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Round 1


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It has almost been nine months since I tucked my tail between my legs and walked away from the greatest climbing opportunity I have ever had. I realized at the time what a chance I had but I let fear get in the way of it. Fear is to be expected and it must be dealt with. If the fear isn’t dealt with, success in the alpine will never be possible. Well, I didn’t deal. I folded and I blew some of the best weather Patagonia has seen in 25 years.


Some may think 3 routes completed, one being a first ascent in Patagonia is success. What does success mean? Is the summit success? Or is just surviving success? During the last few days this question has been lurking around in my head. By some meanings of the word I was very successful. By other meanings I wasn’t. I have tried to tell myself the trip went great and I should be happy with what I did. But I am not and its been gnawing at me from the time I had my departing glimpse of Cerro Torre and Fiztroy.


When I was sixteen I made my first pilgrimage to Yosemite Valley. I had high hopes and great plans to climb El Cap. And man was I young and dumb. I had no clue as to how to climb El Cap let alone a big wall. But that didn’t matter, I had motivation and nothing to be afraid of, El Cap was only the biggest rock I had ever seen. Well I found out quickly it takes more than motivation to climb El Cap. I almost had to back off the 3rd class approach pitch leading to the base of the route. I did conquer and kept going. Soon I was leading my first real pitch on El Cap. Fear and doubt soon started to pollute my head, though nothing had gone wrong. I kept my focus and finished my pitch. My partner cleaned my pitch, lead the next one and we fixed our ropes to rap. The next day weather moved in so we carried some more loads up to the base. But thankfully the weather cleared before nightfall and we could blast off the next day. Well we didn’t exactly “blast off “ it was more of a crawl. We got totally annihilated trying to haul our bags up the first couple pitches. The weather quickly deteriorated and we descended. The weather never did improve and we had to bail due to time restraints (spring break was over). I walked away from El Cap with a smile on my face knowing that I had done everything I could. I gave it what I had. And that is success.


But why? How is it that making it up only a tenth of El Cap can be a success and three routes in Patagonia can be a failure? I have come to the conclusion that the summit doesn’t have a dam thing to do with it. It may be the most unimportant part of climbing for me. It’s not about just standing on top. It’s the fight, the effort, the emotional and physical battle. It’s the war to stay alive. That is what determines success for me. I practically floated my way to the top of those routes in Patagonia. Yet, I was full of fear and scared. Of what though? It has taken me a long time to figure out exactly what I was scared of. I was scared of not reaching the summit. I was scared of the retreat. I was scared of the fight. I was scared of failing. Instead of picking a fight with a mountain I wasn’t sure I could defeat I choose mountains that I knew I could defeat. I lost sight of what climbing really meant. I thought the summit was more important than the act of climbing itself.


I may never get another chance like the one I had this last season in Patagonia. But guaranteed I will never again loose sight of why I climb.


Round #2. Mike vs. Fitzroy, January ‘03

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Nice post, Mike. You remind me of a trip to Alaska about four years ago where I allowed my partner to talk me into trying a climb that was well over my head, and I knew it. I told him so before we even left Seattle, but he was bent on this particular objective and kept saying it'd be great and lets just try it and ...


Kurt Gloyer deposited us at our basecamp not more than six hours after we left Seattle. I immediately broke out the scotch and a cigar, and as I admired a very fine sunset with a drink in hand I said to myself: this is one very cool place; maybe this trip is going to work out after all. But three days into our climb I knew it: I didn't belong on that one. We had climbed onto and started up a ridge that nobody had ever reached before, and not because nobody had tried. Indeed, the great Jim Wickwire himself had attempted the route but failed to even find a way to truly get started on it. And there we were -- a quarter of the way up the ridge and in position to grapple with the real meat of the climb. The weather was OK -- not great, but OK.


But I was done. I told Bill of the growing sense of gloom in my gut, and I asked him what he thought. We talked long into the night and in the end I concluded that it boiled down to one truth: I had never climbed anything even half as serious as the route which lay before us, and while my partner was ready for what might lie ahead, I was not. All it would take is to lose a tool or two, to get nailed by a big snowstorm, or even just for Bill to have a bad day and I'd be stretched so thin that I didn't see how I'd be able to pull it off. Already three thousand feet up from camp, with some interesting mixed climbing and the steepest snow-climbing I'd ever seen in my life below us, we were looking at over four thousand feet more along a steep ridge, very technical and beset with double cornices and a thousand foot rotten rock tower all decked out with snow and ice, and there would be no easy retreat -- indeed down climbing would be about as difficult as climbing up. We expected it would take us at least three days to reach the summit, and perhaps three more to descend the far side of the mountain, traverse 22 miles of glacier and climb back over a 3,000 foot ridge to reach basecamp. We had about five days' food and fuel left. And, more than anything else, we were alone. I could almost picture doing the actual climbing, but it was the sheer size of what lay before us, in mental terms as much as physical, that I was not prepared for. I looked up and all I could see was death, death, death. Bill was gracious about it. We went down, to spent thirteen days in the tent, while stormy weather and poor visibility prevented the pilot's return. Not once did Bill complain that I had let him down and we remain good friends to this day -- perhaps even better friends than we were before.


What would have happened if we had continued? I don't know. But I was glad to be in that tent, reading, and I enjoyed what was left of the scotch and the cigars while we cooked biscuits and ate our way through the massive pile of good food that we had left at camp. I have thought back on it many times, and in this case I think I made the right call. Had he really tried, Bill might have talked me into going on. But he knew as much as I did that a climb like that requires stamina, confidence, and full concentration -- full heart. It is always difficult to know whether the gnawing doubt that preceds every big climb is simply case of the pre-climb jitters that go with setting out on any large climbing objective and can be safely ignored, or whether it is more than that: an insite about the true insanity of what we are about to do or about our lack of preparedness for this particular outing. But think about this: deciding to come back another day will never result in your getting killed; ignoring the doubts (or are they warning signs?) -- and pushing ahead -- may.


Good luck in 2003. But don't let a sense that you should have done something in 2002 drive your decisions in 2003. Climb with your head as well as your arms and legs. Listen to your heart.


[ 11-07-2002, 11:03 AM: Message edited by: mattp ]

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Nice post, Wallstein! [big Drink]


I can relate. I summited Aconcaugua (effectively solo) around the same time you were down there but I feel that the trip was close to a total failure. Admitedly fun but a mountaineering failure. Willstrickland & I bailed off the N face of hood later that year pretty high up because of percieved slab avy danger. In retrospect I think the conditions were reasonable but we climbed well together and made a decision that was prudent at the time. I feel that the trip (if not the summit) was a success.


I have one different attitude. I never try to defeat a mountain or a wall. They are my friends, my best partner. It is the mountain that I partner with to fight against gravity (and gravities buddy the weather). After all, Mountains fight gravity and weather all the time. They are the best at it. I try to be humble and learn from the mountains, their inherent and almost timeless strength against gravity.


Cheers - steve

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A truely excellent thread so far. You guys really took some effort to post some well written thoughts to the board.


I guess what struck Matt and Steve about Mike's essay was the desire to get back and "defeat" his demons. One thing that also stood out to me were his ponderings on the meanings of success/defeat. He notes that what he did summit, he doesn't really consider great success because the outcome was never in doubt. What Mike's essay brings out to me is a lament that he passed up a chance for the type of adventure where he was unsure of victory from the outset. One that required all his faculties, rather than just going through the motions.


That is where I find my greatest joy in climbing. Sure there are other great aspects, doing something fun in the outdoors being high on the list, but overcoming obstacles when the success was not a given is what really sticks to my ribs.


Here's something I posted to rec.climbing a while back. Obviously, my adventures don't even fall in the universe of those of the above guys, but I think this essay sort of fits in here. Hope you guys don't think it soils this currently excellent discussion.



> What's it all about to you?


The Onsight.


It can be a 12-pitch crack route, or finding my way the summit of a non-technical peak. That's one aspect of what it's "all about" to me. Perhaps I'll qualify further and estrange the popular notion of "onsight". A first attempt it not sufficient nor necessary for this criteria. What floats my boat is completion of a task for which the outcome was not assured. A crag pitch I've never done but 2 grades below my usual level and every move visible from the base doesn't qualify. A summit with a trail to the top might; if I've only got 2 hours, I'm wearing running shoes and cotton pants and there's 4 inches of new snow on the last mile.


Heading out into the unknown territory. Making the choice to push through that scary lieback, not knowing when/if it will relent. Yarding up through the steep brush by compass bearing. Choosing which coulouir. Agonizing whether to take that #4 Camalot. Fretting on the weather. These make the beer waiting on the back seat of the car so much cooler.


Getting committed and figuring it out (not necessarily in that order). Clipping the anchors, wobbly-legged, with hands that won't clench. Standing on a new summit, 1/2 hour behind schedule, calculating how long you can really afford to sit and enjoy the view.


That's The Shit. [big Drink]


[ 11-07-2002, 10:32 AM: Message edited by: chucK ]

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I have never summitted the Grand Teton and have tried twice. Still, one of my most "succesful" climbs was in 1987. I was young, felt experienced enough and ready for the Black Ice Couloir in Winter. Dan and I climbed a lot of ice that winter in Utah, even at night, to get ready.


The rangers tried to talk us out of it when we registered. We probably looked like an accident waiting to happen. They didn't relish the idea of having to come look for us since we'd be all over the mountain. The forecast was good and we approached on Tele gear. We made it to the Caves the first day. The next day we made base at the foot of a gully leading to the Lower Saddle. It was cold and windy and we had to build a large snow block wall to cut the wind. With plenty of daylite left, we made the Valhalla traverse and fixed one pitch of mixed climbing to help save time time for our start the next day. We retreated all the way back to base. Day 3 began with good weather. Still, as I left the tent with minimal gear, I tried to convince myself I wasn't afraid. But I had no idea how long it would take to make the climb and was nervous about making it back to base. But as we made the traverse again, the butterflys went away as the concentration of climbing took over. I distinctly remember the feeling of commitment once we left the top of the fixed pitch.


The ice was the hardest I'd ever felt. I couldn't believe it could be that hard. The fragments accelerated so fast. The ocaisional rocks wizzing by sounded like F-16's. You didn't hear them until they had already passed. I prayed I didn't get hit. Steadily the pitches passed. It was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever been.


Then it started to snow. We were at the crux, nothing major, just a choked down spot where the ice got steeper. My lead and I was glad for it. I know I climb better on lead. I also knew we had to hurry. I reached the crux and reached for a screw. As I searched for a placement I noticed a screw already set. It was an old Chouinard. It was solid. I clipped it and moved on. I began to search for a belay. Little "flat" stances became steep nothings. Finally the rope went tight. I made a belay and Dan began to climb.


Standing at the belay is still a vivid memory. We were remote, almost to the top and while the temperature was rapidly dropping, I felt warm. Mixed emotions swirlled in my head like the blizzard that was now upon us. We needed to hurry. What was taking Dan so long? Small snow sloughs started to come down at regular intervals. When they came, I couldn't see my feet as they washed over. Finally Dan was in sight. He was obviously tired. He was over-sinking his tools. In frustration he side swiped the tool in an effort to get it out. The pick broke. He grabbed his third tool and continued.


Dan climbed past with the gear he had and topped out on the Upper Saddle. When I reached him it was completely dark and a raging blizzard. Winds were 30 mph. Headlamps made things worse like high beams do in fog and snow. As I stuffed one of the ropes into my pack, Dan headed down. I followed when the rope went tight. He was out of sight, but he had been here before and knew the way.


1500 feet down we cliffed out. Wrong gully. We climbed up a bit and made the call. We were not going to wander around in the dark in a blizzard. We found an outcropping of rock and hunkered down. It was the coldest I'd ever been. We yelled at each other so not to fall asleep.


At first light it was still snowing hard. We climbed back up and found the right way. Avalanches were a concern, but we had no choice but to continue. We collapsed in the tent. We cooked food, but threw it out because we didn't have an appetite. We packed and headed down. We switched to our Tele gear stashed at the Caves. It wasn't skiing though. It was survival with too heavy packs and bad snow. It was a monumental task to stand up from a crash. It was more agony for me to watch Dan than falling myself. He was falling 3 times more than I. We got seperated.


I reached the car as daylight faded. The ranger was waiting. "You're late. Where's your partner?" he asked. I didn't know. 45 minutes later, Dan emerged from the woods. We ate mushrooms and went to the Mangy Moose. We partied in Jackson 'till the bars closed and woke up in a strange house. The drive home was a blur.


It is still the climb to which I compare all others. I don't know if we won the Superbowl, but we were certainly in the playoffs. We had heart, and we dug deeper than ever to survive. That's why I remember it as if it happened last week. We didn't summit, but to me, it was a huge success.

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Hey Mike,


You know, about a week or two ago I went through some of the same feelings you are going through, albeit on a much smaller scale.


Erik and I went into the enchantments together, it was our first time climbing together. We ended up bagging the West Ridge of Prussik Peak which is a classic that I have been wanting to tick for several years. The trip was great, Erik is an awsome partner and friend, and it is hard to complain about a succesfull alpine climb in late October.


However, I left the enchantments feeling disatisfied. We had planned (via email) to do this gnarly sounding link up over the NE But of Colchuck-Dragontail-Prussik. Prussik was to be the icing of the cake after the "real" route was over.


Yet once we made it to Colchuck Lake we started to come up with all sorts of excuses not to climb the NE But. Our packs were too heavy, it'd be cold in the shade all day, we've got alot of really good pot...etc. Whatever the reason was, our original plan just wasn't happening. But I gotta wonder, was it fear? Or the uncertanty of taking on a big day wth a new partner...I don't know. We went to Prussik and had good fun, but it was'nt the same. While we warmed our toes by the fire it felt like the fire inside me was out. Perhaps I just new that it was possibly the last sunny/dry weekend of alpine climbing for the season, and that's why I was bummed. You know, when you start to make lists of routes you wished you had done over the summer.


Anyway, I think it's good to acknowledge these feelings, because they are real. They lie at the heart of our motivation to climb in the first place. But when I feel dissatisfied after a trip that was all-in-all succesful, I just try to remind myself how fortunate we are to be able to do the things we do. And chalk it up for something to look forward to next season.


I think what it comes down to is that with experience, a climber loses some of the sense of adventure and acomplishment that they once gained from climbing, when there were alot of "firsts"...first TR, first lead, first ice, first el cap...etc. Sure you can climb bigger walls, or taller mountains, or steeper ice, but it's still not the "first."


This is why I love to teach climbing, and love to guide when the occasion arises, because it's great to be around that energy of someones first climbing experience. Would you agree?


Well, good topic, I hope your next adventure is better than you ever dreamed it could be. Good luck, be safe.



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I climbed Da Toof once after years hearing of the famed south route. It was not enough as Mike and I simul climbed past the barrage of falling gear passing parties. I stood vigilant and continued on during out perilous ascent. We reached the summit after harrowing hours of bumbling and the dreadful weather [Razz] On our rappels we had to make our own belays and then finally reached the base as we heard loud shouting above. Escape escape before we have to be part of a rescue I remembered us both saying! We slopped our way down to source lake with partial gratification knowing we could have done it quicker [Wazzup]


Finally I decided that we must up it one by climbe Da Toof of alpine ice on Observation Rock's North Face the next season. Mike could not make this certain trip but later climbed it twice (hardman)!


TimL Vegetables and I sent it with a barrage of ice and many ice screws during sketchy weather (sunny [big Grin] ). We rapped off some shit to the east onto a glacier and walked out.


Still not satisfied I look for the next hardman climb [Wink]


Seriously though.... It is all about the journey and an accomplishment of success whatever you find the definition being is cool. The entire experience for me. My most extreme routes above may be laughed at but I will prevail and send Da Toof in winter some day [Embarrassed]

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There were days when I got out of bed even though I would rather not have....


These TRs are cool I will write one upon my return from Smith. It will feature deathly bodylength runouts and tales of debauchery or maybe drinking beer in the rain and spelunkinizing. [laf]

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Once in a while I think do the next more difficult route. But then reality hits that I will never be a tough mountain climber. So now I just stick to where I belong. I challenge myself that is for sure but not every climb for me needs to be that way. I like walk up routes and scrambles. If I want to make them more difficult then I solo or try them in winter. If I fail then I learn and do again.


There are very *vague* goals I set each season and I usually obtain them but if I dont then I just try it again or move on. There are a few climbs that still give me a head scratcher from time to time but I just try not to dwell on them. Climbing with older folks than me has taught me that just being there is way cooler in the long run. [big Drink]

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mike – I think you have identified the most dangerous siren call of expedition climbing – the willingness to take risks that you might not take on some lesser peak. I know the fear of which you speak – the fear that you will give it less than your all and your trip will have been for nothing. It you didn’t want a life-changing experience, you wouldn’t go in the first place. Pushing it to the limit is also the source of the greatest satisfaction.


My first trip to patagonia was a big disappointment. Our first objective was a route on the west face of Poincenot, totally out of our league in a place like that. It would’ve been a fine route for us to do in the Valley, so needless to say we were soundly spanked and bailed at the first hint of bad weather. We made a few more attempts on other routes and then a stupid basecamp accident effectively ended my trip. After all that planning, I made me almost crazy to not be allowed to at least fail heroically on something, for the trip to end with a whimper, not a bang.


We went back in Jan. ’01, and ran into the worst weather in 40 years. 8 times the normal precipitation left many routes in even worse conditions than normal; it was the first season in almost 20 years that noone summitted either Fitzroy or Cerro Torre. We trekked out onto the icecap only to find the west side routes undoable (for us, anyway), el cap sized walls with a meter of snow plastered onto vertical surfaces. back to rio blanco, and we bailed in bad condition off of several attempts on smaller peaks. To access normal route on poincenot, you have to traverse a hundred yards of 50 degree snow perhaps 100 feet above a 1500 foot cliff. we felt the whole slope of new snow settle with a whumph – geeezus, if you could die from adrenaline overdose, I would be dead for sure. we ran away as snow started to fall again. at this point I had mixed feelings – still disappointed, but at least I had the conviction that we had taken every possible opportunity to climb that had been presented to us.


Finally, we got a short good weather window. The first sunny day, we let the snow melt and hiked up to our snow cave at paso superior (a sort of advanced base camp); in the morning, we set out for the north ridge of Aguja Gaullumet. Snow still covered all the higher peaks, but since this buttress faces due north and the peak was low, we hoped it might be in condition. The lower pitches were ok, you could tiptoe around the snow that was still there. We reached the upper headwall, which had two very steep steps. The crux was the last pitch of my block. The first half went very well, beautiful golden granite with parallel hand cracks. Higher, though, the cracks merged into a single fissure and slanted strongly to the right, gradually widening as it went up. Our largest piece was a #3 camalot, which I pushed as far as it would go, then we struck a bargain with two dutch climbers behind us: we would borrow their 3.5 friend and they would jug our rope. I hauled it up and continued free climbing, shuffling that 3.5 twenty feet further until it, too, was tipped out, enough that though I hung from it, I feared falling on it. I contemplated the remaining 20 feet to the end of the pitch, obviously the crux: a 5.11 leaning offwidth. I tried out the moves a dozen times, each time backing carefully down to the friend. To make things even worse, the interior of the crack was filled with ice, leaving only the outer 4 inches or so clear.


I remember my internal dialogue very clearly. If I could climb this, we would surely summit. If I backed off, nobody else was going to do it, and we would blow the only day of climbable conditions we’d seen in 6 weeks. I though about the trip in ’94, how that – not failure, but lack of trying - had hurt my pride and gnawed at me for years. How badly did I want this?


I wanted it bad. Bad enough to risk it. It wasn’t one of those situations where you climb into the red zone without realizing it. No, I sat there and consciously decided that this was a gamble I was going to take. I shouted down “watch me,” which was surely unnecessary as I had the full attention of both my partners and the euros on the ledge below. I began a series of arm bars with my left arm in the shallow slot above the ice, laybacking with my right hand on the lower edge and camming my foot and knee below. I shuffled up past the initial good edges, and soon I was beyond the point where I could climb back down. I swam. I snuffled. I scraped and smeared on imaginary nubbins with my outside foot. I was maxed out. I looked up. Five more feet before a good ledge. Five feet, but my leg wouldn't stick in the crack and my arm bar was slowly, inevitably, losing friction. I locked off my right arm, still laybacking the lower edge of the crack, and scrabbled desperately for any kind of handhold. My flailing fingers flopped across the ice in the crack and as if by magic, fell into a slot where the ice had melted back in one pocket the size of a decent pin scar. My fingers locked automatically into a finger jam between the ice and the rock. The rest was automatic, I committed to the move and was standing on the ledge before I was aware of what I was doing.


There were two more hard pitches after that, but nothing like the offwidth, and besides, I was done leading. After, we had a bunch of simulclimbing. I drifted to the summit with a mix of euphoria and horror. We soloed up and down the final snow slopes, and I climbed with exaggerated care, like a man who somehow survives a horrible car wreck and fears the irony of later being hit by a bus. The top was certainly something of an anticlimax. On one hand, you are on the summit of a peak in patagonia. On the other hand, a quarter mile away, the north buttress of Fitzroy rises above you the height of el cap. Aguja Guallumet is pretty small potatoes.


So I still wonder about that decision. Good weather never came back, so it turns out that if I had bailed, we would all have gone home without a summit. But if I had fallen – and the climbing was absolutely at my limit, it was a real possiblity – I would have taken a minimum 40 footer, probably more like 80 if that tipped out cam had blown. Was it worth it for such a minor summit? On the other hand, I’m satisfied that this time, I did everything I could do on the trip – hell, we climbed more pitches than dean potter, who was camped next to us. But I still wonder if I was tempted by the siren. Did I only escape through luck, or if did the circumstances of being in the big mountains simply force me to climb up to my true potential, freeing me of my normal restraint? I ask myself this question often.

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I hear ya,

After almost a month of good weather on the approach and storm right before the climb in the Ruth Gorge, my partner and I decided to split. Actually it was my idea, anyway. We had skied and climbed from the Ruth to the very base of ham and eggs 5 times until it was just plain silly. Then we did 3 attempts on a sick ice route on the London tower, and one on Mt Wake. Every time, nice weather on the approach, crap out on the climb followed by 1-7 days of snow. We did manage to climb a new route on Mt Johnson, but it was only a couple pitches of awesome WI4, and the Japanese Coulior on Barille.


So we flew out, sick of snow and our tents. It was bomber weather the next 5 days. Seth Shaw not only sent our new ice-line, but then pushed it to the top of the mtn. Then he died serac bouldering the next day right outside our tent site. So not only did we blow our weather window, not send a new alpine route, bailed on many climbs, but we were unable to possibly help Seth as our friends who were still there did.

My partner for that trip has barely spoken to me in two years.



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well, let’s see, after all the excitement, can we restart this?


I think a really interesting idea that’s come up again and again is not the “defeat and redemption” arc that someone disparagingly referred to, but the recognition of paralysis through fear of failure. Have you ever noticed how relaxing it is to realize that you are fully committed? When you can no longer turn around, you no longer spend your energy deciding whether it would be wiser to go down, you can concentrate on going up, and this is incredibly freeing. I’ve found this is as true on a backpacking trip as it is on a climb: the first day, you always feel like if the weather goes to hell, you can always go back, but later, you realize that, rain or shine, you are going on to the end, and it changes your attitude.


There’s a line that is crossed, at some point on most serious climbs, where going down is no longer a real option. matt story was about sitting a inch before that line and deciding not to cross it, and I think wallstein’s original post was about, in part, how he hadn’t crossed it either, and he saw that as a failure, despite having had what most people would consider success. I’ve always found that the most satisfying and intense climbing experiences share the sense that, for that period of time, nothing existed outside me, my partner and the route. Becoming committed to the route is the process of closing the door that shuts out everything outside.

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Damn, guys, best thread I've seen in this forum, ever. Great stuff. Always for me the question arises "do I have what it takes?" Answering that question in the affirmative by the doing of the deed is the most satisfying feeling imaginable. Rock on, gentlemen, rock on . . .



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I tried exploring aspects of my motivation




I ended up not coming up with really good answers to the motivation behind the successes and failures


I find that as I become happier with different aspects of my life, the climbing aspect, or succeeding at climbing, became less important


sometimes lately I have done trips with a shuddering thought in the back of my head "Gee, it would be really *cool* to just go hiking!" I can't believe that voice is in my head, so I just proceed business as usual and shake it off, but the voice comes back and I question my motivations to lead that 5.10 pitch. Its usually only after I have succeeded at something that I get the elation - so when I have not succeeded at a difficult thing in a while, I find I dont remember the whole mystical high I get well. Its a downward spiral into mediochrity, but maybe I am beyond the point of caring


hope not, but its not something i can rationally decide, it just have to do.

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Originally posted by Dru:

Restart the chestbeating! Here is a
about one climb I nearly talked myself out of but got dragged on by enthusiastic partner then we both got scared and nearly smushed by falling things.

"You must be a member and be logged in to view the detailed information in the encyclopedia. If you are already a member Click here to Login. If you are not a member, Click here to mmediately become a Member. Membership is currently free. Membership gives you full access to the encyclopedia. It also allows you to insert articles." That, um, sucks.

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Yeah youve got to register to use bivouac.com. Thats to keep people from recommending their own trip reports using hundreds of avatars. Also they apparently plan to charge money down the line for using the site.


If you like I can cut and paste the TR or you can just register using a fake one-time-only name!

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Originally posted by snoboy:


Originally posted by Dru:

[QBAlso they apparently plan to charge money down the line for using the site.

That would be sad
but I might even pony up for it. It's pretty damn useful if dru is out of town or no answering his phone.

but I heard it might be free for Editors so hurry up and post enough that Rob T makes you one.
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