Dave's Not Here
The last weekend of January, I stuffed my backpack with snacks and hand warmers and set an alarm for 4:00 A.M. By 5 the next morning I was huddled in my truck in the gym parking lot, meeting an all-time crew to sort out gear and get on the road to Reimer’s.
A few hours and one Buc-ee’s stop later, we rolled into the North Shore parking lot and started our hike in. I fought for feeling in my fingers on the warm-ups. Focused on keeping my breathing even. Tried to find a rhythm in my body and brain in the midst of that happiness-and-adrenaline mix I feel when I climb real rock.
There is a sort of energy-share to climbing that I haven’t experienced in other activities — a contagious effect where, when one person tries hard and sends big, it seems as if the success rate for everyone else skyrockets, too. Watching a friend style a route at their limit or hold an impossible swing or take a fall throwing big for a heady move — it’s electrifying. It makes you braver just seeing it and experiencing it with them, and to share those moments and emotions with a group? There’s nothing like it.
As we all collectively laughed, yelled, and held our breath throughout the day, the energy only swelled. I watched and belayed as my friends gave tough routes 100 percent effort, trying my best to match it when my turns came up. The try-hard was contagious. I wanted to push myself, too.
Earlier in the morning, we’d stopped by a route called Dave’s Not Here. Three of my friends led it, and I tied in to follow with low expectations. It was a 5.11a, and the highest grade I’d sent outside at that point was 5.10a or lower. The start was bouldery and I executed it ungracefully; a theme that continued all the way to the anchors, as I wrestled our quickdraws from their bolts and threw for holds according to the group’s yelled beta from below. I fell twice, finally got to the top, slapped a hand to the anchors, and thought, “…I think I could do that.” Sure, I was tired and had a couple bloody knuckles, but it hadn’t felt nearly as bad as I’d imagined before tying in.
The thought stayed with me, lingering, throughout the day. I watched as friends sent or set new high points on their routes, one after the other. I felt strong on a couple easy 10s, and tried to conserve some energy, debating whether or not to risk crashing the send train by asking the group to backtrack and let me try again.
Rees, the GM of Momentum Katy, has been my biggest cheerleader in climbing since I first stepped into the gym a little over a year ago. It felt fitting that he was the one who seemed to read my mind as the rest of the group wound down.
“You want to try Dave’s Not Here again?” he finally asked. My nervous grin gave me away before my words did. He lit up. I frantically checked to make sure it wasn’t a pain for everyone else to hike back to it, but the group was already on board, and I could feel the energy doing its thing.
I still wasn’t sure about taking a lead fall on the route (or confident that I could just, you know, not fall), so Rees offered to give it one more run and hang my draws. I nervously ate a snack, tied in for the follow (unclipping and cleaning the draws as I went, instead of placing them), and started up.
The first part of the route, like most on Reimer’s North Shore, is really just getting on top of a big boulder ledge. I’d done it clean that morning, but couldn’t remember how now that we were back. I struggled on it for a while before finally figuring out where to place my hands and mantle up, rushed myself instead of resting, and whiffed the first move.
Frustrated, I motioned for my belayer to just lower me. “I’d rather just start it all over again,” I said. I tried to shake it off on the way down, and re-approached the start as soon as my feet hit the ground, before I could forget how it went again. Right hand to hidden pocket. Feet up, high. Left hand to smaller pocket. Press. Up. Over.
The others called out encouragement as I crawled back on the ledge for a proper rest this time.
My friend and climbing partner, Clint, says that he flips a switch when he starts climbing. He doesn’t hear anything — it’s just him and the wall, whether indoors or out.
I’m not like that. I hear everything. And I don’t mind it, usually. Friends’ yelling from the ground has powered me through a tough move many a time, and I like it that way.
But for just a second, before I truly started the route again, I leaned against the holds and closed my eyes and took deep breaths. I opened my eyes again and looked at the river beneath us, and the hills across, and thought about what a weird sport climbing is, and how crazy it is that I’m doing this, and how much I love it. I eyed the next set of holds and thought about my sequence. I looked at the group of friends below me and felt really grateful they were the ones I was with.
And then, I turned to the rock, tuned back in, and told my belayer, “Okay, watch me here.”
And I pulled on.
And I kept pulling.
And I threw big moves.
And I trusted my feet.
And my hands hurt really bad.
And I didn’t let go.
And I breathed really hard.
And I made it to the rest.
And I listened to the beta.
And I looked at the final high foot and thought, there is no way my leg will physically bend in such a way that I can put my foot on that and press off of it.
And then I tried it anyway.
And it worked.
And all of a sudden, I was at the chains with the quickdraws Rees had hung for me cleaned and dangling from my rope, and the group beneath me losing their minds.
It took me a few minutes, after my feet were back on the ground and breath was back in my lungs, to realize why they were so excited. The start of the route had given me so much trouble that I’d forgotten I restarted before running it clean. Someone finally reminded me, at which point I began properly freaking out, too. There are plenty of people for whom an outdoor 11 is no big deal; but it’s a major milestone for me at this point, and I still can’t wipe the smile off my face anytime I think about it.
First outdoor 5.11.
No feeling quite like sending something at your limit, and no group of people I would have rather had cheering me on. I can think of multiple moments on the route, crystal clear, where I know I would have let go if I hadn’t had their voices in my ears, telling me to keep holding on.
The magic of climbing is so much in the non-climbing things: The people you’re with, the place you’re in, the way a certain hold or move feels. They psych and the try-hard and the rush of sticking a move when you were sure you were coming off. The post-session junk food — burgers, in this case. The jokes and stories that come out of every trip, shared between those who were there in the very best way. Those are the things that fuel the actual climbing and keep you coming back for more.
Grateful to have kicked off 2020 with a milestone I didn’t expect to hit. Dave’s Not Here, you treated me well. Excited for what the rest of the climbing year could hold.
