Zoo View (5.7+), Moore's Wall, NC

Michael preps his gear while Ginny downs some caffeine.
Not pictured: Your humble narrator.

Sunday, March 4^th. Michael and I pull into a south Durham apartment complex around 6:30 to pick up our plus one, a pretty girl with honey brown eyes who introduces herself as Ginny. We load up all of our gear and pull onto 40 West, an hour and a half between us and Moore's Wall. For Michael, this is the first leg of a seven-day climbing sabbatical; for Ginny and myself, it's a one-day adventure into the unfamiliar world of multipitch trad climbing. She falls asleep curled up in her bucket seat while Michael and I shoot the shit about coworkers and routes and gear. Postrock sizzles quietly through the stereo and the sun rises behind us, opening up on a clear blue sky and a fresh morning breeze. As we wind through the serpentine mountain roads that lead to the crag, I roll down the window. "Man, we really couldn't have asked for better weather today."

This story ends with me being wrong about that.

This shot of the approach turned
out to be pretty cool!

Eric, the fourth and final member of our little troop of rock warriors, pulls into the makeshift gravel parking lot a few minutes after we do. We make our introductions and pack up our gear for the approach; it's steeper and muddier than any of us really expected, and by the time we make it to the rock face we're sweating and out of breath. Moore's Wall rises 300 feet above us as we select gear and talk about the upcoming climb. It's a two-pitch traditional route called Zoo View (5.7+). We scout out the first pitch to a natural anchor about 100 feet up, chatting about rope management and the belay station we'll need to set up for the second pitch. Eric and I pair up (he'll be leading, of course) and Michael teaches Ginny the basics of lead belaying and gear cleaning for their ascent after us. It's cold, and this particular section of Moore's won't get direct sunlight until the late afternoon, so we layer up, tug socks on before lacing up our climbing shoes, and hop up and down on the frozen boulders while Eric ties in.

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Belaying the first pitch while the
other duo looks on.

It's about 9:45 when we start the first pitch, a short 5.5 hop to the belay station. Eric sets his first cam twenty or so feet up (higher than I would be comfortable with; but then, he's better at this than I am), stopping periodically to warm up his fingers whenever he can get a one-hand or no-hands rest. The wind has picked up and blusters around us in earnest; we watch the shadow of the mountain slowly creep towards us as the sun rises behind it. Eric makes slow but steady progress as he searches for gear placement and we can tell that he's trying to keep his fingers from freezing and locking up while he's high up and exposed on the wall. We see him top out at the belay station and there are a few minutes of silence while he sets up his anchor--then his shout drifts down: "Off belay!" I unclip and shout back, "You're off belay!" He starts taking up rope as I tie in. The last few feet of slack slither up the route. "That's me! On belay?" “Belay on!” And I'm off.

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Hanging out at the first belay station,
prepping for the second pitch.

The first pitch goes as smoothly as its grade indicates it might. As the follower, I have the luxury of not needing to set gear, and Eric’s placements are solid but easy to clean, so I reach the belay station in just a few minutes. Eric has anchored himself to several faded but strong-looking slings left behind by nameless fellow climbers, and as I top out I clip my personal anchor system next to him so I can stretch a little bit before hunkering down away from the wind while he gets ready to lead the second pitch. I have three layers on my top half and two on my legs (plus a funky Christmas beanie I may have stolen from my father’s house) , but still the wind whips its wintry way into my bones and joints. We both mutter dark and brooding expletive-laden sentences about the weather---meanwhile, we can hear Michael calling down to Ginny as they begin their ascent. Eric does a few jumping jacks to warm himself up on the ledge next to the anchor, ties in, and begins the fifteen-foot unprotected traverse to the route’s lone bolt. As he shuffles out, he glances back to me. “Dude. Brace your feet and pay attention. If I fall before this bolt I’m going to pull you straight down and onto those slings.” He pauses and shivers. “Fuckin’ wind, man.”

I nod wearily. “Fuckin’ wind.”

The view west from the ledge.

The second pitch, 5.7+ with mediocre pro at best, winds around a bulge in the rock face and then shoots straight up through two roof sections before shifting to a gentle scramble (maybe 5.3) to the final belay. Eric clips his first bolt, makes his way around the bulge, and is gone---that’s the last I’ll see of him for the better part of an hour. I can still hear him cursing and mumbling for the first 40 feet or so, but then the wind whips up again and I’m left alone on the wall with a spectacular view. The domed rock at the peak of Pilot Mountain is bathed in sunlight miles behind me, and the mottled checkerboard of western North Carolina stretches out below me, ending in blurred dark violet mountains way out in the northwest. After a fashion, Michael joins me at the belay station, and soon enough Ginny makes her way to the ledge, smiling cheerily but taking the first opportunity she can to curl up in a nook away from the exposure. They clean up their belay and we pass the time by creatively forging together black oaths about the wind, just like Eric and I had earlier. After a while, we hear Eric’s voice float down to us, hoarse and far-away. “Off! Belay!” I fill my lungs and shout back up to him, “Okay! You’re off belay!” A few moments later, the rope starts zipping through the first bolt as he pulls in slack. It goes taut. “That’s me! On belay?” Another pause. “Belay! On!” “Climbing!” He may or may not respond with a lusty “Climb on,” but if he does it’s lost in the wind’s dirge. I edge out onto the ledge and begin my ascent.

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Looking down, a little ways into
the second pitch. Note how
the camera is on a leash!

The first fifty feet or so go relatively well. The cold eats into my fingers and toes, but I manage to find a few spots to shelter myself from the wind and breathe warm air into my hands. I’m glad to be following; Eric has placed gear approximately half as often as I would be comfortable with if I were on lead, and I’m not entirely convinced that his placements are due to personal preference instead of a general dearth of placement opportunities on the route. The man has balls of solid granite.

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This isn't me, but this IS
the roof section on
Zoo View. Photo courtesy
of Mountain Project.

As I pull under the first roof section, the wind really starts to scream at me. For the first time since the belay station, I become acutely aware of the fact that I am a miniscule speck of flesh clinging to the side of a vast and uncaring mountain, with only my partner's skill and a 10.2 millimeter nylon rope standing between me and a 200-foot plummet to my messy and gurgling death. My fingers are no longer the nimble precision instruments that pull on crimps in the quiet warmth of the climbing gym--instead, they're frozen, nearly-immobile wooden claws, creaking and popping audibly on each hold, knuckles shriveled and white and chapped and bleeding. I can't find any foot placements for my numbed and useless feet, and I feel my shoe rubber sliding and grinding on grit as I feebly attempt to smear my way to a positive edge. After more than a few moments of struggling, I manage to grapple my way to two strong hand holds and begin to pull myself up over the roof--only to feel my feet slide completely off the rock and find myself dangling by my fingers with the wind whipping my legs across the face of the mountain.

Holy shit.

This is awesome.

Also not me, but this is the second
roof on the route. Photo courtesy
of Mountain Project.

I do the only thing I can think to do: I kick up hard for a heel hook, pray that the slight pressure I feel in my foot region indicates a reasonably solid hold, and crank up over the roof. Miraculously, I make it. My left hand fishes around for traction and I spy a beautiful protruding horn that I can pull up on. I set my feet, reach, start to weight the hold---and immediately let go with a sharp curse as it wobbles precariously and threatens to dislodge itself from the mountain. NOPE NOPE NOPE. My fingers are in a bad way, but I manage to shove them in a crack as my nerve endings protest weakly at the recent pain signal embargo. “That would probably hurt,” I mutter to myself, “if it wasn’t so fucking cold.”

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That beautiful pinnacle
standing tall and proud.

The second roof looms above, much larger than the first, and somehow I manage to grab onto a nice little ledge right on the lip. I decide it’s time for a break. Doubting that Eric can hear me, I holler “Take!” and slowly lower my weight onto the rope. I’m worried more about losing hard-fought ground than I am about falling to my death, but the rope goes taut and I only sink a foot or so down the route. Thank God Eric is paying attention or I’d have to pull both roofs again. I take a few seconds to look around. Below me the mountain has dropped utterly away, leaving the boulder-strewn canyon in full view between my dangling feet. To my right, the Piedmont rolls quietly off, soft carpeted hills flowing towards the distant Appalachians. Behind me, a smallish but striking pinnacle of stone cuts a sharp relief against the cloud-scattered sky. This is the climber’s reward: the raw, humbling majesty of the mountain and everything it surveys.

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The second anchor Eric set up---
the only thing between us and
a long, long fall.

The wind buffets me towards the wall and I snap reluctantly out of my reverie. Time to finish this monstrosity. I dig my toes in and pull out from underneath the roof, hooking a heel and dragging myself onto my torso to clear the lip. There’s a bit of relieving vertical climbing followed by a mossy scramble up to the second belay station, and suddenly I see Eric for the first time since he pulled out around the bulge. I shout a feeble hello and he responds with, “Oh my God, dude, fuck this, we need to get out of this exposure right now.” I take a few breaths and climb my way to him, clipping my personal anchor system to the cordelette anchor he has set up around a stunted but solidly-rooted tree. He gives me a quick fist bump---“Good job, man, let’s get to the top of this damned mountain”---and we unclip from  the anchor so we can haul ourselves up the mossy boulders which comprise the final fifteen or so feet of the route. It’s easy climbing, but the moss combined with some dripping icicles and protruding tree branches make it scarier than it needs to be. A fall here means either catching yourself on the belay station ledge or dropping to your death, depending on where exactly you fall and how fast your reactions are. We manage to follow the standard advice for our sport: Don’t fall.

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Eric in the small clearing at the top.

Eric sheds his gear and drops the rope as soon as we get to a small clearing with some bench-sized boulders. We bum around the top of the mountain for a little while, stretching and trying to catch what little sunlight makes its way through the clouds and trees. The foliage shelters us from the worst of the wind, but it’s still cold enough that we have to stay bundled up and low to the ground. Winding our way through some thorny vines and leaf-covered passages, we spot our rappel station across a small gorge before Eric decides to climb down to the belay station and check on Michael and Ginny’s progress. He returns with interesting news.

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It was a rough situation, but the
scenery was absolutely gorgeous.

“Michael thinks Ginny’s still at the first roof…I think we’re going to have to send someone down to check on her. Michael and I are worried about her mental game. She might have freaked herself out. Not to mention…” I finish the sentence for him. “…the fuckin’ wind, man. Yeah.” We clamor down to the tree together and Eric pieces together another cordelette anchor. It’s decided that I’ll belay Eric down to where Ginny is and he’ll take it from there. We don’t have a solution to the wind problem---twenty or so feet out, Eric becomes almost unintelligible, and it is only with lucky timing and strong lungs that he is able to communicate a few words at a time. After he lowers past the edge of the rock, we can’t see him---Michael and I are alone at the station with the wind clawing at the rock face and only the tugs and slackening of the ropes to give us any information about our fellow climbers. He repeats what Eric said earlier, “We need to get out of this exposure.” After an interminable stretch of time, Eric’s voice reaches us through the wind, and we make out bits and pieces of what he’s saying. “Take!...Blue rope!” That’s me. I start hauling in rope until it goes taut and Michael teaches me a better way to gauge Eric’s progress with my off hand. Eventually, both lines go appreciably slack, and we hear Eric again, faintly. “Off! Belay! Blue! Rope!” I unclip from the ATC and shout back, “Blue! Rope! Off! Belay!” The rope slithers down the rock face and I’m left to clean my anchor and climb the last fifteen feet to the summit while Michael pieces together enough information to know that he can start hauling in his rope. Presumably, they’ve downclimbed to the first belay station. Our next task is to find the rappel anchor and start our descent.

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Michael massaging life into lifeless
feet.

Michael takes off his shoes once we get to the clearing. His toes are dead white and appear completely devoid of blood. While he massages life back into his frigid digits, I investigate the rappel station. Old slings and questionable redundancy, but it still looks bomber enough for body weight. By the time I get back, Michael is coiling rope and putting his gear back on. “We’re getting off this fucking mountain. Rappel station, let’s go.” Three blustery rappels later, we’re on the ground with Eric and a still-smiling Ginny, cramming ourselves full of trail mix and almonds while Ginny tucks Michael’s toes into some socks. “How long were we up there?” someone asks. The sun behind us is well on its way down towards the horizon. It’s three o’clock. We had spent five ridiculous, freezing hours on 250 feet of 5.7 trad climbing.

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And that’s the song of how we conquered Zoo View, my first multipitch and first trad climb, a moderate route that still managed to provide one hell of an intense adventure.

This video gives you a feel for how windy it was, even in the more sheltered nooks.

Status: Sent!