Chapter Eleven: Climbers’ Heaven
A little over an hour’s drive from where I live, there’s this land between the Appalachian Plateau and Ridge-and-Valley Appalachians. In this geological transition, there’s a beautiful city. You can call it the Scenic City, River City, the Tennessee River Gorge… The list goes on. But I’m talking about Chattanooga, a paradise for Southeastern climbers. Just like the Red River Gorge, there’s plenty of bombproof sandstone rock to climb in Chattanooga. Unlike the RRG, the climbing areas are less frequented and Chattanooga is not in the boonies. As much as I like to say that Miguel’s pizza is the nexus of the universe, I’d argue that Chattanooga has the best climbing there is this side of the Mississippi River (located in Wisconsin, according to Siri). And of course, if you’ve climbed with me, you know that the Tennessee River… is in Alabama.
While I’d done Foster Falls once or twice at this point (really once, because the whole damn thing had frozen over the second time I visited), I’d never gotten a good look at Chattanooga. I would fall asleep in the car each time we crossed over the border, perhaps due to the witchcraft that is the Tennessee-Georgia border line. Most likely, it was the fact that Nikou hates alpine starts. Regardless, I’d driven by the city twice by now without even acknowledging its beauty or interacting with it. This city that Wally constantly espoused. Still, I wasn’t entirely sold on Chatt. I had my standards set high by my first couple of trips. I had never really heard of a lot of these climbing areas in Chatt. In fact, I had heard of Obed before I even heard of T Wall or any of those other areas, as trad climbing crags are the least frequented it seems.
The second visit of Foster Falls only had us worried that maybe it wasn’t the right time to climb. After all, we had had perfect conditions climbing in Texas in December. Visiting Foster Falls in late January, I certainly didn’t expect it to be frozen over. And speaking of the Wild West trip… When Jack, Pat and I finished our Wild West trip, we decided to make a commitment not to drink for the entire month of January. Dry Jan, we called it. To commemorate the end of Dry Jan, we talked to the CTR about climbing somewhere and making a week trip out of it. Again, Wally vouched for Chattanooga. So Pat and I planned for our trip to Tennessee, starting with the Tennessee Wall. T Wall!
Pat and I left Wednesday evening, making our way to Prentice Cooper campsite for the first time. If you read the Bday trip post, just know that this was a true PC experience, unlike the most recent outing. There was hardly anyone at the campsite. I remember parking, spending very little time at the campsite and just going on an exploratory night hike with Pat. We shortly hit the hay. In the morning, as I was struggling to get up, Pat made breakfast and prepped for our first day at T Wall. I heard some people talking outside, so I decided to get up and ready myself for our adventure. As I looked over, eyes still blurry and adjusting to the daylight, I saw Pat standing behind some dude’s truck camper. My eyes adjusted and while I couldn’t see the man who Pat talked to, I assumed he had made himself a friend, in true Wylie Coyote fashion. I looked at the Lance trailer, which reminded me of Steven’s rig, who visited T Wall not one month prior. I’m not sure if we ever caught his name that day, but as I read Steven and Kathryn’s blog, I saw that they had run into the same climber we did! Steve with the Lance camper. After all, how many trad climbing Steve’s with Lance campers are there in the world? Had to be the same dude!
Pat and I got some beta from Steve. We loaded up on gear and went up the trail to T Wall, right across the road from the campsite. I hated that uphill approach as it was quite the wake up call, having to carry heavy trad gear and starting up the Nikou mobile in high gear. Must be where those mountaineer legs came from, Angie Jones eat your heart out! We make it to the waterfall, as I break out into a sweat in the cold of Winter. Once at the waterfall, we make our way to Prerequisite for Excellence, one of the classics at T Wall. Pat and I had never led. We had gear that Pat had borrowed from a friend, which he had kept for the last couple of months. He led up the climb and flashed it. I can’t quite remember if I wanted to top rope the climb or lead it first. If memory serves me correctly, Pat ended up pulling the rope through and I led on his placements. I pinkpointed the climb. After I was lowered, our plan was to clean his gear so that I could place gear on my own, now that I had familiarized myself with the climb.
So we were gonna swap sides with the rope so that he could top rope and clean the gear. I think I was pulling the rope and made the same mistake Pat did. Realizing what we had done, Pat simply led on the same placements again, and cleaned the gear on lower. Unfortunately, one of the cams was stuck. So it was now my turn to lead on my placements. As I was lowered, I freed the stuck cam and retrieved our gear. We felt relieved, as we had finally escaped this endless loop created by our own inattention, and felt happy that we didn’t need to buy Pat’s friend a new cam. Maybe we climbed some more. I hardly remember, oddly enough. All I know is that this hypothetical lost cam fund turned into our beer funds. We decided that the prescribed 30 days of alcohol abstinence had passed and wanted to celebrate our first trad leads. We visited a burger joint in Downtown Chattanooga that we pulled up on Google. The food was great and we grabbed ourselves a couple of Porters to celebrate.
Wally later drove up to meet up with us. We camped at PC again, where we met another climber. We all sat by the campfire and I told him the highlights of the day. Of our first experience at T Wall and how much we enjoyed it. Wally told us that we’d be meeting Chase tomorrow. It was my first time officially meeting Chase, who I had spoken to on the CTR group chat. He’s one of the original members of the CTR. And while I haven’t had the pleasure to climb with him as often as some of the other renegades, I can tell that Chase and I share the same goals and ambitions. But more than anything, I respect his genuine character and his get-after-it mentality. He’s always moving the goal post a little further for me, as my senior (in climbing years, at least). But we respect each others’ input as equals and neither of us are afraid of telling it like it is. It feels like I’ve known Chase for years, to get this level of honesty and straightforwardness, a cultural trait that I generally miss quite a lot from my days in Europe. I had asked the CTR for guest editorials. If you haven’t read Wally’s editorial, that is the first of this series. Thank you to Chase for writing one for me as well. While there were a couple more moments worth mentioning, I will save that for another time potentially, to save from being verbose. Without further ado, here’s Chase’s accounts of the next day on our trip.
Chase “SAR” Johnson
5 AM. I lock the door and walk to the car in the bleak darkness of my Atlanta borough while the clouds shone bright above my head reflecting the glow of the city. As I open the door, the cargo light of my 08 Camry casts a harsh glare against my still awakening eyes. I rub them and sit down. The dashboard reads 38 degrees and I silently ponder why I’ve embarked on a trip whose details can only be described as masochistic. My other less dedicated friends would be heading up later that morning, undoubtedly benefiting from the additional hours of rest. I reason with myself that I’ve already made it out of my warm bed, which must be a sign that I should keep with the plan. I put the car in drive and embark on my two hour journey northbound on I-75 towards Chattanooga.
The hours seem to have flown by as I find myself on the north side of Chattanooga and getting off of the interstate. The sun still hasn’t risen. I quietly float down the Main Street of a suburb that still hasn’t heard the stinging cry of their alarm clock. I take a left. The glowing monolith that is a concrete plant approaches and passes without regard. Another left. I find myself on a narrow winding road which hasn’t felt the love of the local government in what seems like ages. Navigating the trailers and the cluttered yards draws forth a lingering sense of guilt about the fortunes of my own financial and education situation. I shrug it off knowing that the sympathy of my own entitlement would not be well received. I glance out the window for a brief moment to catch a grey-scale glimpse of the Tennessee River darting between the groves of oak on the roadside. The large expanse of powerful water commands the valley between the tall ridges on either side. Above me, the uncommon outcropping of rock eventually turns to cliff-line as the valley becomes more unforgiving. The excitement rises up inside of me.
After nearly half an hour, the narrow road approaches a grove of unlikely cars clearly not from the area. Smoke from a small fire fades the scenery. A thin man with a familiar bearded face peeks out from behind a modern SUV. I know I’ve reached the spot. Having only climbed with him once or twice before, Patrick Wylie was a relatively new friend but undoubtedly a good one. I recognized him immediately. He walks to my car to greet me with Cragdog in tow while he stirs his oatmeal. He informs me that it’s organic and kindly offers a portion to me. I decline and he tells me that Nikou is still enjoying the warmth of his sleeping bag inside of his car. I knock on his window. Moments later Nikou emerges from the side door of his SUV and greets me with a tired grimace. The two begin to shuffle about their campsite as dawn approaches. Patrick prepares his pack and trad rack with all the diligence that can be expected from a seasoned veteran of the rock. I’m mildly surprised however, when he mentions to me that he has only been climbing for a brief period of time. Silent embarrassment sets in as I compare my logistical proficiency to his and realize that I am but a neophyte in this matter. I quietly accept this natural hierarchy remembering that I am here to learn. Despite having climbed for 9 years, trad climbing was a new discipline that I had pursued for only a few months. I smiled knowing the CTR was the reason that I had this opportunity. It had allowed this new passion to develop and flourish in a way that no other group had.
The three of us set off on the trail. I’m toting my brand new, Patagonia brand, climbing specific backpack for the first time. Inside, it contains a rope, a trad rack, crag atlas, water, and an assortment of various cliff bars. The weight sits perfectly in tandem with my body. I slyly grin to myself knowing that I had never had a climbing specific pack before. I snap from my sentimental thoughts to find a reality of ever-inclining trail. Heavy breathing. The uphill section has become a staircase of out of place roots and rock shelves. Cragdog absentmindedly hops along in his blaze orange coat. A funny concept given that he has the appearance of a chihuahua. Nikou and Pat grow smaller and smaller in the distance until they disappear amongst the leafless guards of the mountain. They are small and fit, while I am built like a refrigerator. Solitude. My breath echoes in my ears as sweat trickles from under my hat. I eventually make it to the headwall where a rescue back board is precariously perched upon the rock. Some find this grim welcome unnerving but I smirk at its responsibility. I arrive as Nikou flakes a rope and Pat assembles his trad-skirt at the base of “Prerequisite for Excellence” (5.8). Dawn has broken.
As Pat starts up the climb, a call comes in. I glance at the screen and hit accept. Peake’s voice comes through the phone. His voice comes through like static but he’s close. I hang up and turn to the wall as I watch Pat climb with the effortless grace of a spider. On this climb, gravity is merely an ethereal force with a minute presence to him. He’s halfway up and through the crux. He rises through the remaining 30 feet and sets a light top rope anchor for the rest of us and then lowers. Nikou cruises through the climb to make the second ascent while I belay. It’s my turn. I tie my figure 8 into my harness and step forward. I place my hands into the diverging cracks at the base. The ice cold rock stings as the sharp edges dig into the back of my hand. I torque my wrists harder for a firm hold. As I progress through the climb the face of the rock, which up until now had plenty of foothold, gives way to friction-less glass devoid of any features. I must foot-jam. I begin to torque my size 13’s into the narrow crack and trust the hold of the specialized rubber on either side. I stand up to see the end. The sentimental depression of seeing the anchors at the end of a climb washes over me as I lower.
The three of my non-CTR friends arrive.
Up until this point the ever-growing crowd of familiar faces was devoid of one very important person; Wally. He was nowhere to be seen which was an uncommon occurrence for the ubiquitous figure on CTR outings. The questionable glances I shot up and down the trail led Nikou to remark that he was indeed on his way. I smiled as I prepared for another route. As I climbed, I reflected on the anomaly that was Wally. He and I met in a way that would be considered unsafe by today’s social construct. Nearly half a year ago in the middle of summer, I responded to a post of his on Mountain Project requesting a partner. Upon arrival on our “alpine start,” I was greeted by a taller individual with a thin frame whose unsteady hand allowed for a sliver of doubt to pierce my psyche. I climbed nonetheless and throughout that day I was rewarded with the development of an unexpected friendship with a man whose commitment to his friends is unlike anything I had ever experienced. However on this winter day, Wally was late. He showed up late in mid-afternoon without his harness, but he was a welcome sight nonetheless.
The rest of the day was filled with great climbs, great conversations, and great friends. We capped the night off sharing appetizers and a meal at some nameless bar in Chattanooga. On the ride home back to Atlanta, I found myself lost in a reverent appreciation for the climbing group that I was blessed to be part of. I have met people who have helped me in my times of need, laughed with me until it hurt, and taught me more than any other source of information ever could. I will conclude this loquacious oration by saying that the CTR doesn’t care about age, race, skill level, or socioeconomic status. The CTR will foster and cultivate any individual who has a desire to learn the art of rock climbing. While on its face the group appears to be purely pedagogical in purpose, the true reason that the group grows and survives is that the individuals who make it up are united by a singular passion to ascend the hardened aggregate of minerals that we call rocks.