by Abram Herman

Whenever people find out I climb they usually assume that I'm just not afraid of heights, period. It's not that I'm not bothered by the heights involved in climbing, it's that I'm good at not letting the fear affect my performance. It's kind of the opposite of fearless, actually; I get really focused when I'm afraid and get a spike of adrenaline, and I perform better. I can't speak for every climber out there, but I think that basically all climbers are afraid of heights just like everyone else—we're just better at dealing with the anxiety, remaining rational and performing in those situations. Climbing has the appearance of danger in spades, but in all actuality it can be a pretty safe sport over all (depending on what you're doing, of course). While it can be terrifying to fall on a tiny piece of gear, you also know how strong and reliable all of that gear is—which is why it's so freakin' expensive. I just watched a fascinating video tour of the DMM factory; a piece of climbing gear like a carabiner is traceable in the production process from start to finish, and inspected and tested some 15 times before it makes its way to the shelves. 

by Anne E. Williams

Abram, Brad and I are training for aid climbing at Country Club Crack up Boulder Canyon. It was chilly when we arrived, but now the sun is coming up over the eastern side of the canyon and suddenly it’s warm enough to remove my outer layer.   

I’m standing on the ground, belaying, while Abram clips the aider into a cam and shifts his weight to bounce-test the piece. Bouncing up and down on a piece of gear to test it seems counter-intuitive, but the other option is to climb up the aider, get well above your last piece of gear, and then figure out that the piece won’t hold as you’re falling through the air. 

Abram is making good progress. We came out for a training day two weeks ago and he was much slower on aid. He has already worked out how to organize the new aid gear on his harness and how to move in a series of efficient steps to make upward progress. Clip an aider to a piece—bounce, bounce, bounce—transition to the new piece, unclip the aider, clip the rope in, step up the ladder, set a new piece, clip an aider to the new piece—bounce, bounce—repeat. The goal is to be able to aid climb a pitch on The Nose in 45 minutes (as opposed to the three hours it takes inexperienced aid climbers). 

by Abram Herman

Anne, Brad and I headed up to Country Club Crack on Saturday morning for some aid climbing and jumaring practice. We arrived at about 10:30, and the base of Castle Rock was freezing cold in the shade. My planning proved to be almost perfect, though, as the sun hit the rock no more than 20 minutes after we arrived. We hauled the gear a grueling 15 feet to the base of the climb and, after taking a few minutes to compose myself from the arduous hike, I geared up with every single piece of gear I have so far that we'll be taking up El Cap.

by Abram Herman

Unfortunately Anne's ankle is hurt and I couldn't find another partner to go with me, so yesterday I went out by myself to hang a toprope on an old practice aid climb in Boulder Canyon. It's called Dark Magic, and Mountain Project consensus rates it at a C2, which I think is fair—there are some good placements, and there are some... "other" placements.

I'd bought some new hooks on Saturday evening, so I was anxious to try them out. If you've never tried it before, using hooks can be terrifying. Mind you, I've taken quite a few falls on gear, some not so good, and countless falls on bolts both in the gym and outside, so committing to a fall is not something that I generally have a problem with. Aid climbing, however, presents a new challenge in this regard. The anticipation, the tension—I haven't perfected moving between aid placements yet, so I have a hard time feeling like I can bounce test a piece without just committing so much weight that I'm along for the ride, if and when something pops (NSFW language).

I place the first hook of my climbing career on what seems to be a decent little bulge on top of a miniature arete up above. I clip the aider and shift a bit of my weight onto the piece in a small bounce test, just to see if the hook wants to move at all. It doesn't, so I steel myself—noticing that it's taking a little longer than usual for me to commit—and I step off of my solid piece below, and into the unknown.

I hang on it for a second, hesitating, and get ready to climb up.

                                         *PING!*

This seems like the most horrible sound you can hear during that moment of tension; rock dust flies, and my knuckles scrape against the rough granite as I fall. Aid climbing lesson number one: Always wear gloves.