I was sweating profusely. Hell, almost crying. Elvising bad. Rog shouted up encouragement, which I usually try to tune out - Rog has a habit of spewing nonstop beta. I welcomed it now, however....anything to focus on besides the 5.9 roof was welcomed. I downclimbed to my last piece, a #.75 Camelot plugged under the roof I was trying to pull. Tested it. Bomber. What the hell was I worried about? Still was completely freaked. Plugged an Alien next to the Camelot - forget the size - clipped it, and climbed back to the crux of the roof. Froze again. Dude, I'm trippin.
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Roger Anderson and I met sometime in early 2000 at the Santee boulders. I was messing around with Bullfrog and Crazy Mike on the west Mudball, and Rog showed up carrying a half dozen Gatorades and some homemade cookies. Although I didn't know it at the time, this became Rog's trademark - always shows up with Gatorade (usually the purplish Frost flavors) and food, usually Powerbars or something. I didn't think much of him at the time, and I vaguely remembered seeing this guy at Dixon Lake crag once, ragging on my anchor over The Shoulder. I had at least 5 bomber pieces in, and this guy wanted me to chickenneck some huge boulder ten feet away to back it all up. Another Rog trademark - very safe.
So we worked Mudball for awhile, then moved to this sick 5.12 seam down the hill, then to some other stuff....and I still didn't know what to think of Rog. Kinda older, maybe 40ish, talked a lot. Couldn't climb 5.12, but knew his stuff.
The details between that day at Santee and our mini-epic at Tahquitz are fuzzy. I know we climbed together maybe six or seven times at various places, usually Dixon or Woodson. I had mentioned to Rog that I had done Angel's Fright a few times, a 5.6, five-pitch trad climb at Tahquitz. Rog said that he wanted to do Whodunit, a 5.9, seven-pitcher on the north side of the rock. Sure, why not, I said. We made plans for sometime in May.
So up to this point, the longest trad climb I had ever done was Angel's Fright, mentioned above. The hardest I had done was a couple 5.7's. What was I doing up on 5.9 Whodunit? Well, I could toprope hard 5.11, and had redpointed a 5.10 sport climb or two. Rog seemed about the same level, so off we went.
For those of you who have never been to Tahquitz, it's a hell of an approach - 900 vertical feet of high-angle hiking to get to the base. By the time you get to the climb, you're ready for bed. Rog and I got to the base around 9:00. We racked up, I ate my lunch (a roast beef sandwich), and I drew the first lead. Looked around, looked up, "On belay, man?", and I was off. Smooth, slabby sailing for about fifty feet, then a couple dicey moves left over some downward-facing flakes. Mostly cam pro, a nut or two in the little slots. Rog chattering on below. Gained the two bolts that marked the end of the first pitch, rigged a hanging belay, and Rog followed in short order.
Cast off for the lead of the second pitch. Liebacks up a dihedral for sixty feet, then some fourth-class and easy fifth-class to a ledge big enough to bivy on. Looped a tree root, plugged a few cams for the anchor. Rog cleaned. Up above was a chimney that Rog wanted to lead, so we racked him up and let him at it. Took him forever, and the ledge I was on was in the shade, so I shivered and mentally told him to hurry the fuck up. Finally got the 'climb on' call, tore down my anchor, and muscled my way into the chimney. Now I could understand what took so long - a 5.9 chimney with ackward moves and a heinous exit. I had the backpack on, which hosed me a little, but the whole way up I was thinking about what it would be like to lead it - plugging cams while trying to keep the opposing pressure that's keeping you in the chimney (and from decking on the ledge below). The exit was a couple of hard 5.9, hand-jammy moves that drew blood and more than a few cuss words.
Next pitch was my crux. On lead, going smooth. Fifty feet of 5.5 to 5.7 moves, no problem - till I ran into the roof bit. I have two cams plugged below me, and they're both bomber...but I'm still shakin'. I can make two or three moves without a problem, but pulling the actual lip of the roof entails a few manky handholds with minimal feet. Rog is way below, shouting up assurances. Hard to hear him. He comes over on the two-way radios now, telling me that it's only 5.9; I can hike this bitch.
All right, screw it. Here I go. Pulled over the manky crimps to a hand jam. Panicked for a moment, but I had already committed. Jammed another move, then saw my saving grace - the eye of an old, rusty, steel piton that looked like it had been there for thirty years and would have just about held the Holy Ghost on a fall. Nevertheless, I clipped that mother as soon as I saw it, and let a sigh of relief that Rog heard sixty feet below. PP, it's called. Psychological protection. Ain't gonna hold ya, but it feels better all the same. Hiked up and over the roof, flashed another twenty feet on tons of pro, and set up another hanging belay. Rog came over pretty quick, saying how fun the roof was. I agreed, and tried not to belt him in the face.
The rest was relatively easy....Rog led, I led, then Rog topped it out. As I belayed Rog on what turned out to be the last pitch, a fifteen-footer (it was hard to tell from below that we were that close to the top), I remember thinking about how very badly I wanted to be done with the climb. I was wore out both mentally and physically from being on the rock face for over six hours. As soon as I heard Rog summit, though, energy came rushing back. I scrambled up to the top and stood on the highest rock I could find.
"YAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
We signed the register at the top, made a few calls from a mobile phone (Hi honey, we're at the top, we rock, etc.), and headed down. Now, most people hike off via a class 4 route down the south and west face....but since we were on the northern part, we had this bright idea to cut around the *other* way and cut off fifteen or twenty minutes of hiking. All said and done, that idea added maybe forty minutes to an already thirty minute hike. We were still in our climbing shoes (mental note: ALWAYS bring approach shoes) each downward step quickly became shooting agony. At one point I was walking backward down the talus fields, desperately trying to keep the pressure off my toes. I tried taking them off, but hiking on the pebbled, rocky, thorny mountainside with bare feet was impossible.
Made in back to the base, again almost in tears from the pain. I sported a couple black toenails for months afterward to show for our decision to "try the other way around". I was still facing the 900 foot descent back to the car, but at least I had my hiking boots on now, and that kept pressure off of my big toes. Still, I don't think I've ever wanted to be on level ground as badly as that hike back.
Rog and I drove straightaway to a little bar/grill in Idyllwild, and ordered up some burgers and beers, preceded by a couple shots of Jack Daniel's. Almost fell asleep in that little booth. You'd think it was the best burger I'd ever had, considering my last food was that roast beef sandwich I ate ten hours earlier, but it wasn't...I wasn't that hungry, and I don't think anything will ever beat this 2/3 pound burger I had up in Atlanta, MI with Bullfrog after a week out in Pigeon River country. But anyways, we drove back to San Diego that night, talking about religion and politics and other crap just to pass the time. During rare moments of silence, I reflected back on the climb I had just done...was it really earlier that day? Already it seemed like something I had done weeks ago...some of the crystal-clear memories were already starting to brown around the edges. One thing stuck out...how tight Rog and I clicked on that climb. How I probably wouldn't have made it over that roof if Rog hadn't verbally kicked my ass over it.
Thanks, Rog.
Daniel Zatkovich
