Steve Sutton

We must have looked pretty far out from the road. It didn't matter, really. There were three of us - Hugh, 25 feet above me and bolting (slowly), John, fixed, in the station below, and myself, crouched on my knees just over the roof, trying to land direct hits on John.

It had started a month or so before, when we decided that we'd put a finish on the one or two year old beginning. This start is on a low angle dyke that slants off left from the top of the Flake. Two pitches on it, all free. Undoubtedly some of the neatest free climbing on the Chief.

At this point, the wall is overwhelming. On your left it shoots up loud, tall and massive, with an A1 crack that breaks the tan colored rock - Yosemite blinks on the Chief! On your right, bits-and-pieces type rock leads around the low end of the roof for Ten Years After.

At the end of the next lead, an A1 traverse, you come across one of those places that seem like a leak in the wall. In the middle of summer it was horrible; ugly, greasy and slimy, like a well-used broken toilet. Anyway, it's a short run, and the incredible nailing of that lead and the next makes you forget about it. Now we're back to the beginning, just over the roof on station four. From here on, it's big wall scenery. The spots are wide open or by small dihedrals, and one feels tiny playing with little pitons and things.

The usual first ascent style of Squamish found its way into our route also. We rappelled off in classical style and left pitch number 5 half completed.

Sometime later, John and I returned and had our first jumar session up the long, thin overhanging rope. From Hugh's high bolt some interesting cliff-hanger moves take you to an empty 3/16 bolt hole. It was a shaky bolt, and apparently fell out after the second ascent party used it - we're pretty useless at bolting, anyways. A couple more long, leg-sleeping, knee-crinking bolt placings and you're past an undecided flake with a chicken bolt above it, and into the First Sickle. Finish this sickle, pass another flake, and you arrive at the Black Sickle. Black, because there was no goddam crack in it. The turtle speed drillers didn't help any either. We got about 5 bolts in, made some empties, and rappelled off again in classical style. The rappel was fun, but the thought of jumaring again chewed at my mind. We did the refresher course on the road and cogitated upon the next blank section we'd encounter.

The push! Poor John is working or something. Hugh and I start up. Weather - doubtful? Hauling the bag on 300 feet of low angle slabs was like hauling a tank. The jumar - strenuous! the hauling - strenuous! Finally we're at the high station. Empty bodies, full minds. We finish the bolt ladder and start the next lead. 40 feet of so higher and the rain begins. The Black Sickle ends (For us!)

Coming back, we spot the bag high on the wall where we left it. Soon we're there. Weather, fine! Full bodies, full minds. It's late. Traversing left from the Black Sickle, with bolts, cliffys and free moves, we arrive at the base of the White Sickle. White, because there was an A1 crack right in its belly.

We bivvy at it's beginning, our first hammock bivvy, and quietly turn on to the night. It's warm and comfortable and our spirits are full in the morning. Hugh nails the White Spider (the ringing bugs our ears) and I traverse right to the bottom of the last pitch. I go as far as I can, rope drag permitting, and belay in a small forest. Looking up, an A1 crack leads to the top.

It's still early so we have a little picnic. Both of us are beat, physically. It's funny how your body just makes it to the limit you set for it. Hugh starts up. He's slow - I can't believe how slow! Halfway up there's a huge dead tree, a hell of an obstacle, especially for the bag. It's passed, but 20 feet from Dance there's no more rope. Hugh ties off the climbing line and keeps going on the haul line. Suddenly, he's up.

I clean. Slow. It's goddam awkward! When I get to where the climbing line is tied off I find I'm jumaring on only one pin. Oh well, it seemed to hold O.K. Suddenly I'm up and we start hauling. Both bushed! Naturally the goddam bag gets stuck in that goddam dead tree and I had to goddam well go down and get it! 60 feet down, screwing around like an ass, bust up the tree a bit, and 60 feet back up. Haul bag's finally up and we rest. Like babies.

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