It’s been a while and since I last
wrote, and much has happened. Three weeks ago I packed up my Subaru and sped
northwest through the infinite and wonderful desert to Bishop, CA. My trip to
The Buttermilks would be a short one—only three climbing days—but what it
lacked in time was made up with incredible intention. Never do I go someplace
to climb with one problem in mind. Never, until recently have I driven eight
hours to essentially climb one thing. All these big destinations are too
overwhelming, daunting in the sheer number of brilliant problems to try. It’s
easy to forget the project, leave it neglected in the dust of a bunch of fun
V7’s.
This trip had been seeded the last
time I was in Bishop, over the winter and finally bloomed in spring. The
Mandala, whose crux section I had figured out that last trip, was looming
larger and larger, its rounded prow like a ships bow in the fog.
The
Mandala, I think, is one of the most famous boulders in the world and most
definitely the U.S. Dreamtime, Midnight Lightning, Esperenza, The Mandala,
problems that everyone knows, that over the years from their desperate
inceptions have, in some way defined what it is to climb a good, hard boulder
problem, are a true accomplishment to finish. I remember watching young Chris
Sharma climbing The Mandala in Dosage 1 and famously joking about its grade.
Soon after I went to The Buttermilks for the first time and saw that same
boulder shining in the light of a full moon. I thought it looked impossible, or
at least like something I’d never be able to climb. I’ve tried The Mandala
half-heartedly almost every time I’ve been near it, but never been able to make
anything work. It’s sharp, sharp enough that after five or six tries my fingers
would be too bruised to climb anymore, and it’s massively dependant on weather
conditions. I never got very far and usually spent the rest of my time climbing
easier things and dreaming of the day that everything would align for those few
seconds to let me stand atop that one boulder. God, bouldering is silly.
Considering
the fame of The Mandala, the rock is really not the best in Bishop. Something
like A Maze of Death or Evilution have far more brilliant patina. This year
alone The Mandala has broken twice. Once right before my winter trip and once
right before my spring trip. The second break was more significant; a fingerjug
large enough to match and rest on evolved to nothing more than another crimp. I
heard of this break two days before I left and was sure that I’d leave defeated
once again. All winter I’d been saying, “The Mandala is not going anywhere,” but
its permanence seemed suddenly less than geologic.
My
first day in Bishop I only looked at The Mandala. The broken hold didn’t look as bad as I’d heard—I was
expecting it to be almost entirely gone. I wanted to give the problem a try,
but instead wandered the Buttermilks, climbed easier things in hopes of some
callous growth for those sharp holds. After a day off I went straight to The
Mandala after my warm up, where I met a guy named Jon who asked to film me. On
my first burn I climbed through my old highpoint to a new one three moves below
the final jug and mantle. It felt like I could climb the entirety of the
boulder on any go. However, as it happens, I had to figure out how to do the
top section with the smaller, broken hold and after six or seven tries I was
tired, the wind picked up to a gale and I couldn’t do the first move any more.
Jon,
living alone in his truck, invited me over to drink wine. By nine my cheeks
were warm, we’d each had a whole bottle and a hilariously philosophic
conversation about how living a nomadic lifestyle encourages the same
deep-rooted comfort as staring at a campfire.
The
next night Jon made me a delicious dinner of pork tenderloin and assorted
vegetables. “ You need sending fuel,” he kept saying. We were just two lonely
climbers living in dirt and passing time with each other’s fine company.
That
night, just as I was settling into my sleeping bag, it began to snow. I
imagined The Mandala, not far away, slowly vanishing beneath a thin layer of
ice. I wondered if I’d be able to climb the next day, the last day of the trip,
or if I’d have to leave Bishop again with only the satisfaction of progress and
worries of erosion.
It
only dusted that night and maybe half an inch of snow clung to the sage and pea
gravel in the morning. By ten the snow was gone and the stone dry. I warmed up
and went over to The Mandala, which I cleaned tediously and took care to chalk
every hold.
The
Mandala is of the breed of problems that draw spectators. People walking by
stop and watch for a few minutes. It’s disconcerting though, having a crowd of
unknown onlookers, pure judgment in their eyes, see you struggle on the first
move. On this day though, it was only Jon and I, a clear sky, and ice-cold
rock.
I
sent The Mandala first try that morning and though standing atop that boulder
was as fantastic as Beethoven’s 9th, and the drive home filled with
desert mountains capped with snow like I’d never seen before, my return seems
imminent. There are too many
blocks of stone to climb and too many to find.
As
I drove home to Flagstaff that afternoon I thought about what to project next,
what odd wall would consume me and leave my fingers sore after every session.
Uptown Vandal, a powerful bulge in Cherry Canyon came to mind, so did Black
Mountain’s classic oddity, Bang-On. None came close to The Mandala, though.
Their draw is strong but not magnetic. When I do find it, that coveted next
project that is always just over the next hill, on the other side of the
boulder, or hiding deep in the blocks of a jumbled talus field, I’ll have something
new to work towards whose achievement will feel just like watching another
sunrise.
Here is Jon's Video:
http://www.dpmclimbing.com/climbing-videos/watch/luminance-ground-updowngrade-post-breakage-ascent-mandala
