Three Days of the Condor or Fifty Shades of Dry
Second in the Series from The Adventure Library
by
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Now it was my turn to embrace the Red Dihedral. Admittedly I don’t do well in cracks and this was a long and serious crack. I learned to climb on faces in Utah using smearing and crimping techniques. I trained in the gym for this crack, but it was a pitiful exercise. I used gloves that fit over my meticulously taped hands to keep warm while belaying; but the gloves came off for my communion with the rock. It did help after the first pitch, as my hands were numb from the cold hard granite. I was hopeful that it would warm up during the day. Now, in the Red Dihedral, I was alternating between bomber hand jams and dreaded tenuous finger locks. My left foot performed like it was on black ice, it was nearly useless. My hands were simple tools and seemed impervious to the temperature of the rock now. It was as if I were a novice, yearning for my next good fist jam, like a pathetic junky. A fix that would merely last a few minutes at best, only until I could step up and throw a knuckle sandwich at the “Hulk’s” midsection! Oh please, let it be closer than it looks; just enough to eke out a few more feet to reach the next piece of pro. A struggle, a pump fest at the very best; a desperate scuffle with a predestined equation: the force required for upward movement is the difference between the cubed volume of the void in the rock, times the inverse of the linier gravity squared. And did I adjust for the angle of the dangle? What…I was so screwed! I had bitten off more than I could chew. But I was working through it. One foot at a time, one move at a time; I was making headway against gravity. Sweating yes, huffing yes, straining yes, moving up – yes! This was the very soul of the climb; I could only look up, I could not bear to look down past my feet which would be negative energy. That alone could tip the scales. I had to focus. I must do everything to maintain my upward momentum. If I did not continue to move with the rope, we would be forced to bivouac into the frigid night, huddled inside our respective thin backpacks with no food, fuel, and little water. My left foot was on polished granite and that completely distracted my right foot from even participating in the struggle. I needed to strategically place my hands in the crack and stem with my legs; smearing my feet as an opposing, stabilizing triad. My right foot should be used in the crack when able to relieve the strain on my hands. So single-minded, I forgot the basics and stressed until I was breathing too hard, actually panting, I had to stop and rest; “take,” I yelled. This was the rescue signal for Matt to fix the rope so I could hang on him and relax in the dihedral. I had to shake my arms below my waist and allow blood to return to my fingers, forearms, and brain. During the first pitch Matt had remarked how wonderfully sticky his climbing shoes felt. In my geosphere, all of that had just vanished for me…. As if I didn’t already know my climbing was in question, my left long and index finger suddenly and unexpectedly locked! Oh no, I had seen this happen, but it was in a depleted electrolyte situation – when my partner had been sweating out more than his sodium and potassium intake. This was not the case today. I had to use my right hand to straighten out the fingers on my left hand; it was so mechanically painful. As if on cue, next my right hand started to spasm and go into tetany (the protracted, involuntary mechanical flexion of the digit – a one-way sustained focal muscle convulsion). My long and ring finger on my right hand followed suite. They spasmed, the forearm muscle cramped and locked in flexion. This time I had to force them into extension with my mouth. The lump in my forearm would spontaneously recur. This happened repeatedly until the end of the pitch. I felt like the “knotted snake” in a Farside cartoon. I was worried and mentally was ready to bail from a most practical standpoint. I wanted to rappel the face, return to camp and lay in my warm sleeping bag looking up at the clear blue sky; breathing deeply, in peaceful meditation. I wanted to descend because I felt I could no longer perform my duties safely. My struggle was both physical and mental. I had to get my mind right, maybe I just wasn’t paying attention. As I stemmed out of the dihedral into sunshine, there was Matt waiting for me. It had to be easier ahead of us. I was confident, I was relieved, and I just wanted to get on with the next pitch. There was less wind and we were in direct sunlight now. It was also well after 1 pm. Four hours into the climb and daylight now was a real factor – it had started to dwindle! Where had the time gone? From this vantage point we could see Kalvan and Sarah on Positive Vibrations to the climbers left; a sheer, exposed blank face. It would be impressive from any angle, but it looked truly imposing from this perspective. The entire face of The Incredible Hulk was awesome, it was vertical, it was clean, it was foreboding, it was impossible! I watched Kalvan lead. Over the short period of time I saw him fall twice, both with a resounding “shit!” I guess it was some really difficult climbing or that maybe he was off route. Even for that short time, from that distance, it was comforting to know there were other climbers in our proximity. For in this wilderness situation miscalculations may quickly compound themselves.
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About the Book
This is a trilogy about three separate epic climbs. Climbs that are difficult enough by themselves, but were made more grueling by the common thread of life-threatening heat. The insidious sun sucking energy, water, and even your willpower from a well-conditioned man made the hard climbs a more arduous task. Included in these stories are many other true-to-life adventures and narrow escapes for the author. Three Days of the Condor talks about camaraderie and the accomplishment of doing something difficult that few could accomplish. According to Jeff Lowe, “There is a certain purity in engaging in what some would call a useless activity. When the climber confronts the overhang, he does so with the knowledge that no material gain will result from the competition of the task. He is confident that when he is done, the satisfaction will outweigh the effort.” I have always returned to the mountains for introspection. It must be at least partially genetic for man to seek the “high ground,” for protection, exploration, or an attempt at communion with a higher power. Occasionally, the only reason is “because it’s there,” but even Mallory expanded on this when he explained, “It is the struggle of life itself, forever upward. What we get from this adventure is sheer joy.” But if we can look down on ourselves from above, from the proverbial mountaintop, often we may be more objective—if not more rational. The ensuing vignettes recount the pursuit of my pilgrimage, my coming-of-age. It seemed like my endeavor for the exceptional view, and my own independence—truly a phenomenal golden period in my life. I learned how I felt about my own survival when on many of those summits. In these stories I strive to return to those times and mountains, in search of truth on the rocky temples. This is the visionary perspective I seek. These accounts of rock climbing are more than about climbing rocks—it is about that one thing in life that truly sets you free.
About the Author
Randy Lippincott was born and raised on a farm in Nebraska. He attended a one-room country schoolhouse until the ninth grade. Lippincott was trained as a Special Forces medic in the Army during the Vietnam War era. He started skydiving in 1969 and made one thousand free falls (both demonstration and competition) in Europe while serving with the Seventh Army Parachute Team, 1971–72. Lippincott began flying airplanes when he was sixteen years old and has been at it for forty-seven years. He took a four-year hiatus from orthopedic surgery in Alaska and flew five thousand hours as a bush pilot. His initial operating experience was flying with Ryan Air out of Kotzebue, Alaska, on the Bering Sea the winter of 1989. Ultimately, he earned his multiengine airline transport pilot certificate. After moving to Salt Lake City, Utah, Randy started downhill skiing in 1974. His first NASTAR medal was bronze that same year. He earned a silver medal in 2002 and gold in 2008. His fastest recorded downhill speed was 66.3 mph; greatest cumulative total for one day documented on his Epic Pass was 61,668 vertical feet in 2013. Randy started rock and ice climbing in the Wasatch Range during the 1970s with Terry Loboschefsky. He graduated from the University of Utah Physician Assistant Program in 1976 when it was a pilot program. Later he went back and earned his BS in health science from the University of Utah in 1982 and a master’s in 1999 from the University of Nebraska. His other interests are sailing, kayaking, scuba diving, fly-fishing, hunting, shooting, reloading, mountain biking, rollerblading, photography, cross-country skiing, and flying throughout Alaska and the intermountain west.