Mountain A La Mode: On Climbing and Pie

“She’s a psychopath,” Ryan said.  The Carbondale local introduced himself over beers at the Pour House bar when he heard talk of the pie baking contest. “My mom’s been judging the contest for years.  I’ve heard of Judy Harvey.  She’s absolutely obsessed.   If you win, she may kill you.”

Cover Model status thanks to Tara and Andrew

Two years ago, I was Fruit Number 1.  During a summer of Rifle sport climbing, I dropped off a granny smith all butter crust apple pie, the first entry into the fruit category at the Carbondale Mountain Fair annual pie baking contest.  I dreamed of being on the cover of Martha Stewart’s Home Living, wearing an apron and holding an apple pie. I dreamed of being a handsome climber boy killing it in the kitchen.

This spring, my long term girlfriend and I broke up.  To deal with it, I threw myself at free climbing a new big wall route in Yosemite.  I toiled, tried, and worked. After a few months, the route fell to my tenacity.  With no goals left, no girlfriend, and no direction, I felt lost.

The Final Frontier in Yosemite- Mikey Schaefer photo

Remembering my dream, I packed quick draws, a harness, shoes, a rolling pin and my pastry blender into my Saturn station wagon with plans of returning to Colorado.  The competition in Carbondale would provide direction in my life, somewhere to invest my energy, and a chance to be a cover model.

Before leaving, I prepped for the contest by baking a chicken pot pie in Yosemite.  Traveling east, my friends in Salt Lake City loaned me their kitchens to bake a mixed fruit pie, an apple pie, and a strawberry rhubarb pie.   

A perfect apple pie at Nik Berry's house

While traveling, I studied endlessly, devouring cookbooks and searching the ends of the Internet for recipes. On July 1^st, The New York Times published an article about tarts, crisps and most importantly, summer pie recipes. I read the piece fifteen times.    In Salt Lake, my friend’s mom provided beta on cold butter, on shredding apples and how to crimp the edges for the best presentation.  When she was out of the kitchen, I snapped pictures of her grandmother’s 100 year old apple pie recipe. 

With a solid technical foundation, I drove to my friend Hayden’s house by the confluence in Carbondale. Hayden’s kitchen provided a perfect place to bake a second apple pie, a bourbon pecan pie and a chocolate bourbon pecan. I tailored my Rifle climbing towards pie baking.  

Me climbing on the long 8th Day in Rifle photo by Tara Reynvaan

The steep limestone routes provided core training.  The small edges allowed me to crimp until my fingers cracked.  The sidepulls worked my hand strength. By the end of the month, I used an ab roller to press out the pie crust.  I crimped the edges of the pie to perfection.  I broke apples in half.   Beyond the training, I sought advice from master bakers.   

For the past 20 years Judy Harvey has dominated the Carbondale Mountain Fair pie baking contest. White and dark chocolate mousse. Boysen berries. Caramel coconut creams peaked with translucent amber spikes of macadamia nut brittle. Judy mastered these recipes and the subtleties of pie baking.  In 2005, the Aspen Times featured Judy in an article about the contest.  Her husband, Roger spoke of Judy’s determination describing trial run pies stuffing their garage refrigerator and inviting friends over at all hours to test the pies.  On competition days, Harvey wakes at 4 am to begin baking. I wanted her obsession.

The Carbondale phone book provided her number. Judy shied away when I first rang.  “My family is setting up camp for the 4^th of July.  Can I call you back?” she said.   After 3 days of silence, I dialed again. The call went straight to her voicemail. The master baker ignored my pie enthusiasm.

Despite Judy’s reluctance to share pie secrets and the rumor of her homicidal tendencies, my mission to bake the perfect pie held true to course.  A climber’s BBQ offered a chance to serve a strawberry rhubarb pie and a third apple pie. Jen and Andrew, a pair of local Rifle climbers, allowed me to bake a peach pie at their house.  I baked until I only saw imperfections in the pies.  The crust that Andrew left, the extra peaches that Jen pushed to the side and Hayden stopping at his third piece became the objects of my obsession.   I baked until I hated pie. My climbing schedule, my life revolved around my next chance to bake.  I transformed into the obsessive Judy Harvey.    

A flower catching the sunrise on Mount Sopris

In between baking pies and climbing rocks, I shuffled along the edge of Thompson Lake, stubbing my toe in the dark.  From the edge of the water, the summit ridge to Mount Sopris, the highest peak in Carbondale’s Elk Range, hid behind the impending sunrise.  A week of insomnia wrecked me.  The alpine hiking helped alleviate my angst and aimlessness.  While wandering lost around the lake at 3am, I fixated on a conversation a fellow lifestyle climber and I had. 

Colette McInerney working on Cryptic Egyptian

“Don’t you think it’s weird that you just climb all the time?” Colette asked me.   We could see Sopris from the confluence where we sat, splitting the last piece of chocolate bourbon pecan pie.  A full-time climber, Colette had begun a transition towards a career, a life beyond rock.   I poked at the pie crust, unsure of how to answer. This trip was supposed to be about more than just climbing.  My travels east, the pie baking contest were supposed to provide direction, to provide a distraction while I found something more permanent. After the contest, I’d be back where I started- driving my car to climb at another sport crag, to find more boulders, or explore new big walls. Climbing, like pie baking, is amazing but ultimately pointless.   There must be more to life than rock climbing and pie baking.   What was it?

Hayden climbing

On Saturday, July 28^th at 6 am, I hustled over to Hayden’s house, where I preheated the oven.  The butter cut into the flour perfectly.  The melted chocolate mixed with pecans.  Maple syrup and bourbon provided sweetness and taste. The ingredients filled a 9 inch pie pan and baked in the oven for an hour.  At 10:30, I entered my pie into the exotic category at the Carbondale Mountain Fair Annual Pie Baking Contest.  The exotic category contained a half dozen entries. A meat pie with hotdogs woven into the lattice seemed suspect.  The other pecan pie appeared weak next to mine.  The meringue.  That looked good. The fruit category contained nearly a dozen pies from apple to cherry to pear.  The crème category held just a few pies. I nervously waited for the judges results.

That night, climbers from across the US gathered in a Carbondale barn for Jen and Andrew’s wedding. Thunder, lightning and afternoon showers dissipated moments before the ceremony.   Jen’s father walked her down the aisle. Andrew’s father gave a heart felt speech about new love and old love. The two climbers made a life long union, they were making more of their lives than just the rocks they climbed. It was beautiful.

The wedding offered me a chance to stop fixating on the contest.  Watching these two friends in love helped me realize that perhaps there was more to life than climbing and baking. Jen and Andrew discovered something special in their relationship.  Climbing, while pointless, had brought the two together.    My respite from my obsessions was short lived.  In between the ceremony and the dancing, a dozen different climbers asked me about the competition. 

Andrew and Jen photo by Sam Elias

“Did you win?”  “Did you beat the blue-haired grandmas?”  “You send the gnar at the fair bro?”

“No.” “No.” No.” I answered, explaining the training, my alpine start, and putting in my best effort.   Baking pies while living out of a station wagon proved difficult.  My lackluster excuses did little to negate my loss.  The hardest part to explain was that I never wanted to win the contest.   I wanted to find direction.  If I’d been asked if I was still aimless, then I could have answered, “Yes.”

For six weeks, baking and climbing consumed my Colorado life. I expected an answer to my aimlessness, an answer that would come without having to consciously think about why I was wandering.  I expected an epiphany while rolling out pie crust.   Flashes of inspiration happen slower than that.  They are the product of circling around an idea, drawing closer and closer to it.      

While Judy Harvey sat in her kitchen shuffling through recipes for next year’s contest, I packed my Saturn station and prepared to orbit another climbing destination. I buried my pastry blender beneath my old climbing shoes.  I left my pie pan at Jen and Andrew’s house.  The weather in Yosemite would cool soon.  I drove east from Colorado knowing Judy and I would continue our pointless obsessions.  Maybe someday, we’d figure out why we did it.        

Despite the storm, the Saturn continues its orbit

The Wheelchair

The wheel chair caught on the gravel.  I pushed harder.  Her eyes bore into my back.  When I reached the sidewalk at the end of the driveway, the front door slammed behind me.  The wheels moved smoothly along the cement.  

In the spring, I mailed a bouquet of hand made origami flowers from Indian Creek.  In the summer, I left the base of Half Dome to scream her name when she graduated UC Santa Cruz.  In the fall, we kissed.  Then she ignored me. 

I broke my body in the winter, falling in Joshua Tree.  She screamed when she heard the news. From my hospital bed, I asked her what she wanted. She said "friend."  I only heard "end."  I stayed with her while I learned to walk again.  When I left, we kissed again, with more passion. 

For a moment, it was good.  Then I wanted more.  I wanted love in return. She was hesitant.  It crushed me.  Why was I doing this to myself? 

I left the house without talking to her.  I walked down the sidewalk, leaning heavily on the wheelchair, trying to mask my limp. 

My Saturn's Chandelier

The chandelier wires swung. The lights fell off months ago. I concentrated hard. My stomach growled. I was afraid to fart; I’d shit myself. I stared at the dome light wires in my Saturn station wagon. It was never a chandelier. I wondered how long I had lied to myself. In a few hours, the Ward Gulch Fire would consume my car, my problems, and me.

What was I doing with my life?

Four years ago, I drove my station wagon 17 hours to Colorado only to turn around a day before I was due to start an internship at Climbing magazine. What was I doing with my life? I took up residence in my twin brother’s laundry room. Matt got me a job running food at a bar and restaurant in Berkeley. I ran fast around the restaurant, dropping off pizza at the wrong tables and pouring beer down customer’s backs. After a few months, the manager sat me down. I expected a raise or a promotion.

"James," he crossed his legs. "Why are you here?"

I wanted to springboard myself into a corporate environment. That was what post college grads did. That’s what I told myself I was doing. I was spring boarding. Honestly, I just wanted to write and go climbing.

I paused long enough for him to add. "James, you walk without a sense of purpose."

I did not become a waiter. I got fired from that job and then a few more. What was I doing with my life?

Eventually, I picked up work writing a blog for some Bay area climbing gyms. I liked the work. It kept me writing and it let me climb. It kept me afloat. I wrote more. Climbing, Rock and Ice, and Alpinist published a few of my stories. Through some inventive hustling (read trimming hippie lettuce in Northern California), I put new tires on my station wagon and drove to crags across the US.

I anchored my life to free climbing long routes in Yosemite Valley. I met an awesome girl. I got more work. I climbed better.

I obsessed this spring. Kim and I ended our 3-year relationship. I invested all my energy into a 900-foot granite buttress, freeing a new route with my friend. I thought only of climbing. Then I finished the route. I felt aimless. Rather than wait for an existential crisis to hit me, I started driving.

I pointed my station wagon east. The Carbondale Mountain Fair held an annual pie-baking contest at the end of July. I had direction in my life. I would climb around Colorado and win the pie-baking contest. I left Yosemite and drove towards the sunrise.

In Tonopah, I took a wrong turn. I pulled over at the Area 51 gas station where the nearby Alien Brothel served Budweiser and gave free tours. The map showed Vegas an hour south. American adventure. I drove towards the bright lights, spent the night with friends, and proceeded to Maple Canyon the next day. I hiked straight to the Pipedream Cave.

I pulled the rope towards the carabiner. As the cord neared the second bolt, I slipped on the polished cobble. I fell. My belayer tried to take in rope and then tried to spot me. I fell anyway. The rope burned my right thigh and upper arm. I landed on my back, hitting a wood post on the tiered landing.

I climbed the route my second try but I felt like a horse had kicked me in the back. I drove to a friend’s house in the middle of Utah and sat on his couch for a day. A pair of Mormon boys came to the porch. I politely asked told them to come back later. Then I rudely told them to come back later. I barely slept that night; the burn on my leg woke me every hour. When the weekend came, I drove to Salt Lake City and baked a few pies. I couldn’t climb but I could train for the pie-baking contest. My back started to healed a little. I started to sleep through the night. With a few pies under my belt, I headed towards Rifle, closer to the pie-baking contest.

I struggled up the walls. My back still hurt. I ate dinner and tried to sleep but felt restless that night. When my eggs finished cooking on my camp stove, I puked. The diarrhea started a few hours later.

Lightning struck in the Ward Gulch. The fire ignited thousands of junipers and sage. The fire ravaged Colorado. The flames spread towards Rifle Mountain Park, where I had been climbing and camping. City officials evacuated the park. Rumors circulated that there was a 99% chance of the fire burning one of America’s premier sport climbing destinations.

I settled into the back of my station wagon and stared at the wires that had once held my dome light. My stomach quaked. I almost farted. The burns itched. My back hurt. I could feel the fire coming closer. Everything was burning. What was I doing with my life?

I pictured flickering lights shooting through glass and dancing across the ceiling. I pictured a thousand lights at the end of the wires. I focused. I created a chandelier in my station wagon.

The Final Frontier

I screamed at the granite wall.  The sound bounced off Yosemite’s Fifi Buttress and drowned into the roar of Bridalveil Falls.  I lowered to the belay, where Katie stood at a small stance.  I was six inches from a free ascent.  It felt like six miles.  I’d cleaned the route. Pulled out old gear.  Placed bolts.  Climbed on the pitches a ton.  I’d trained hard.  I stopped sleeping-  Would the work ever pan out? 

Mikey Schaefer photo of me climbing the penultimate arch pitch

Dan McDevitt established The Final Frontier, a Grade V 5.7 A3 route in 1999 with Sue McDevitt, Brittany Griffith and Sue’s sister Penny Black.  He climbed the route again with Jim Karn, the first American to win a World Cup in climbing and America’s best sport climber in the 80s.    While they were climbing, Jim Karn told Dan “It’ll go free.”

The Final Frontier on Fifi Buttress

Last spring, Lucho Rivera freed Dan McDevitt’s Romulan Warbird, I climbed a few times while he was working on the first free ascent of the 5.12 route.  Gabe Mange, an El Portal climber, had ropes on the Final Frontier.  Mange wanted to repeat The Final Frontier and worked his way up the route 200 feet left of Romulan Warbird, fixing lines as he went.  One day, instead of climbing with Lucho, I jumared 600 feet up The Final Frontier.  Dan mentioned Jim’s comment to me.  The route looked like it would go but be a lot of work.

Nik works the 5.12+ Lower Corner Pitch. 

Nik finishes up the 5.13 traverse

“This route was a savior and a gift for me.” Nik Berry said.  In April, Nik and I started up the Dihedral Wall on El Capitan to scope a free ascent.  After 2 pitches, I scanned my phone and realized the wall was closed for peregrines.  We bailed.  Remembering the Final Frontier, Nik and I hiked to Fifi Buttress. Gabe’s lines still hung off the 900 foot wall.  We jumared the route and examined the free line.  Nik had an immense amount of psyche from listening to Katy Perry all morning and a limited amount of time in Yosemite.   “The next day, we started to put all our energy into this route with many hours of cleaning moss, weeds and sticks out of cracks and edges.” said Nik in his OR Blog.

Gabe Mange photo of me climbing on the 5.13b Upper Corner Pitch

Eric Bissel executes the cross move on the 5.13 traverse pitch

One of the first difficulties was connecting two thin crack systems.  McDevitt had aided up a thin seam and then pendulumed across the face.  Through the creative inspiration of “California Girls” across the wall, we found a few technical smears and spanned the gap between the crack features. 

Mason Earle linking the crack systems on the 5.13 traverse

“Within a few days, James and I had figured out where the free climbing should go, how to do the moves, and where the bolts should go. A week of bad weather came in and we were forced to boulder and climb at Jailhouse, which is always a nice change from Yosemite. This worked out well anyway since we needed to wait for our bolts to be delivered.” Nik wrote.

Nik and I on the summit.  You can see Ribbon Falls behind us.  Every day, we watched a rainbow form at the base of nearby Bridalveil Falls

After getting all the bolts in, Nik went for the redpoint, leading all the pitches. While he rested at the belays, I tightened the bolts he had placed the day before.  Nik freed the first corner and sent the traverse pitch.  On the upper corner, he climbed the thin crack but fell at the boulder problem near the top.  He tried again but fell.  The boulder problem involves tenuous smearing on polished granite.  He rested and  I toproped up to the boulder problem.  I grabbed a loose hold that broke off  and put a serious gash in my arm. We headed down to tend to my wound and Nik’s wounded ego.  A few days later, Nik managed to redpoint all the pitches and I toproped behind him.  Being on the summit was fun- Nik sent!  The route went free! A nagging feeling persisted as we descended.

Bronson on the last 5.12 pitch.  I removed a few heads, a pecker and pitons from this pitch and others on the route, replacing the fixed mank with bolts where necessary.  

It was rad watching Nik send the route.  He’s an exceptional climber and hard to keep up with.  ““After sending the final pitch, all the work and energy put into this route gave me an incredible feeling of accomplishment.”  Nik said in his OR Blog.  I knew what he meant but felt as though I was unfinished. 

A topo of the route.

Mason Earle climbs through a sea of knobs on the penultimate pitch

I returned to the route.  I took down all of Gabe’s fixed lines and placed my own.  I pulled all the heads and bad pins out.  I added bolts where there had been bad fixed gear.  I managed to send all the moves, then to send all the pitches.  I climbed the route one day with Walker Emerson but I fell on the upper corner pitch. 

When I got to my car, I found this ticket on my dash courtesy of Officer Smith

 I worked the upper corner pitch again with Aaron Smith.  I drove to Tuolumne to sleep at 9000 feet, hoping that the increased altitude would boost my red blood cell count and make the climbing easier.

Delicate smears and a difficult boulder problem cap the pumpy corner.  This proved to be the crux of the route. 

“You just have to let yourself do it,” Katie said as I rested at the belay below the corner.  After a long bit of pouting, wondering if The Final Frontier would be another mega project left undone, I started climbing back up the finger tips corner.  I reached the boulder problem and casually grabbed the crimp and threw to the jug hold.   

Mason flashing the crux pitch.  Mason made the 3rd ascent of the route.  Tobias Wolf made the 4th.  Katie Lambert and Ben Ditto returned to try the route and Will Stanhope and Brad Gobright climbed on it as well.  

The next pitch, which I had well rehearsed, went smoothily.  On the second to last arch pitch, I floundered a bit trying to get off the belay.  The moves felt hard.  I felt tired.  After a fall, I returned to the belay and then climbed to the top of the pitch. Katie followed solidly, climbing the entire route with no falls.

Gabe Mange picture of climbing sporty moves on the Upper Corner pitch

At the summit, I was psyched.  I beamed as Katie climbed the top.  I sent every pitch leading the entire route in a day. It was the hardest climb I’d ever done.  I’d had an amazing experience establishing the route with Nik and then climbing on it with other friends.  It was really fun.  I felt very proud of myself for investing so much into the route and I felt great about the successful ascent. 

Mikey Schaefer photo of me on the Penultimate Arch Pitch

That night, I slept well.

My First Yosemite Trip

A loud crack exploded from the back of the bus. An overweight Mexican jumped out the broken bus window and sprinted alongside the road.  

The Hipster Handbook describes anyone out of luck as "Riding Greyhound"

In June of 2001, after driving across the US from my father’s home in upstate New York, my sister dropped me off at the Phoenix Greyhound Station.  While still in Arizona, the bus stopped for immigration officers to check our papers. A tall crosseyed man with two plastic shopping bags ran to the bathroom door when the officer came on board.  A few minutes later I heard the crack.

This is pretty much what happened

The officer tackled him after 50 yards and the bus drove to Merced with a broken window and the bathroom door locked from the inside. It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only trying to escape. 

From Merced, I hopped on the Yosemite shuttle. In the white Valley bus, I tossed two duffle bags. One bag contained an alarm clock, a pair of shorts, and my eyeglasses.  My newer duffle held my climbing equipment for my trip- an unused rope, brand new cams, and 300 feet of webbing which I thought would be enough to set up a toprope on El Capitan.

El Capitan was about 10 times larger than I expected.  

 Pulling into the Valley floor, the enormous granite walls and towering formations dwarfed the Adirondacks and Green Mountains of my youth.  El Capitan was much larger than I had expected.  A few days later, I started work, making beds at the Yosemite Lodge.  I spent my paychecks on more toproping webbing.     

Yosemite Bolt Wars

White powder flew from the granite. I brushed more, cleaning the rock.  Soon, a third of the drawing disappeared.  I stepped back and stared at the remaining chalk. A few minutes later, Midnight Lightning’s bolt vanished.

In 1978, Ron Kauk jumped to a jagged edge on the Columbia Boulder, in the middle of Camp 4.  He matched, swung his feet through and threw his body into a committing mantel, high above a slab.  When Kauk pressed out the granite, he made the first ascent of Midnight Lightning.   Fellow Yosemite climber and Kauk’s contemporary, John Bachar made the second ascent.  The two had been vying for the coveted ascent of the line.

John Bachar climbing Midnight Lightning- the bolt  lacks the bursts

“I drew the original bolt on Midnight Lightning....,” said John Bachar.  “It was Yabo who actually "found" Midnight Lightning. He was sitting in front of it one day and came over to me and Ron Kauk and said he found a new boulder problem. He said it would go...we laughed and said it was impossible….we thought there was about as much chance of doing it as there was the chance that a lightning bolt could strike at midnight (like in the Hendrix song 'Midnight Lightning") - so I drew a bolt on it in chalk....That's it - pretty stupid huh?”

When a hold broke, Bachar made the third ascent. Sometime later, Kauk reinforced the lightning bolt hold in the middle of the problem.  The problem saw its first female ascent by Lynn Hill.  At one point Scot Cosgrove climbed the problem twelve times in a row.  Skip Guerin climbed the problem barefoot and prior to Lynn’s ascent, the problem was down-climbed.  Dave Schultz climbed the problem at midnight.  Yabo made the tenth ascent.

Boulders regularly climb the problem and every climber in Camp 4 paws the first few holds. giving the starting holds classic Yosemite boot polish.  Through it all, the chalk outline remains despite “lightning striking at midnight” on hundreds of occasions. 

The bolt stays even in the deepest snow storms.

Erasing the bolt took two different trips.  The first night, I removed the majority of the chalk.  To help rinse my brush, I stole a water bottle from a climber bivied underneath the problem. 

“Erasing the bolt?” he asked from his sleeping bag.  I nodded.

“Cool,” he responded and went back to sleep. 

The Lightning Bolt before it was erased

The morning after first brushing the hold, a smear of chalk marred Columbia. Thirty years of the lightning bolt outlined proved difficult to remove.  The next evening I returned with a finer brush and a little spray bottle of water. I spent another few hours cleaning the formation.  The next morning, Columbia boulder resembled every other rock in Yosemite. 

 

The empty space lasted a week and half before someone redrew the lightning bolt. I don’t know who put it back.  It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Ron Kauk.  It wasn’t John Bachar coming from his grave.

Nik Berry on an unknown problem in Camp 4

“It was probably some Euro,” said Dean Fidelman, one of the original Stonemasters and one of the few who still hangs in Yosemite.  “They want the picture.”

Over thirty years, with every passing ascent, the lightning bolt became less of a testament to a remarkable ascent, of lightning striking at midnight.  The chalk transformed into a trademark, another tourist attraction for passing climbers. The magic left the bolt years ago. 

The new bolt remains slightly duller than the last incarnation.  How long will it remain that way?  Does climbing need these trademarks?