Grit Therapy by Lisa Rands

[As printed in Climbing Magazine #244, Dec 2005]

After my gritstone trip last October, my head was strong and I felt able to take on any challenge. I had done some of my best climbing ever on the elegant British “micro-routes.”

The climax of that trip was climbing The End of the Affair (E8) at Curbar Edge, a line so beautiful that even those locals who hated “headpointing” secretly wanted to do it. A steep arete with sloping holds, it focused on major weaknesses in my climbing: footwork and balance. Climbing the route had been a huge step for me.

When I first saw the gritstone edges, I thought that they were “cute.” It took a single climbing day to realize my error. The action-packed miniature climbs had a bit of everything: they were powerful yet balancey, hard to read, often forcing awkward body positions or bizarre techniques. Climbing grit was more art than science. Physical fitness doesn’t hurt when climbing grit, but if you lack imagination, the ability to use the friction, and a cool head, you’ll fail even on relatively easy lines.

To my boulderer’s heart, nothing could have been more perfect than these compact, yet often terrifying lines. The thirty- to fifty-foot routes were just a small step past highball bouldering, and each one seemed to teach me something unique and new. Plus, the “hard grit” scene was stimulating and lively, full of colourful characters.

High from my success, I remained super-motivated through last fall, but then an old knee injury began acting up. By spring, I was getting a second knee surgery. The bouldering season had passed me by, and the weather was heating up in my hometown of Bishop, California. I pulled some hard problems before my relapse, but never came to grips with the climbs I really wanted to try. I definitely had lost my momentum.

My knee was still injured, but after intensive physical therapy that strengthened my legs and hips, I was determined to get back into climbing. Though my body was not perfectly healed, I reasoned, I could still push myself mentally. Where better to do that than on the gritstone of England, the most mentally challenging rock I had ever climbed?

May 27, Cratcliffe Tor:

I traverse left from the safety of the big holds, and my heart races. Footholds are absent and I work across on pure smears, on a steep face that sweeps sheer to the ground. I'm gripping so hard I feel I could rip the holds off the wall. The gear looks way too small to hold. I wedge another micro cam in the horizontal seam, but I’m already too pumped to clip the piece. Retreating to the big holds that signify the start of the route, I feel like a complete basket case -- or as the Brits like to say, a jibbering wreck. How could I have done E8 only seven months ago?

I force myself to try again and this time succeed in over-gripping my way to the top of the stunning route called Fern Hill (E2). I look at my swollen knee, which I am icing two times a day. Mentally, I feel pretty beaten down.

Next day, I’m pumped stupid again, this time on an overhanging E2 called The Rasp, at Higgar Tor, first climbed in the mid 1950s. I had easily led the route a few years ago, but this time I’m nervous and tense. I over-protect, placing about ten pieces in twenty feet of climbing, and swing my feet over my head in ridiculous heel hooks trying to de-pump my arms. I can't shake the thought that I'm going to fall, rip all my gear, flip upside down, and hit the ground. I grip tighter and move up, rigid and negative. Just a move away from a big hold that ends the crux, gear just below my feet, I convince myself I'm too pumped to go on. I down-climb, then jump.

I visualize gear ripping, my outstretched leg crashing into rock, and my knee exploding. Instead, I bounce on the rope and hang in space. No gear has ripped. Other than having a bruised ego, I’m unhurt. I feel like an idiot.

That evening I am angry with myself. After twelve years of rock climbing, I acted like a first-time climber, succumbing to the most basic fears. I ice my knee, then vigorously dive into my physical therapy routine, stretching and strengthening, transferring my emotions into the painful workout. My frustration transforms into determination, fuelled by the burn in my leg and hip muscles.

The next day, I go back to Higgar Tor. I warm up on The Rasp, then lead the harder E4 direct variation. I’ve taken the first step in overcoming my biggest barrier: my own mind.

The best training for gritstone is to climb on the gritsone, so I opt for a few sessions on the boulders. First we visit the Eagle Stone and The Cube, lone rocks out on the moors, with a few superb lines and flat landings. I reacquaint myself with the grit “sense,” getting used to the friction, the balance, the slopers.

We also head to Burbage West, home of the famous problem West Side Story. located only ten minutes from the town limits of Sheffield, this is a popular local testpiece that I’ve tried before, with little success. It is a tall, immaculate problem high enough to warrant an E rating (E4/5), with a very tricky start –- perhaps V8 or V9 -- and a committing layback finish.

Pulling on, I squeeze my fingertips into the tiny crimp-slot that has split my finger repeatedly on previous trips. Moving higher, I soon find myself teetering, laybacking terrible sidepulls, desperately trying to maintain contact with the tips of my toes on slopey nubbins as gravity twists me, spinning me out and sideways.

After a few tries I begin to understand the movement, rearranging my feet, which requires a crazy amount of body tension. Clenching every muscle in my legs, I begin pressing onto a high right foot smear, but my foot pops and I am suddenly standing on the pads. Still, I’m excited. In a few goes I have made more progress on the problem than I had made during three previous years’ visits. I had always split my finger almost immediately on the starting holds, ending my attempts. This time I’m not pulling as hard, using my feet, keeping my skin intact. Not wanting to push my luck, and with others eager to move on, we head further along the edge.

I decide to try a route called White Wand, an E5 at Stanage that I had top-roped on a previous trip. It seems hard for the grade. It is a clear day and the arete is hot in the sun. Sweaty palms are my enemy and Elvis leg is not an option unless I want to test just how rocky the landing really is.

The crux section is all balance -- one leg wobble and I know I will barn door twenty-five feet to the ground. Nearing the end of the hard climbing, there’s a moment I have to steady my mind. I almost lose it, suddenly producing a vice-grip pinch on the arete. Calming myself, I smear my foot against the textured vertical and reel in the last few inches.

Topping out a headpoint is a powerful feeling. My first reaction is the obvious “Phew, I pulled that one off!” Then, two contrasting sensations hit, one after the other. First a sense of calm comes over me with the knowledge that I have controlled my fears. Then the adrenaline rush kicks in, a late arrival from the fear that my mind had been suppressing.

I celebrate the night with an Indian curry and a trip to the pub with some friends. I feel like I am getting my mind back!

Next time out at Stanage, I throw a rope down Shine On, an amazing looking micro-route rated E7, a line I know will be a big test of my power and especially my confidence. The route’s main feature is a large roof with a thin flake running to the lip. Beyond the lip is a smooth, hanging wall with two small pockets, like eyes. Uncluttered, simple, and compelling. The first time I saw the line I thought: How cool is that!

Shine On would be an excellent highball if it was sitting above a flat landing. But, typical of gritstone, the landing is jagged and blocky; the climbing becomes dangerous the moment you step onto the rock.

Our weather window continues, warm and dry, almost too hot on the grit at midday, but the evenings are cool as the sun drops behind the hills. The second day on a toprope, I’ve dialed my sequence and feel confident enough to lead Shine On. For a while I am tormented over how to do it: pop some micro-cams into the fragile flake to protect the lower hard moves, or treat the route like a boulder problem and solo it, risking the fall but not dealing with the rope that could tangle in my feet or arms.

I choose the boulderer’s way, using one standard-sized pad to ensure that my knee will be somewhat cushioned in the unlikely event of a crash landing.

I've made up my mind to do it, but even so, I take my time. I wait quietly and try to find my focus. Sitting under the route, I prep and stall for what I’m sure feels to everyone else like an eternity. Then, I set off.

Pulling up onto a jutting block, I lean out around stepped overhangs, laying my body out horizontally above a chopping-block drop zone. Extending left to a shallow crimp, I bring my right foot into a heel-hook next to my right hand, which allows me to move to a smaller, more sloping edge on the flake.

The next move is the first crucial one. Squeezing hard with my fingers and thumbs, I release the heel hook, toe the tip of an overlap way back under the roof, and dyno left, far around the lip, to a small, sloping pocket. Failure to hit this lunge just right would be costly. I hit it dead on, feeling strong and positive.

Forcing my right foot into a toe-hold level with my right hand allows me to gain the second slopey pocket. Then, the last hard move -- the exciting one that makes Shine On a full-value E7. I throw another left-hand dyno, arcing my body out and clear of the roof and making sure my foot doesn’t hang up and pull me down to the blocks below. I hit the sloper just right and know I’m in there, pulling up to safety. Suddenly it is over!

It's amazing how something clicks and your whole climbing trip can change. One day I'm feeling unmotivated and sorry for myself, secretly wanting to go home. The next day I'm wanting to extend my trip because I don't have enough climbing days left! With limited time, I know what I have to do -- climb my nemesis, West Side Story.

I have seen some very strong climbers fail on West Side Story. Others run laps on it like it’s a path. My weakness has always been my footwork, so this boulder problem might be V-impossible for me. This trip, though, something has changed. All of the leg and hip exercises prescribed by my physical therapist must have have snuck up on me. Soon I am falling off trying the final lunge. It’s a full feet-off move, and after pounding the ground a couple times I give my knee a break.

After one rest day I return. Without hesitation, I jump on the problem and climb it first try. Elation wells up inside as I fight through the gripping topout and summit the tiny buttress. A few minutes later, I climb it again for the sheer fun of it, as a celebration. At last I’ve found something positive that has come out of my knee injury. I may have lost some strength in my arms but with a lower body tuned by physical therapy and a fresh mental attitude, I’ve finally learned how to climb!