Fishers. Pounds upon pounds of mud and stone gathered in my lap as I moved upward. Joe and I lowered to the ground after I finished the pitch. I felt both proud and completely defeated by my first aid lead in the Fishers. Sand poured off my body as we rappelled. My finger was destroyed. It’s the most exhausting pitch I’ve ever climbed. With the unbelievably bad weather, it took us another day to reach the summit. The next pitches, though, climbed through incredible terrain, the first taking us up an unbelievable rope-stretching beak seam, the next through wild overhanging mud roofs, and finally into a fun chimney through the capstone – the only free climbing on the route. Joe led the hard aid with seasoned poise, tenacity, and speed. His beakto-fall ratio is better than mine. Back on terra firma, the bad weather returned. Tentbound and beer-less, the sand piled up in our battered tent. We considered our unclimbed objective, explored Onion Creek in the snow, considered free climbing with gloves anything to keep us motivated. It seemed hopeless. After a few aimless days, we left, unable to discern the desert from Patagonia, and bailed on the unclimbed buttress, terrified of the pounding we might take from the weather on our small, uncovered portaledge. We were demolished too. Rasta Wall turned out to be a beast of climb, one that we certainly underestimated, and which was made far tougher through our attempts to survive “Apocalypse: Castle Valley.” But what a trip! Our climb was likely the fourth ever ascent of the route and it offers serious climbing on a beautiful, natural line for those willing. More importantly, I got to learn from and further solidify a partnership that I’m sure will continue for years to come. Jim Beyer’s old anchor from mid-way up the wall is still hanging in my room, a testament to crueler times. The mudcaked webbing reminds me of what I’m missing. Summary Fisher Towers, Utah River Tower, Rasta Wall, IV A4 5.8
The Arches of GeTu Ben Custer (‘10) After a long week of work, we boarded an overnight train to the city of AnShun, in neighboring GuiZhou province People’s Republic of China. When I got home from work I packed in a frantic whirlwind and blasted out the door to meet my friend Pete. Almost all the way down the stairs from my 7th floor apartment, I realized I had forgotten the train
tickets, so I ran back up and then bolted out again. Because it was a national holiday, everyone was rushing to the train, bus stations, and airport. We had left early and Pete was trying to get a cab, but I was worried we might not be able to get one. He still hadn’t found one when I got there, but shortly after, we were fortunate enough to have a cab drop someone off right near us. We arrived at the train station an hour early. We met our friends, Ryan and Olesja, and boarded the crowded train with our stuffed 75-liter backpacks. We settled in and drank some whiskey to celebrate our departure. The train arrived in AnShun around 6:30am, which meant the train attendants woke us up at about 5:30am. It was still dark when we got a minibus to take us to GeTu. The driver took us to the wrong place, there was some arguing, and we came back to the train station, paying him partially for his efforts. We then organized another minibus that got us to GeTu without much hassle. The weather was cold and rainy, and it was forecast to be like that for the entire week. Shortly after we got to our guesthouse, we went climbing beside the GeTu river. The weather sucked and I was exhausted. I was not excited. Pete got on a climb first, warning Ryan and I that there was a wasp nest near the anchor at the top. I climbed next, and before I got to the nest Pete spoke of, I had already stuck my hand in a hole full of wasps! I lowered back to the ground. This sucks. Ryan then refused to climb it, so Pete, unhappily, had to climb back up and clean our gear off. Cold, wet, and stung – such was the beginning of GeTu. Pete recommended another route on the other side of the river. Before I knew exactly what the plan was, Pete was in the water checking the depth. “OK”, he said, and so we all took off our pants and shirts, hiked our packs extra high, and waded across the cold, murky, waist-deep water. Then, in our underwear, we made our way through a bamboo forest to a very nice climb. The climb was incredible but the weather was uninspiring. It wasn’t going to keep us down, though; we warmed up with dinner and whiskey and the next day set off for the huge arch that makes GeTu famous. It took us a half-hour to make it to the river crossing, and then it was 1,375 stairs – Pete counted – to the top of the path at the base of the arch. I on-sighted an 11a to warm up and then we decided to look for a multi-pitch route we had our eyes on. I belayed Pete on what he thought was the first pitch of our route, and around the fifth bolt he hit a tough move that made us think perhaps this wasn’t our route. After trying it a few times, he worked though the section, only to find the bolts becoming farther and farther apart. He sat on a large tufa, looking at the route running left, parallel to a bulge, and run-out. He climbed through this technical section below the bulge until he got to a point with a large hanging tufa. He made a desperate lookCCAJ
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