ScottP

I wonder how much it costs to 'federally approve' a plastic bag.

Tell you what - let's do this test, which is more reflective of real life conditions. You and I will do an unequipped bivi somewhere. No tents, stoves or sleeping bags. Only normal day-trip winter climbing clothing and gear (pack, screws, ice tools etc). You will get a foam pad. Hell, you can bring a Thermarest if you want. I will get a fire. You can't come anywhere near my fire and I can't come anywhere near your foam pad. We will see who is warmer through the night. Okay, but I get to break your back first to make it fair.

I can see how Dana's Arch would eventually attain the ugly countenance of Serenity Crack. The bolting on that pitch never really bothered me either due to it being a pretty fun freeclimb. The Zipper bolts, in my opinion, is another story. That pitch lost some of it's 'charm' with the addition. (It's still an exciting lead though, getting out of the scoop.)

It isn't unusual for first time visitors to the Valley to find that 5.9 is, in actuality, A1.

How, in your mind, does the bolting of Dana's Arch compare with the bolting of the Zipper Roof?

...and Tommy and Pamela...

Chris 'Whitebread' Whitely butchers Howlin Wolf's classic Smokestack Lightning (Be thankful I can't post a link, it indigently sucks.)

Just curious... How do their actions make them appear to follow "the one"? What actions are supported by "the one" they "ostensibly" follow?

You could just have jumped out at the last second rolled a few times and come up out of breath with your hair messed up. I saw that happen on tv once...

Unchained

How are these infantile frustrations related to climbing? They aren't.

U R A L7

Not even close...

Thanks for the photo. Does Dana have a last name? Fred ascribes the FA to Bob Crawford, Leigh Nason and Pat Timson. How did Dana's name get attached? Also, do you know the original (early) rating on the arch pitch?

(I wrote this about 5 years ago...) Dana’s Arch. An unassuming aid line with a sport bolted, arching flake for a first pitch. Above are mostly aid sections with gymnastic sequences of their own. Mud manicure provides the finish. Standing below Green Drag-on, we eyed the soloist hanging from our route. He appeared headed for the top and, it being late afternoon, we assumed he was spending the night, or something. Alternate plans were decided and we moved on. Rob shamelessly clipped the bolts, followed with some camhook moves and soon clipped the bolts on Cheto Ledge. He rapped and clipped in to the bolts at the top of Pitch One. I spent time with our ground crew/sherpa/cameraman Craig as Rob fought his portaledge 80 feet above. With the curses subsiding, I got ready and jugged up to the anchors of the sport route 74 feet off the ground. Rob eventually got his ledge useable and I got mine the same. The Beam came out and we spent the next bit talking to Craig lounging at the base. Craig got antsy and decided to run to town to get some beer. Just about an hour later, he reappeared, telling us the soloist had split the scene, or something. He then rigged a couple Bud talls for us to haul to our perch. We talked and spit and drank and eventually it got dark and we kicked back to watch the stars travel the sky. Some point during the night, Rob mists me with his ill-aimed bladder voiding session. It puts me in a bad mood before I drift off. I awake again later to the grating of his ledge peppering me with granite grit. We rap to the ground, eat breakfast, break down our brand-spankin’-new home-made ledges, pack, rack and jug up to Cheto. It’s my lead through a strenuous bulge. Robert lounges in the sun. Wasting time. I try a bunch of different shit before finally high stepping out of the bulge and managing a bodyweight nut. Inspecting what’s above, I shamelessly lie… “It looks like some of this might go free. You could probably get this.” Robert takes over the lead on aid and at my high point finds a bathook hole that was hiding inches from my nose. He disappears. The rope feeds for a time and then stops. It goes, comes back, goes and then comes back again. “Dude, I can’t make the reach.” is what I decipher from the shout–fest. I replace and weight Rob‘s cam placements behind ill-mannered flakes on top rope. I eventually climb into the lead and reach the start of a traverse. From a shiny new bolt, a high reach up and left gets me a bathook hole. Up, on and then waaay left is a full extension to a #1 RP placement in a shallow dihedral crack. I stem out of aiders toward the dihedral and gain nothing more than a hamstring cramp. Another stem and I am able to tickle the placement with the nut gripped cigarette-style between the tips of my index and middle finger. A third try gets it hanging like it shows in the books. Two more cramp-infested tries gets the aider clipped in and I am finally able to overcome the pain enough to ease over into the corner. I look back at the hook down and right and the bolt again that much further. It’s a clean fall, but I don’t bounce test anyway, not relishing a possible reiteration of the pain of that reach. Another placement, two steps up and the angle eases into cracks and ledges. Rob comes up, does another short pitch up sport bolts put in by some guy he calls Marty. The chimney/gully/nightmare to the left is glistening with water. Straight up looks pretty grim and it’s approaching beer thirty. We rap. Weeks later, we walk from the gate up Roessiger Rd. We find the top and drop our loads. Seems I left my harness in the truck, but extra aiders and runners rig up a nut cruncher. Rob is impressed by my ingenuity and fortitude. Rapping to our previous high point belay, Rob pulls the ropes as I tie into the lead end. With ropes flaked and procrastinating activities exhausted I begin moving up the mungy, dripping cracks. It doesn’t get truly grim until I’m near the short traverse left that gains the top. As I do the final moves I look back toward my last placement to see a mud-colored sling sticking out of a mud-colored hole clipped to a mud-colored rope with a mud-colored biner. I reach for the trees at the top with mud-colored hands, and query my mind as to why I’ve walked almost 4 miles to rap off the top to finish the last, soakingmudjungle pitch of an obscure little aid route. I began untieing the mud-colored mess that is my makeshift harness from my mud-colored legs as soon as Rob begins “cleaning” the pitch. He reaches the top, head to toe, the color of chocolate milk. “Who the fuck is Dana?” is all he has to say.

Hmmm...

Yeah, and if I remember, the trigger was broken (though my brain cell isn't functioning like it use to, so I could be wrong.)

check out the timeline If you're reading challenged or have attention deficit issues, start here (toward the bottom): "Return of Imperialist Occupation"

That first pitch gives up some good booty too!