area, both from friends and from
a suspiciously-enthusiastic guidebook which frequently referred to
climbs or pitches as "the best 5.(insert grade) in the
state." As we prepared for the trip, we began to ponder the
difference between an "ultra-classic" a
"mega-classic" and a "must-do mega classic."
Anyway, we intended to find out for ourselves.
We left our own Albuquerque stronghold on Thursday, January 30, ready
for some wilderness adventure climbing after weeks of holiday madness
and sport climbing. Armed with a car full of climbing gear, leftover
Christmas chocolates and a brand new GPS unit, we got out of town.
Our first stop was Hatch, where upon inquiring about where one could
get a good Mexican dinner, the gas station attendant proceeded to
pick up the phone and call a friend/restaurant owner down the street
who kept her place open for two chile-starved gringos from the big
city. By the way, in Hatch they serve rellenos flacos y leche con
hielo (flat rellenos and milk on the rocks).
Ever the diligent navigator, my co-pilot carefully entered a GPS
waypoint upon our return to the car. With impending millenial
concerns, we felt we could not be too careful in tracking our course,
should we have to navigate back through a world we no longer
recognized. Certainly major urban centers such as Hatch, Benson and
Sunsites would be targets for any sort of Y2K terrorist
activity.
On the road again, we headed east toward Wilcox and Cochise
Stronghold. Just before we arrived in the stronghold proper we were
stopped by a patrolling INS official on one of the nicest dirt roads
I have ever had the pleasure of driving on. After a brief
conversation during which we ascertained that he was also a climber,
we drove on into the park. After a couple of detours through some
neighboring campsites (oops!) we pulled into our campsite around
1:00am, erected our temporary habitation, and hit the hay.
I was awakened, rudely, at 6:00am by stomach cramps. Not one to be
put off by some minor discomfort (I'm a trad climber!) I closed my
eyes and prepared to fall back to sleep. Okay, so much for that plan.
I was up and fully engaged in my fledgling illness by 6:30 am.
That's alright! An alpine start is always a good idea. By 7:00,
Sandy was up, preparing coffee and instant mashed potatoes for me. I
choked down what I could and resolved, quietly, to climb today no
matter what. By 8:00 we were ready to head down the trail to our
chosen climb: Moby Dick.
Now as anyone who's spent any time navigating through nature knows,
the world is full of rock formations that bear little resemblance to
their moniker. Needles that look like thumbs, wolf's heads that
look like armadillos, and rocks that just look like, well, rocks,
abound. Let's face it, the human need to name sometimes requires an
active imagination on the part of the beholder; not in the case of
Whale Dome (Moby Dick's home). Ahab himself might have contemplated
running back to camp for his harpoon upon encountering this
marine-flavored monolith.
We encountered a number of other parties at the climb (that number
being 3). One was almost done when we arrived, one was just getting
ready to start, and another arrived just after we did. In my brief
experience a crowded crag often provides the backdrop for interesting
interchanges. Though strangers, we are united by a hobby that we
typically feel passionate about, and that provides fodder for
interactions ranging from unembellished anecdotes to all-out brag
fests, or a combination of the two÷sort of the humble pie approach
to braggadocio: "I was so scared, I mean, I usually only lead
5.9 at altitude with a broken ankle÷I was in way over my
head." It's all in good fun.
In this instance, I struck up a conversation with the male of the
pair who had just finished the route. It became apparent that they
were from California and had both lived in Yosemite at some point.
Intrigued, I inquired into his liveliehood while there which revealed
that he had worked with YOSAR, the prestigious Yosemite search and
rescue team. Seeing a connection I mentioned that I had participated
in search and rescue, albeit briefly, in Albuquerque. The subtlest
lip curl and eyebrow crook accompanied his next query: "You
weren't the 'V' word, were you?" I responded, baffled,
"the 'V' word?" wondering if he suspected a) I was from
another planet; or b) something much more personal that one would
rarely expect of a 32 year old woman not wearing a habit. "You
know," he continued conspiratorially, "a volunteer." I
can't remember what my response was at the time, but since then the
creative retorts to his snide comment have come without number. Ah,
hindsight.
Though a crowd usually lessens my personal enjoyment of adventure
climbing, I let it slide in favor of concentrating on my
still-rolling stomach, though after the YOSAR alum encounter, not
from illness alone. We let the second in the party ahead of us get a
good start, and Sandy started up the first pitch. I've sent many a
short missive heavenward prior to climbing: "please don't let
this be as hard as it looks," "if I can just make it up
this pitch I'll never climb again," etc. At this belay, I
implored the powers that be that for my own sake, and that of the
un-helmeted climbers following me, that I could stave off the
billowing waves of nausea, or at least acting on them. And due to the
clean life that I lead, my prayer was answered. The first pitch was
enjoyable climbing, featuring a large crack up to a blank face. Blank
except for a bolt, that is. Another prayer answered. I reached Sandy
at a lovely 2-bolt belay and we swapped gear in preparation for my
lead, as my stomach seemed well under control at this time.
I started up the second pitch. The first move off the deck was
definitely the crux of the matter. A tricky balance-y traverse to the
right. After this it's chicken heads deluxe. I think I put my own
unique spin on the end of the pitch (read: I was off route), but I
arrived at the ledge of my desiring regardless, none the worse for
wear. After building an anchor which I felt sure would hold body
weight, I called Sandy up. He joined me soon after and was off on
pitch number three, a short, pleasant do-si-do through the
chickenhead ranch.
Pitch 4 was mine. Short and sweet. And then the fun began. Pitch 5
was a remarkable, though poorly protected, ascent up an alligator
plate (big, flat chickenhead) covered, very vertical wall. This is
followed by a 3rd class slab scramble up to the top of the rock where
we were treated to beautiful views on the last day of the millenium.
But if it's not over until the fat lady sings as they say, the
rappel off this climb should be accompanied by a chorus of very
generously proportioned damsels. A double-rope free-hanging rappel
into a small grove of rope-eating trees awaited Sandy. After much
grunting, swinging and shunt-assisted traversing, my hero was down
and I was on my way. Our Moby experience ended with a nasty slog down
the descent gully and back to our humble camp.
We decided, upon our return, to head for the East Stronghold area
that evening in preparation for a climb there the next day. We headed
out with good intentions to arrive at camp in a timely manner, but
wait, it's New Year's Eve! Into the teeming metropolis of
Sunsites, Arizona we go where we arrived in a timely manner at the
Sunsites Bar and Grill. Highlights of the evening included an all
country-western karaoke, free hors d'ouevres (including ambrosia
salad and deviled eggs), Budweiser and 2 serious games of
pool. After lulling me into complacency during the first game, which
I won, Sandy proceeded to clear the table during the second game
while I stared on, slack-jawed. It would be easy to dwell on the
volume of polyester, pearl buttons and pomade in the establishment
that evening, but these were genuinely nice people regardless of
their fashion sense. We could have stayed much longer but we knew our
climbing would have suffered, so nowhere near midnight we bid a fond
farewell to our fellow revelers and tromped out into a tepid Arizona
night.
Back on the road toward the East Stronghold we reviewed the day's
and night's activities and settled the bets we had made on the pool
games. All is fair in love and war, but when it comes to billiards
it's best to keep your ducks in a row. Reality hit as we approached
our destination and realized that we didn't really know where we
were going to camp. Our initial foray into the formal Forest Service
campground was discouraging to the tune of $10 a night and an army of
generator-laden road hogs. We headed off again, and after some
discussion approached what looked like a reasonable camping area÷it
was flat, and close to the trailhead for the climb we wanted to do.
We went so far as to begin setting up the tent before we realized
that if this was indeed the trailhead, it might be a tad busy in the
wee hours of the morn, and after a wild night in Sunsites, one needs
one's rest. Again we headed off, this time up a winding road to its
terminus where we identified what seemed to be a good campsite and
pitched our tent. For whatever reason, my sleep was fitful that
night. When I awoke at 4:00am and glimpsed the lights of Sunsites in
the valley below, I realized that the world, and electricity as we
know it, were continuing into the new millenium. I heaved a sigh of
relief and went back to sleep.
We awoke in earnest around 7:00am and crawled out of the tent to a
wonderful surprise. Our campsite was situated on the crest of a hill
from which we had an incredible view of both the rocks, and the
valley below. Our late-night wanderings had paid off in this
beautiful, free, campsite. Coffee and an a.m. calorie injection were
in order after which we climbed in the trusty Trooper and headed down
the road to the trailhead. After strapping on our gear and packs, we
headed down the trail, armed with 3 or 4 different route descriptions
of the climb we confidently had chosen as our day's entertainment:
The Wasteland.
As we began our solitary trek to the base of the climb, we couldn't
help but notice that whatever attraction was drawing droves of
climbers to the West Stronghold was definitely not in evidence in the
east. My enthusiasm for solitary climbing experiences in nature began
to wane somewhat as I contemplated what lay before us: our first
experience with a climb of this magnitude all alone. Though I
didn't know it at the time, Sandy shared my unverbalized lack of
confidence in our ability to climb a 6-pitch 5.8 route as a solo
pair, without even a sign of other climbers or hikers in the area.
Eventually he broke the silence and summed it up succinctly if
enigmatically: "I wish I had a couple of Jims right now." I
knew he was referring, of course, to the many climbs we had done in
the company of our experienced comrades, a preponderance of whom
seemed to be named Jim.
We proceeded to thoroughly check of our packs for any traces of Jims.
After having once toted a 15 pound cobble around for half a day which
had been placed in my pack unbeknownst to me by a disgruntled partner
(so, I forgot to take my pack when I left that belay), I would never
underestimate my ability to overlook something as trivial as a large
man in my pack. Upon finding none, we were face to face with our
trepidation about climbing alone, with only a surfeit of adventure
lust to guide us. Then the bargaining began. "We'll hike to
the base of the climb and see how we feel." "We can always
rap off the top of the first pitch if we want to." These were
the delusional mantras we recited as we moved inexorably toward our
destiny on the Wasteland.
We eventually arrived at the climb and after hawing and hemming for
as long as we could, decided at around 11:00 that we needed to fish
or cut bait, so to speak. In a fit of ambivalence, I donned the lead
rack and headed for the base of the first pitch. It looked slabby and
pleasant, and decidedly non-vertical. This indeed proved to be the
case, and I arrived at the belay feeling confident that we had made
the right decision and we should push on. Sandy arrived soon after
and continued up a lovely crack pitch (5.7ish) which I followed and
planted myself at the belay next to him.
It was then that my great confidence began to unravel somewhat as I
stared up into the gaping maw of a large chimney above Sandy's
head. "Hmm. The guidebook describes this as an easy chimney with
good protection in a crack system" Sandy said encouragingly. I
think I grunted at him as he hefted the rack onto my narrow
shoulders. He sent me off with a cheery, "lead forth with vigor,
woman!" I rolled my eyes at him. For the first time in the year
I had been climbing with it, I noted a distinct lack of the #20
Camelots I would need to protect the death chute above me. Oh the
sorrow of the inept chimney climber! With my body wedged much too far
into the chimney, I contorted, yogi-like, in order to reach out and
lodge the tiny stoppers I was hanging my life on into a small crack,
sight-unseen. Somehow I managed my way up to the top and stepped onto
the top of the slab, regretting that I had never taken needlepoint or
any of the other earth-based textile-related pursuits more seriously
as a hobby. The remainder of the pitch, however, was spectacular and
airy, and seemed to offer up a chicken head just when I needed it.
Somewhat mollified, I reached the belay once again sure that my
future lay on big rocks and not as a professional quilter. I summoned
Sandy up and he soon joined me. We agreed that we had just
experienced a remarkable pitch.
The next two pitches offered similarly enjoyable climbing, combining
challenging verticality with reassuringly large holds. Minor
route-finding issues slowed us once or twice, and I suffered from
very cold hands, but otherwise it was pure pleasure. Sandy led the
final short pitch to the summit, where I joined him in a brief
celebration of our success, truncated by the realization that we now
had to get down off this lithic behemoth. Seven rappels later we were
back to our packs and enjoying the unique euphoria that accompanies
the successful completion of a challenging alpine endeavor. We began
down the trail toward the car in dwindling light, but were pleased
that our headlamps remained safely ensconced in our packs the whole
way back. Back at camp above the lights of Sunsites, over a big
spaghetti dinner and a few slugs of Jim Beam we closed the day as we
often have since we met, recounting our day's climbing adventure
late into the night.
The next day broke with a beautiful cloudless sky. Arizona's skies
seem uniquely blessed with an infinite tranquil blue liquidity. This
particular morning we were grateful for what appeared to be another
unseasonably warm day, as we planned to tackle another Cochise
classic: What's My Line. This route was located in a small valley
almost between the east and west parts of the park, and would require
a substantial hike to reach. Shortly after finishing breakfast,
however, clouds began to appear from behind the rocks to the west.
Though not put off at first, by the time we drove the 2.5 miles to
the trailhead, it was clear that something was brewing. By the time
we were about halfway there, intermittent snow squalls had redefined
our approach hike as a reconnaissance for future adventures.
Disappointed, we nonetheless continued until we reached the climb. To
stand in the valley where surrounded by the towering formations that
host What's My Line, Interiors, and several other major Cochise
climbs with gusting winds and threatening gray skies was worth the
hike. Otherworldly is the description that comes most quickly to
mind. After a brief circuit of the area, we headed back down the
trail to the trusty vehicle. As we bid Cochise Stronghold adieu, we
were already planning the tick list for our next visit.
I never did find any concrete evidence during my visit that Cochise
was a rock climber. No leather harnesses or buckskin climbing tights.
But it's hard to imagine that anyone with the capacity for
adventure that I imagine he must have had, could ignore the
possibilities for vertical exploration offered by this wonderland. I
like to think that the ghosts of Cochise and his cronies are lurking
somewhere in the area, maybe swapping leads on one of the many
spectacular climbs in the area. And as we drove off I swear I heard
the quiet whisper of the Athabaskan words for "on belay"
echoing in the wind.
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