Fast and Light, Overnight Outer Space, Leavenworth Author: Marcus Engley		Previous Article Next Article
"All I remember of the six hour trip down are vignettes and still pictures lit by Petzl halogens."           Joe Simpson would laugh at this story. Mark Twight would tell me that we took too much gear. Lynn Hill would wonder what was so hard about it and Fred Beckey would describe us as amateurs. Amateurs we are. Truthfully, none of them would probably care.           But none of them are moderate climbers.           It was a dictionary-definition Eastern Washington autumn day outside the hamlet of Leavenworth, home to more transplant Germans and winter festivals than New York has taxi-cabs. My steady climbing partner of several years, Anastasia, had joined me for a mid-week run up the classic six-pitch crack fest, Outer Space. It's a route that Washington climbers highlight as one of the best in the state and a standard by which a local's experience seems to be judged, or at least estimated.           We knew the particulars well as we made the 45 minute approach from the Snow Creek parking lot. We had done our homework on the climb, as a 6 pitch 5.9 was, at the time, a pretty big undertaking for us. Beyond that, we'd been to the base before, only to balked by a missed trail on the approach, a third partner with GI distress and a perplexing first belay ledge. This time it was the two of us, we knew where the trail jumped off and I was pretty convinced I knew the right ledge from the wrong.           We left the trailhead at eight in the morning, a Wednesday, delighted at having found few cars in the parking lot and none of the occupants bound for the Snow Creek Wall. We made good time up the trail, catching our cutoff and traversing toward and away from the burn line that marks the end of the 1993 Icicle Canyon fire. The climb starts right near this line, and we dropped our gear to reorganize at the base of the first long, broken corner pitch. We uncoiled the doubles, hoping they would come to good use on the longer, less direct pitches. Water, lunch and two headlamps went into my backpack, which the second would carry, since I couldn't shoehorn myself into her pack, her broad shoulders aside. I racked up, tied in and went on my way, aiming 120 feet up at the first stop (Backpacks, Belay Ledges and Women's Lingerie).           I missed it. I got to where I knew I needed to be, then couldn't make my way over to the ledge with those nice, shiny bolts. So I continued up another 20 feet and made anchor at the same ledge I'd marooned myself on earlier in the season. I'd bring Anastasia up and we'd decide which way to go.           30 minutes later, Anastasia's face (or more appropriately, the top of her head) appears at my feet. Turns out that my backpack, with the framesheet still in, prevented her from looking up and raising her arms at the same time. Anastasia is, unfortunately, one of those people who likes to see where she's going. Her mood was not improved by the fact that she had to spend ten minutes fiddling around with a welded stopper.           Given the poor fit of the backpack, we decided that I should carry it the whole time. Fine by me, as one of the main goals of the day was to have Anastasia lead four of the six pitches, since she was looking pretty solid on 5.8 gear. I'd only have to lead with the pack on the crux pitch -- how bad could that be? Off she went, in search of stop number two (Bail Points, Runouts and Kitchen Appliances).           The first of two traverse pitches, her lead was over almost before it had begun. 150 feet later, I realized that this was because she had neither qualms about the difficulty, nor the opportunity to stop and place gear. Second pitch dispatched, along with more time than we expected (or noticed).           The third pitch, the crux, is where the route steepens a bit. The idea is to gain an upward trending crack system and traverse over to the right, pulling through a short section of 5.9 while the winds tickle the burnt pines 200 feet below. I grunted my way upward toward the traverse, discovering that my backpack was, as it had been for Anastasia, awkward to climb with at best. Poorly packed and jamming against the back of my helmet, it made the crux moves too much for my weak heart. I built a small anchor and lowered back to the ledge, where I tied the pack into one of our doubles, to be hauled up at the next belay.           That done, I set off again for stop three (Haul Systems, Fading Light and Children's Apparel). The crux went much more smoothly and I was soon sitting on a sloping ledge with solid gear in the crack by my feet. AP joined me post-haste and I set about the task of hauling our silent partner. He was recalcitrant, and it took me the better part of 15 minutes to get close enough to the edge to successfully fight the drag. "It was frayed and faded, worn and weary, but it appeared to be attached to something so Anastasia, with hope and desperation, threw for it."           Having not yet noticed that the sun was no longer on us, we went about the next pitch as per plan -- Anastasia racked up and set off on pitch four, the runout one, though only 5.8. Of course, that rating assumes you're not dragging a Volkswagen behind you. When Anastasia popped over the first lip and saw, to her dismay, a sea of chickenheads with nary a crack between her and the short corner out left that finishes the pitch, she began to make her way slowly upward.                     Halfway along, what should appear           But a placement, some gear!           But it's way over here...                     To the right, so that's where she went. She clipped a long runner to the cam, then both of our doubles, creating the first part of what has become famous for her -- The 90 Degree Piece to Piece Pitch. As might be guessed, she traversed straight to the left after setting her gear, arriving at the base of the corner after 30 feet of lateral goodness. In goes the next piece and, unbeknownst to her, the Volkswagen fastens on to the rope.           What followed was 20 feet of siege climbing, capped by a ray of kindness from either the climbing gods or modern materials chemistry. When Anastasia's eyes came over the lip of the next ledge (Rope Management, Nylon Webbing and Religious Icons) she spied a sad, pathetic loop of red sling. It was frayed and faded, worn and weary, but it appeared to be attached to something so Anastasia, with hope and desperation, threw for it.           It held, or Joe Simpson might be more impressed with this story. The webbing probably creaked, powdered nylon probably dusted off, but she hauled herself and her Volkswagen onto the ledge and gave me the word. Much relieved that she was still speaking, I understood immediately upon seeing her chosen line -- the rope arced back and forth up the pitch like the Kazaam! lightning bolts in a Batman comic. So much for the doubles.           At last and too late, we realized what was before us. With two long pitches to go and no feasible way to bail, we had about 30 minutes of light, most of it dim, autumn twilight, followed by a descent with a nasty reputation. Pitches five and six were the plums, the reason to do Outer Space. A beautiful splitter hand crack with a thousand chickenheads on the face, broken at mid-height by Library Ledge. 300 feet of solid granite, 400 feet off the ground, and it's only 5.7. These were the pitches that Anastasia wanted to lead. Unfortunately, as the chill began to set in, we decided that we couldn't afford the time. I was a little more comfortable and a little faster, so off we went, chasing the light.           Library Ledge was a blur, as was the pitch to get there. Vague recollections of perfect cracks and incut knobs were shoved away when Anastasia, breathless, joined me. I left stop five (Chickenheads, Frayed Nerves and Men's Footwear) for stop six (Sandwiches, French Free and Lighting). The crack immediately off the ledge gave me some pause until I realized that a small cam makes a nice rung.           After releasing two more Frenchmen I sprinted to the top of the pitch, placing only 2 or 3 pieces over 200 feet. I had barely the time to catch my breath when Anastasia joined me again, this time with my few pieces dangling from her tie-in like trophies. I quickly traversed out left, skating over mossy clumps and chickenheads for the last 30 feet of the route, wrapped in complete, moonless blackness as I finally reached the top. When Anastasia and I finally untied it was 7:30. We sat and ate for the first time that day, knowing that the descent would get no darker than it already was.           Our worst mistake of the day (ignoring backpacks, belay management and zero time awareness) was made when we donned our headlamps, coiled the ropes and started down the gully. We should have slept at the top. What we did instead was grind our nerves down to nubs and finish our day with an epic. "...Anastasia's arms pinwheeled, cartoon-like, and I watched, sure that I would be finishing the descent alone."           All I remember of the six hour trip down (yes, six hours) are vignettes and still pictures lit by Petzl halogens. Most prevalent is a cone of yellow-white light, spreading down the steep, sandy gully, grabbing the edge of the Snow Creek Wall on the left and petering out in the blackness. We seemed to be making downward progress, albeit liberally sprinkled with traversing and retracing our steps, yet that cone of light never showed anything but a steep slide to nowhere.           At one point, after I had climbed up and around a mossy clump of granite (for the 100th time), Anastasia nearly fell out of that light-cone when her chosen handhold didn't like its resting spot. The stone tumbled backward down the gully while Anastasia's arms pinwheeled, cartoon-like, and I watched, sure that I would be finishing the descent alone. Like any good Hollywood actress, she found a hold at the last minute and scampered to the safety of a small, steep glade.           It was around this time when I began to fall asleep. Every time we would stop moving I'd sit and, within seconds, begin to drift off. Anastasia had to keep pushing me along, exhausted herself, so we could find some level ground. We decided to traverse down to the left, hoping that eventually we would come around the toe of the buttress and find a more defined path back to the base. I began to scout out the gullies we'd find, so only one of us would have to come back up if it was the wrong one. Thankfully and at last, we came to a cliff with a big tree above it. A nest of webbing around a big root assured us that others, too, had been lost here. We uncoiled all 400 feet of rope, set up a rap and zipped, taking the light with us. We discovered, of course, that the cliff was only about 35 feet high, but the extra coiling warmed us as one o'clock came and went.           We continued traversing, trying not to lose much elevation, as we both felt sure that we had come down enough, if not yet over. Exhaustion, however, had stolen into my brain like a slow drug. The next stop we made was above a short, mossy rock step. I belayed Anastasia to me and we rested against the base of a large, burnt pine. We were done and we both had to admit it. We had scant extra clothing and only my backpack, but I flaked out the ropes at the tree's base and began to make our nest. Anastasia swept her light (the battery now into its sixth hour) over our chosen site and spoke the only words I remember from that day.           "Hey, that tree... it's burned."           I looked at her, then the tree, then up to the faint profile of Snow Creek Wall 600 feet above, all the while my energy and enthusiasm boiling back up, giving me a little more juice. Our burned bedpost meant that we had to be past the '93 burn line, which meant that the base (and our gear) had to be very close. I furiously recoiled the ropes, Anastasia tied them on and I sprinted uphill through the bush, confident that we would hit the wall's base and a major trail soon. Moments later I was looking at Anastasia's pack, six hours after we began the trip down. As she joined me, her headlamp played briefly over her top lid and winked out, as if a plug had been pulled. Her spare battery, which we had decided not to take up the route, was quickly in place. Who knew we'd need a six hour burn time for a descent that's supposed to take 30 minutes?           Totally spent now, we put on rain gear and what few additional clothes we had and tucked our feet into our packs, laying atop the ropes. The night was passed waiting for dawn and shivering, trying to pool our body heat. In my dresser drawer at home I still have the lighter that melted while I tried (and failed) to make a fire with the twiggy crap around the cliff's foot.           When the lights of Leavenworth were slowly eclipsed by the mustering sunrise we packed, unrefreshed but at least on the other side of our epic. We made a long, rambling song to the tune of Gilligan's Island as we hiked back to the car, arriving at eight a.m., 24 hours after our departure. 24 hours, car to car.           Take that, Dean Potter.
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