The Mandala

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 9^th, 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