Montezuma's Revenge

The bivy was cold, wet and, above all, unsettling.  The silence was continually interrupted by the thunder that boomed though the remote canyon.  The echo seemed to carry right up until the next shattering blast emitted from the clouds.  Endless thunder.  The darkness was broken every thirty seconds by lightning that had our arm hair standing on end-- literally. The lightning seemed to linger in the air everywhere; not sorted and organized into the typical weather channel bolts.

I had forgotten my socks.  The wet rope wrapped around my blistered, cactus mangled feet kept the wind and rain from freezing my toes.  "Fucking Mexico," I lamented.  Clark suggested trying to lower.  I’m not sure if he was serious, but the thought actually frightened me.  We were a thousand feet off the deck.

We put our helmets on. 

It happened to be St. Patrick’s day, so I had hauled up a small celebratory water bottle full of Crown Royal. This was the only thing that truly mitigated our somewhat dire circumstances, and it allowed us some much needed rest.  We "woke up" at sunrise and surveyed our situation. 

“We’re Alive,” said Clark.  

I pulled myself upright, shivered, muscles screaming and stiff.  “Fantastic,” I muttered. The rope was soaked and we had more than ten pitches above us ranging from 5.9–5.12a.  Clark checked our water reserves and we agreed that we had a satisfactory amount to make the summit push.  We had hauled a second rope for faster rappels and we opted to leave the wettest one on the ledge.  We could pick it up on the way down.  I think we were both waiting for the other to suggest bailing, but it never happened and sometime around seven in the morning I put Clark on belay and we began the days climbing. 

It was spectacular.  If not for the actual movement, we were positioned above low cloud cover that gave the impression that we were only a couple hundred feet off the ground, not a thousand.  I remember thinking this to be somehow eerie.

We were in no hurry and making pretty good time.  I think it was about noon when we started the last pitch.  It was a scramble along precarious loose boulders with thousand foot drops on either side.  We were clipped into a fixed rope that we pretended was not core shot to shit.  I distinctly remember moving onto one of the boulders and it shifting to the right.  Normally not a big deal, but the rope I was clipped into was bolted to it.  Of the twenty four pitches of the route, this was by far the sketchiest one.  Once on top we did the traditional victory photo shoot, flashing semi-fake smiles that I would later convince myself were 100% genuine.  I sat down slowly pulled the rock shoes off my swollen feet, and spent some time taking in some of the best sights northern Mexico has to offer.  Then, after the near hundred degree weather started leeching the fun of the moment, our thoughts moved to the twenty four pitches we had to rappel. 

Most climbing accidents occur on the way down rather than the way up, but of course this is something you never mention when you are about to rap 20 consecutive times.  “Most accidents,” I cheerfully said to Clark as we were setting up our first rappel, “happen on the way down you know!”

We simul-rapped the pitches back down to the bivy ledge and picked up the second rope we had left behind.  A few fast raps later I collided with a tree/cactus thing.  Cursing, I pulled a few barbs out of my leg and maneuvered around.  We were on solid ground now- a large ledge which we had to traverse to another section of five or six pitches.  Time had gotten away on us and it was somewhere around four in the afternoon.  With our double ropes employed we were only three rappels away from enchiladas and a beer.  Our water cache was all but exhausted, but we were less than an hour from the ground and the sun had finally relented, leaving us in the mercy of the shade.  With a double rope rappel you have to make note of which side to pull down to avoid pulling the knot into the anchors.  We were climbing on a red rope and a brown rope.  To help our sun-stroked brains we made up little phrases like, “brown is down, red you’re dead.” 

Anyway, I went to pull the rope and it was hard going.  I bet it’s that nasty bush thing up there I remarked.  The other end of the rope left the ground and began its journey up the wall to the anchors as we pulled on the other end. 

It never made it.

Many climbers have been there: the rope just won’t pull down any further- dynamic rope stretching indignantly despite your hardest efforts.  Clark and I were both pulling now, and before to long it was obvious it was not about budge.  The other end of the rope dangled above us about fifty feet up and forty feet off to the right of the route.  The paths of established routes in Mexico are often obvious in that the rock off-route is usually, a) ridden with cactus, b) a disgusting choss pile, or c) all of the above.  This particular pitch was in the latter category.  I have been in many moderately sketch situations while climbing, and for some unknown, terrible reason, getting out of these situations almost always ends up on me. 

I tied into the free end and Clark put me on belay.  I climbed up, clipping the first two bolts as I progressed.  Luckily, the climbing clocked in at moderate 5.8.  But, eventually I came level with the other end of the rope that was the object of my quest.  In between me and it, however, was forty feet of loose limestone and unforgiving cactus.  I edged away from the last bolt I would get to clip.  From here, every meter I progressed equated to twice that distance in crazy-ass-pendulum fall potential.  By the time I reached the free end of the rope my arms were riddled with cacti, and in the event that I cased it, I was looking at a fifty foot ground fall and almost certain death.  I quickly tied myself off on the free end with a clove hitch on a draw, and began whipping the rope up and down, side to side, trying to free it from the shrub it was tangled on above.  I wouldn’t be able to make it to the bush without free soloing.

“I might have to go for it!” I called down.

“Nobody has died yet,” yelled Clark, “let’s try and keep it that way!”

I continued struggling with the stubborn cord, and then, finally, it swung clear.  Success.  I gingerly made my way back towards the route, cursing as more and more cacti became embedded in my now savage looking forearms.  I made it to the bolt and lowered.

I was so thirsty. 

We were so tired.

It was getting dark.

In the end, after a few long, meandering rappels by headlamp, we touched down.  It felt good.  Really, really good.  We had left our approach shoes at the base of the route and it seemed to me that I had never put on a more comfortable shoe. 

“Only a couple miles to the camp,” I said grinning widely.

“We better get going,” smiled Clark.  “They’re probably pretty worried about us.”