Levitation 29

Nov, 1991
by Michael Gardner

Thanksgiving Day, 1991. It's 6:30 a.m. The day is dawning but the sun has not yet risen over the mountains due East. My partner is up and ready to go, squatting by the side of the road in that semi-meditative state that always seems to encompass him in the early morning hours. It briefly occurs to me that I have never actually seen him sleep. I waste no time getting ready knowing that this morning every minute is crucial. No time for cooking, we gulp juice, scarf some cantaloupe and muffins and start hiking. The approach will hopefully be familiar, having just done it last spring, but still it will be long and arduous. Back then it took two hours of casual hiking to locate the climb (with three parties already on it!) and it looked like another 30 minutes to the base from that point.

I first learned of Levitation 29 in a Climbing magazine article by John Long about ten years ago. He and Lynn Hill did the first free ascent a month after the original aid ascent. I'd only been climbing for four years then but this sounded like the climb of a lifetime. I'd since discovered Long's has a talent for making every climb seem so but this did nothing to curb my desire. At 5.11 (then the stratosphere of difficulty) and nine pitches long this was a goal worth striving for. A true classic! Today Randy Faulkner's guide rates the climb as 11b/c. For the time being I am unaware of this fact and later decide that it is possible to know too much about a climb. Due to the length and remoteness of the climb I'm concerned enough with an 11a rating but don't mention this to Frank. We've climbed together quite a bit in the last two years, mostly sport routes and top-roping, occasionally a short multi-pitch at Suicide or Josh but never anything as long or as serious as this. The climb is well within our abilities, but the crux is five pitches up, not right off the ground, which makes a difference, but I've waited too long to talk myself out of this one!

Two other climbers moved in late last night (they must be climbers to drive the rutted dirt road this far in and be up this early in the morning). We begin hiking Oak Creek canyon at about the same time to the only imaginable destination. The pace is brisk, each party wanting to be on the route first as nothing can ruin a climb like being behind a slow or incompetent party and it can happen at any level.

"What are you guys doing today?" they finally ask. Okay, might as well get it over with. "Levitation 29. What about you?" "Eagle Dance", they reply, "You're going to love Levitation. We did it two weeks ago. Great climb."

Excellent! The need to race to the climb has dissolved but the brisk pace continues, a big bonus. Along the way we get more beta on the down-climb confirming what we've learned in the past few days. Two hours back to the base, much better to rappel. We've brought a rap line but still my traditional roots keep objecting. The practice of climbing just the hard pitches and rappelling the route somehow seems like cheating and if time permits I'd prefer to top out and downclimb. Frank knows this but disagrees. He doesn't say anything and doesn't have to. We arrive at the base after only 90 minutes and the sun is already starting to warm the rock even though it's late November. Our rack is light but adequate, a biner of wired stoppers, friends to 2 ½", lots of draws and some long slings. The hip pack gets crammed full of water and Power Bars and we're ready to go.

"I'll take the first pitch," says Frank. I feel both relieved and disappointed. It looks slick and hard and I'm reluctant to start but I know that if we trade leads, leading this pitch means leading the crux. Still I procrastinate. "You can have the first 5.11 pitch."

"WHAT?" I scrutinize the topo, apparently for the first time. Second pitch, 5.11 roof. Shit! I look up. It looks scary! One crux was going to be enough, now there are TWO! Okay, it's all going to be okay. For ten years I've dreamed of this climb and now it just got twice as hard. Frank leads up the first pitch casually. I start nervously but after a few feet begin to get the rhythm. The second pitch starts easier than it looks and I'm glad I brought the Friends, one of which goes in before the crux move. I don't like the idea of trusting 1/4" bolts in sandstone, especially after 10 years, but I quickly put that thought out of my mind.

The next few pitches go smoothly. Frank takes the rack again, gives me a nod and leads off up to the crux. At the crux he takes a short fall but I easily hold him. As he pulls back onto the holds I pay out some slack. He doesn't expect this (sport-climbing ethic) and it rattles him. He decides to come down and I get my chance. After a few exploratory pulls I move through without a problem, thanks to the confidence inspired by yet another Friend placement. Little did I know that the thrills were yet to come! A move around a corner to my left and there above me is 60 feet of hard edging, below me 600 feet of air. The pumpfest! I move up slowly, reluctant to fall on the quarter-inchers, for what was one of the most exciting pitches I have ever led. Frank leads the beautiful diagonalling 10a crack pitch but I'm still giddy from the crux pitch and lose my concentration, falling just below the belay and tainting what would have otherwise been my best on-sight. Pitch seven entails some WILD liebacking and the exposure is horrific. I congratulate Frank on the nice lead as we discuss the rest of the climb. Decision time! Two more pitches, 5.9 and 5.8, but are they worthwhile? Probably not. The traditionalist in me still wants to finish the climb even though it's 4:15 and the sun is already out of sight. We figure in half an hour it will begin to get darker and we need to decide, NOW! Frank capitulates and I start the next pitch. As we reach the top the sun has already set and the light is quickly fading. We have not qualified our ascent by bailing below the summit, a small victory best left only to the staunchest of traditionalists, and were about to pay the price. Though the climbing is now finished, the epic is about to begin. Nine pitches to rappel and the headlamps are in the pack at the base!

The top is cold and negotiating the down climb in the dark is out of the question. I quickly set up a rappel and launch off. For the most part the route is straight so finding the belays is not a problem as long as one can judge the distances accurately. After four rappels it's totally dark. I recall the crack pitch diagonalling up and left but how far I cannot tell. I head down and right stopping after what I figure is 120 feet, wishing I had knotted the ends of the rope which trail invisibly in the darkness. What a dolt! Swinging right I finally find the crack and, a foot at a time, slowly lower to the belay, constantly checking for the end of the rope dangling an unknown distance below. I'm amazed at how lucky I am not only for finding the belay but also for not sliding off the end of my rope! Visibility ends at my feet and in the dark nothing looks familiar. Frank joins me shortly, noticeably on edge. It is no longer fun but frightening and dangerous. Every action is double-checked as we exercise great caution, both keenly aware that this is the point at which mistakes are usually made and disasters occur. In the dark we can no longer judge the condition of the rap slings but decide they're probably fine for Frank if they can hold me, fifty pounds his senior. As the undisputed heavyweight I will have the privilege of testing the remaining rappel stations while clipped in with a quickdraw as back-up. (Frank later confessed that he left several draws in place, which I understood completely. They were his draws. It was his life.)

Pitches one and two were short and serpentine so we decide to combine the final rap into one long one. By now we just want off, bad! After a few feet I come to the roof, as I go over my feet gradually lose contact with the rock. This is scary! Way scary! Now in a full free-hanging rappel I continue to descend. It's so dark I can't see the rock 20 feet away, knowing it's there only because I can't see anything else. There will be no moon until much later tonight.

Our adventure is nearing the end. As I finally reach the ground I feel like shouting with relief. What a rush! Ten minutes later Frank lands and is still noticeably rattled. The memory of such a great climb and such a hair-raising finish would never be forgotten. I want to hug him in relief and excitement that the whole ordeal is over but quickly suppress that instinct and extend a hand. "Great climb," I say. "That was the most frightening experience I've ever had climbing" he quickly agrees. We pack up and head for the car. Negotiating the creek is harder now that it's dark and we're tired. Finally the car is in sight, the other climbers long gone. It's now 9:30. "If we hurry we can make the Stardust Buffet." I venture. "We're there!"

Twenty minutes later we find ourselves rapidly filling our plates before they take the food away. Knowingly we grab a plateful of brownies while they're still out. "JC himself would steal for these brownies," I remark. Frank, sling slung over his shoulder like a badge of courage, a lingering reminder of what we've just experienced, is silent.

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