The Cleanest Line

Cerro Torre: A Modest Proposal

by Kelly Cordes

Seems most of us have moved on from the latest climbing world drama. Thank god. So I'll sneak-in a quick suggestion that nobody can disagree with: Put the compressor in a museum. Uh-oh. I just remembered that this is climbing. And this is the Internet. I should revise my assertion: nobody reasonable could possibly argue that, somehow, a 300-pound metal engine belongs littered on the flanks of Cerro Torre.

Hardly anyone sees it up there anyway. Yet people clearly have a sentimental attachment to it (just look at the overblown reactions to this whole ordeal). Everybody agrees that it never belonged on Cerro Torre to begin with – notwithstanding a few “True Believers,” who also stand by Maestri’s 1959 hoax, and can’t be bothered by such trivialities as evidence and reason. Anyway, we can debate Hayden and Jason’s bolt removal ad nauseam (we’re well on our way, if not beyond). But the rusting heap of metal hanging on the side of Cerro Torre? C’mon. Even the True Believers. One word: museum. Maybe Argentina would even give the compressor to Italy, and then everyone would be happy.

Even those who use the nonsense argument that chopping some of the Compressor Route’s bolt-ladders was “elitist” would be pleased. Everyone can enjoy its namesake in a museum. You don’t even have to be a climber. What could be less elitist than that?

[The infamous namesake of the Compressor Route. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Current Events

by Kelly Cordes

Crazy world we live in. Somebody ought to sell tickets. Hell, I’d buy one. Some thoughts on current events, large and small:

• Wednesday was National Margarita Day. It’s about time, what with all this recent climbing world drama. Surely a little drinky can soothe some nerves, maybe temper the frenzy. Me, I’ve been fine all along (calmer than you are, dude...) – but I guess when you live it, every day is margarita day.

Related: Got an email that made me blush. By one reader’s count, I’ve posted at least six margarita recipes on this blog, including The Cleanest Marg (my first post as a TCL regular), The Shackboy Marg, The Damiana-Sotol Marg, The Memorial Day Marg, The Uri No-Exposed-Bone Marg, and The Trying Hard Marg. Whoa. I wasn’t keeping track myself, ya know I’m really not into the numbers. Sure, some people might feel compelled to say things like, like… “Greatest marg drinker ever!” or, “How does he do it? This marg rules!” or, “For being short and gimpy, he sure does make a damn good margarita!” or even, “I think Cordes is the world margarita champion!” But that’s just a vanity thing that I try to steer clear of. I mean, it’s really all about the experience.

Cerro Torre: Deviations from Reason

by Kelly Cordes

Late afternoon January 16, Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk sat on the summit of Cerro Torre, making a decision.

Backup. For starters, let’s be clear: None of us has an inalienable right to summit anything. If you aren’t capable of climbing a peak after a manmade path has been removed, nothing has been stolen from you.

“If there is such a thing as spiritual materialism, it is displayed in the urge to possess the mountains rather than to unravel and accept their mysteries,” wrote the great Polish climber Voytek Kurtyka.

[Cerro Torre, with the southeast ridge roughly ascending the spine, facing the camera, in the center of the frame (the route approaches around from the right, out-of-view, to reach the huge snow blob at the base of the ridge). Photo: Kelly Cordes]

I’m specifically referring to yet another raging controversy on Cerro Torre, the otherworldly Patagonian spire. In my 11 years at the American Alpine Journal (where I’m the senior editor), I’ve educated myself on Cerro Torre’s bizarre and complex history. I also have first-hand knowledge – in 2007, Colin Haley and I climbed a new link-up on the south and west aspects of Cerro Torre, before rappelling down the controversial Compressor Route (which ascends the peak’s southeast ridge).

Lines of Eleven

by Kelly Cordes

Note: On this blog in 2011 I wrote over 30,000 words in 40 original blog posts (to TCL readers, I apologize for the resultant drop in your IQ). I also edited and introduced another seven posts from other authors, and wrote a little on my personal blog (where I put my inappropriate rants). So I got this idea to paste sentences, or, in occasional spots, phrases from a sentence, from my TCL posts into one randomly connected paragraph. I kept original formatting, like italics, and tried to avoid pasting any consecutive sentences, though I cheated in a spot or two. And with 30k words, I got overwhelmed, so I just did it for the first half of the year (I know, what an overachiever). Here it is:

The No Resolution Resolution

by Kelly Cordes

“What’s your New Year’s Resolution?” folks ask. They don’t really ask me, though, because I’m wary of holiday parties (depends on how much booze is there) and go, Huh? Is that like a “five-year plan” or whatever? I heard a person recently talking about how ten is the new five, or something – like now it’s a “ten-year plan.”

Easy there, chief, let’s not get carried away. I don’t know what I’m doing five days from now.

I also don’t generally like holiday gatherings, because they often seem fake. Everyone acts as if they like each other (I’ve been to a few where everyone actually did like each other, and was shocked… this ain’t Christmas!), which they show by buying each other needless things. Bah humbug.

So I resolve to avoid such gatherings – call me a go-getter. Maybe I’m grumpy since my endless hours of rehab, from my six recent surgeries, don’t have me back where I want to be. Unrealistic, perhaps. Probably. But I don’t just want the climbing. Hell, in terms of difficulty I’m not climbing much worse than I used to. No, I want that feeling back, that flow, the way it feels when I can move without restriction, without wincing, without worry or fear. Sometimes I still get glimpses. Not that I was ever satisfied with where I was – I always wanted to improve, and always wanted more of that feeling. And I’ll admit that I battle with the reality that I’ll never be as physically capable as I once was, and the question of what that means to me. Maybe I have to lower my standards. I can do that. If it will give me that feeling.

[We want YOU to have a happy new year! Photo: Sonnie Trotter]

Regardless, I’ve never been much for outwardly stated goals.

Old Young Friends

by Kelly Cordes

Mid-morning it hit me for the millionth time: this is ridiculous. Only, at this point in my life I rarely think of it as ridiculous-stupid. More like, ridiculous-ok-fine-so-what, with a chuckle-twist on the side. It was my inaugural day of taking the tools for a walk, 2011, and my friend Artley and I carried packs full of ice climbing gear to the base of Hessie Chimney, only to find it bone dry.

Editor's note: This post is rated T for teen because of some profanities.

“Well, we could just climb it, but it’s warm enough that I’d probably take off my gloves and climb bare handed,” Artley said.

“Yeah. If there was a bunch of bullshit snow covering the choss, then it’d seem more worth it, huh.”

We both paused – like a simultaneous realization that my words were equal parts true and absurd – and then laughed.

“Sooo, Eldo?”

“Eldo.”

[Artley Goodhart taking the first lead in a snowy Eldorado Canyon. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Special Places: Hyalite Canyon

by Kelly Cordes

Some places seem special, and I can’t always articulate why. I think it’s the smell of the air, the look of the place, the memories it holds. In a sense, Hyalite Canyon, near Bozeman, Montana, one of countless canyons in the American West of similar scale, isn’t extraordinary. Until you begin to unlock its secrets, which include over 200 ice and mixed pitches, and an incredible history of human experiences.

[Pete Tapley on an early attempt at what would become Zack Attack, with Kelly Cordes belaying. Photo: Dan Gambino]

This weekend is the 15th annual Bozeman Ice Climbing Festival, and so I got to thinking of writing about their festival, but the festival exists because the place exists, the memories exist, the legacy of Hyalite that has influenced so many of us. Me included, and in so many ways. One of the first places I learned to climb ice, some 18 years ago, was Hyalite. And Hyalite was the last place that I climbed waterfall ice – on February 1, 2010, the day I shattered my leg.

Talent

- By Kelly Cordes


[Late-day light on the Dawn Wall, on Tommy’s final effort. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

I’ve long thought that the most wasted resource on earth is talent. Talent abounds, yet optimizing its potential requires devoted effort. Of course we also have to consider opportunity, and the whole talent-and-effort issue makes regular news. There’s the “10,000-Hour Rule” of practice, popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in his celebrated and best-selling book Outliers – underscoring the importance of effort.  Recently I read an article about intellectual giftedness – underscoring the importance of talent.

As far as natural ability goes, exceptional athletes are everywhere. Those who fully maximize that talent through hard work and effort, however, seem rare; I suspect they have to love it, truly love it, deep-down love it. Not just love success, or even the idea of success. Not just talk about it, and not find excuses when things get grim.

Recap on El Cap - Another Butt-Kicking

- by Tommy Caldwell

Today, Tommy Caldwell writes about the conclusion of another season of trying to free-climb the Dawn Wall. And coming up empty – though that’s really not the right word. We’ve covered his efforts in multiple posts (click here, here, or here), and it’s made frequent news in the climbing world for its nearly incomprehensible difficulty. Here’s how it feels, from the man himself. His words remind me of what it means to be grateful and of the spirit and values that matter most, which, I think, is worth remembering as we approach the holiday season. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. - Kelly Cordes
 

[Tommy recovering after a fall on one of the many crux pitches. Photo: Rebecca Caldwell]

The wheels of my van protest loudly as I hit the rumble strips on Interstate 70. My wife, Becca, bolts upright out of a peaceful sleep with a panicked look on her face.

“Did you fall asleep?” she says, her eyes the size of basketballs. Did I? I think for a second. I gaze toward the passenger seat. A bit of drool glistens on her cheek and her long hair sticks straight out from the right side of her head.

Wow, that girl is cute when she is irritated at me.

“I guess I was just daydreaming.” I shrug my shoulders and try to put on my best puppy dog eyes.

“Well be careful!” She curls back up in the seat and is asleep in seconds.

The truth is, I am not even a bit drowsy. The post-expedition mind is a funny thing. Both happy to be returning home, but trying to find a way to cope with something. A kind of loss of immediate purpose. And although the trip I am returning home from wasn’t exactly an expedition, it had a similar effect on my psyche.

Being Barney Rubble

by Kelly Cordes

Damn, I thought as I glanced around, I’m like Barney Rubble at a superhero convention. Sonnie Trotter to my left, Alex Honnold to my right. I know what you’re thinking: Did you owe those guys money? Or maybe: Oh, one of those high school intelligence tests, “Which does not fit in this group?” Sonnie is poised and eager to try to repeat The Prophet, and Alex just raced up the Nose in like two and a half hours (among a bizillion other things recently). Pretty wild, sometimes, this small world climbing thing.

Earlier in the day Tommy and I played phone tag – I stood along the road, looking at his portaledge while babbling on his voice mail: “Dude, can you see me? I’m wearing an orange jacket and waving: Hi Tommy, hi!”

“What are you doing?” my special lady friend asked.

“I’m waving to Tommy, but he won’t know it’s me until he listens to his messages. Huhuh, this is so cool!”

She just stared.

Is it lame that I’m 43 and a “fan” of my friends?

[Above: Looking up from the base of the Dawn Wall, with Tommy’s camp visible. Photo: Kelly Cordes]