Black Mountain
We pulled in late to the campsite at the base of Black Mountain, a bumpy four mile ride up a power line road in the deep Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. A cozy fire ring and wood aplenty made for an enjoyable first night in the bags, and we conked out early, excited to get on one of Vermont’s more remote crags.
At 5.30am Jack woke me with a bowl of oatmeal and a premonition of rain. We broke down camp quickly and got hiking, determined to beat the weather, and were on the trail by 5:59am. Jack is still the only person I climb with that will wake up earlier than me to go on an adventure. On the hike he filled me in on what knowledge had scoured of Black Mountain’s history.
Black mountain is remote, to say the least, which appears to have kept it relatively unknown until it came on Mountain Project in 2017. A photo and comments from Jamie Cunningham shows that climbers (Jon Sykes, Mike Lee, Eric Pospesil, Larry Boehmler, and a couple of local Vermonters) had been out there on exploratory missions as early as 2005; but it is still a drive too far (and perhaps a bolt too few) for the usual weekend warrior. As we hiked/ bushwhacked in through a tangled trail I too wondered what we were doing out there, until we saw the rock.
After twenty-five minutes of hiking the wall sprang up out of nowhere; soaring, gorgeous granite with lightning rod cracks that begged to be climbed. We hopped on one of the first lines we encountered, a 5.7 (Double D Cracks) with solid hand jams and good feet, and a good view of the rolling green forest from up top. The wall had begun to emanate a thin layer of slime at the bottom due to the water in the air, but a few placements up things dried out and became quite grippy, making for quite enjoyable climbing.
Jack led it next, warning from the top of impending precipitation. He lowered and hoping to beat the rain I pulled up onto the left side of the Double Ds- a slippery start that involved a mediocre nut and a layback with a downhill tumble to my back. I topped out to the sight of rain clouds storming across the valley towards us.
The first drops hit as I touched back down, a light sprinkle that we hoped would blow over. We decided to wait it out and do recon on other sections. Often the trail would reveal a single beautiful line before returning to forest; it was hard to tell just how big the area was. We walked a fair bit and discovered Black Plague (pictured above), an improbably perfect corner with a fat off-width at the joint.
Back at Double D’s the rain let up enough for Jack to climb the wet wall into the clouds to rescue the two quickdraws I had placed at the top to lower off of. Upon lowering him I felt nature’s call and shuffled into the woods, dropping trow just as the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. I got caught with my pants down, completely drenched, toilet paper melting in hand, and waddled a hasty retreat back to the wall as soon as I could. I returned to the sight of Jack wedged horizontally under an overhanging ledge, neat as you please, roaring with laughter.
We threw on rain gear over soggy clothes and went looking for shelter. Neither of us was ready to call it a day since it was such a mission to get out there in the first place, so we walked around and looked at Black Plague again, a pristine 5.10c slice of granite cake. We had to climb it, rain be damned. We squished back through the forest for the rope and I put Jack on belay for a sketchy scramble to the top of the wall, then we bushwack-rapped into the anchor to set up a toprope.
Jack climbed first. Off-widths are funny to belay, Jack was making horrible noises and going nowhere, inches of hard fought progress at a time. It was hard to learn anything by watching it except that it would be brutal.
It was. Off-widths have a bad reputation for a reason… insecure and painful, wedging fists and toes into horrible, skin-pulling jams that only occasionally work when wet, but always hurt. Only twice during the long haul did the crack feel like a convenient size for anything that resembled “technique”, the rest of the time it was a pure wrestling match. Mud wresting. I imagine it could only have been improved by dry rock, allowing the foot that was not jammed in the crack the opportunity for a friction press on one of the walls, and more security in the hands; but as it lay it was an exhausting, and rewarding, climb.
Both thoroughly gassed, we explored the rest of what we could find, discovering one terrific looking route after another. Wild Black looked amazing, as well as plenty more unlisted opportunities for the adventurous soul. There is only the occasional bolted line, and it felt strange to see bolts on such a remote face. The feeling of being very much in the wilderness and far from help stood in contrast with evidence that other humans had been here before, traces of climbers past. I was happy for the bolted anchors, the approach trail and the topo on Mountain Project, but asked myself how much more development would be appreciated before human intervention started to detract from the experience? A fixed rope through a slimy, loose section? More bolts on more faces? Trail signs? A 7-11? At some point it must be said that enough is enough- part of the allure of a spot such as Black Mountain is the isolation, and I hope the spirit of adventure is left at least moderately in tact for those who come behind.
That said, while having a lot of great lines on it, Black Mountain is relatively undeveloped compared to other, similar-sized crags. So much great rock and possibilities. If one wanted to put their name on something and didn’t mind brushing a little moss, Black Mountain might be a good place to start. While not undiscovered by any means (it has its own page on Mountain project), it still felt wild compared to other crags, and hasn’t had every route squeezed dry yet. The adventurous soul might still find a piece of map with no lines on it yet, should they be included to trace their own.
We beat our retreat, put on dry clothes, and I passed out in the car during the bumpy ride out of the woods. We cleaned the muck off ourselves in a drugstore bathroom, then spent a leisurely hour drying out in the parking lot and hoping for good weather for the next two days.
Bolton Dome & Upper West
“How long is climbing gear good for?” I ask my father, thinking about my fraying rope, but also his red milk crates full of ancient hardware in the basement.
“Until you lose faith in it,” he replies.
I had already been thinking about the question of faith in climbing after my time out with Stef on our very wet and exciting first trad multipitch. Faith that your feet will hold despite slippery conditions, faith in your judgement and in your abilities, faith that the gear you placed will catch you if necessary. Reflecting on some of the more exciting moments in my (albeit short) climbing career, I am reminded of the old Russian sailors’ proverb: “Pray to God, but row for the shore.”
I am probably not the only one to have puffed out a quiet invocation to the mountain Gods while standing on something questionable, or while looking down at a distant, mediocre cam; but when it comes down to taking the next step, faith in my abilities and judgement is what lets me move up.
“Fortune favors the prepared mind.” -Louis Pasteur
Climbing log: Day 2: Bolton
Day two treated us to a carefree day on sport gear at the Bolton Dome… two two-pitches to start (Senderista, 5.10b), and Mount Crushmore (5.10c) with an attempt at the “presidential finish”, a 5.12a. I got completely stuffed on the presidential finish, couldn’t make the first big move. Sketchy falls, you swing right into your helpless, hanging belayer, but luckily no crashes. I wasn’t too frustrated though, I’ve learned over the years that challenges just out of reach of my abilities are some of the best motivational gifts, but it was annoying as it will take climbing another two pitches to take another crack at it.
Jack then led Release the Hens, 5.11c, which I got to lead on his draws. Great crimpy climbing, a total blast. Had one fall, would have loved to flash it, but it’s pumpy and if you miss one foothold or get the hands wrong it’s over. Could probably send it with the draws hung and another couple attempts, looking forward to trying again.
After that headed over to Bolton’s Upper West to take a crack at The Rose. A group was on it when we arrived so we climbed what we think was a 5.9 (maybe Stone Staircase?); hard to get back into it on our raw fingers from the morning’s climbing but it was fun, lots of surprisingly deep finger pockets. We waited out the other group who were doing laps on The Rose. They were entertaining company at least: a climbing guide and a wisecracking Mountain Military fellow ribbing each other back and forth and providing local history of the area, including the saga of the poorly placed (and subsequently chopped) bolts at the top of the Rose.
Finally we got on it… Jack took the first stab, made it up four cams’ worth before whipping twice onto a fat yellow #2 which proved blessedly solid. He lowered off, and I got on, happy to have seen his low cams proven reliable before I got on them. I clipped those four, figuring out for the first time what real hand jamming feels like, which is to say- incredible. Many bolted routes avoid cracks where natural protection is possible, and gyms rarely have anything like a crack; I was immediately hooked.
I found a bunch of bomber jams; thick, meaty skin wedges that fit into the crack neat as you please, requiring no further effort to maintain (except in the shoulders and biceps). Not to say it wasn’t strenuous- not every jam was good and often the moves were burly, especially once I’d moved past Jack’s good placements and onto my own. Eventually I had to sit on a tipped out cam, unable to find anything better before my hands gave out. Luckily it held as I was fried, and I added a nut to back it up then continued almost to the top, having to take only once more. Crack climbing is sweet when you’ve got the hand jams locked in, but sketchy when you don’t since there’s often nothing else to hold onto.
I made it to the top, leaving the crack decorated like a Christmas tree behind me but who cares, my first 5.10a done entirely on trad gear and it was a beaut. Jack went up after, struggling but determined, and toped out a short while later. I was disappointed that he didn’t feel as excited as me; but he had already climbed a 5.10 on trad so I think he had high expectations for himself. It’s easy to think because you’ve done one climb of a similar grade that you’re ready for every single one that comes your way afterwards- a fallacy I’ve fallen pray to many times. Live and learn (and re-learn). More articulate writers than I am have already discussed grades and their inherent flaws and attributes, but I thought these two articles (Kerry Scott- On Grades and Chris Kalman- Climbing Grades are Stupid- So Why Do We Obsess Over Them?) did a good job.
We packed it up and drove two hours down to Cannon mountain in New Hampshire, set up the tent in a parking lot in the dark. A police officer stopped by to chat but didn’t give us any trouble, in the morning we realized he was probably wondering what we were doing camping in the gravel when the next lot down the road had free grass campsites with picnic tables.
We set the alarm for sometime before 6am, not wanting anyone to beat us onto Consolation Prize in the morning.
Cannon Mountain: Consolation Prize
I woke at 4:40am, no need to have worried about missing that alpine start. By 5:30am I’m packed and eating oatmeal out of the Jetboil in a folding chair, for the first time in my climbing career have woken up before Jack. If another party beats us onto this route, Consolation Prize, it will be a shocker.
6:03am- We rack the gear and drink cowboy coffee in the parking lot. Our hands look like shit.
A quick hike and a scramble through the scree field warmed us up enough to take off our layers, it would be the only time we would remove them for the next five hours. Despite the predicted sun the day refused to warm and we wore every layer we had for the rest of climb.
We decide to swing leads, the follower picking up what gear he’d need from the former leader then climbing through. Jack took the first pitch and we were off.
Despite ominous clouds, route finding proves to be the major challenge of the day. The climbing was easy enough that you could run it out very far without being overly stressed, but if you were off course you’d find yourself in a sea of slab with nowhere to place. On pitch four I got blown off course and had to downclimb twenty feet of slab, pulling out my protection as I went. I was thankful that it stayed dry, as often enough there were no handholds whatsoever.
Jack put up one the longest runouts of the day on pitch five. I watched him go fifteen feet to his first placement from the belay only to get stuck with no handholds and mediocre, slabby feet. Shivering, I puffed a breath of warm air into my balaclava, then looked up just in time to catch Jack soaring through the air, completely detached from the rock, launching for a double dyno a good distance above his gear.
Success! His hands clamped down on a solid ledge and the rest of his body flopped into the rock. The fun wasn’t over though, as he still had another twenty feet to run it out until the next crack. I hooted and hollered, it was by far the most exciting sequence of the day. I made the same beached-whale-flop up the dyno (slab dynos lose a lot of their majesty compared to the overhanging versions), and followed him up, chuckling the whole way.
The next pitch or two showed decent climbing, and I had the pleasure/ terror of building a fully trad anchor for the first time. My experience over the previous two days and the climbing up until that point in the day had given me greater confidence in the gear, and I took a good bit of satisfaction in tying my first BHK (Big Honkin’ Knot) off of three cams.
I got lucky and it fell to me to lead the last pitch, an exposed march up a long slab, ending in a giant flake too big for a #4 cam. This sequence would require a couple of feet-free, hands only campus moves before getting a heel hook in, all while looking down at the long slab runout followed by a drop-off into the abyss. A fall would mean landing only on the gear anchor that held both of us.
I wedged my thigh into the flake and spent a good while futzing with the #4 with no luck. Eventually I sent it down the rope to Jack who plugged it in next to his anchor, so at least we’d have one fat piece of gear that could absorb what promised to be a pretty giant shock if I fell. This little adjustment put me at east enough to attempt the move, which proved to be easy enough once I committed to it. A lot of climbing, and especially trad climbing, is at least as much mental as it is physical. Fun climbing the rest of the way to the top past buried skyhooks and rusted pins of climbers past. We topped out at 1pm, took a handful of photos and headed back down for a Lawson’s and Chef Boyardee in the parking lot. A great weekend out.
