Midnight Rampest

"Watch Me!" MIDNIGHT RAMPEST (5.10d R) 11/27/93 Jaques hails from Switzerland. A 5.12 sport climber, he sits on a ledge atop "Old 5.10" in Yosemite, California. He looks down questioningly at Sue, Mike, Inez, and Sarah who have arrived at the base of the climb. ....."What did he say??" Desperately clawing a rounded, one-hand side-pull, my feet scrape loose crystals and scrabble down detached weathered lichen as I fumble for a quickdraw and, panicked, snap home into a single, oxidized 1/4" bolt. (May as well give up climbing.....!) ... The only bolt for a long, long ways. Left forearm fading I slap the ramp with my other hand, heel-hook/smear the ramp with a foot just as my left hand peels off the rock, cramped into uselessness by the horrid demands of the route. Hurriedly shake out, chalk up, grab for the ramp with my left hand just as my foot slides away from the face, reset the quivereing right foot, now my right forearm cramps and demands attention. So goes each, desperate move. I perform a meatbolic juggling act up a loathsome, unprotected narrow "ramp" slanting sickly up the vertical, loose prarie. How do I get myself into these situations? Every once in a great while, a brittle, rounded horn of corrupt diorite erupts from the ramp like a festering scab. Way, way above the bolt, with no crack in sight, I give up hope and drape a sling over one of these horns (immediately regret the act, as the sling creates a slippery, squirmy surface on the only foothold within two miles.) The ramp continues up the now-slightly-overhanging wall to the left of the Lunatic Fringe, and so do I, fastidiously painting each obnoxious little diorite pimple with the pretty stripe of a hopeful runner: HAPPY FACE's and "HAVE A NICE DAY's" in a morgue. At one point, I try to envision the vectors of a fall-generated force applied to these decorations, these futile gestures in protection. Colorful thoughts. I begin shaking uncontrollably with fear. Some things are best left unthought up here. Jaques, terrified below on the belay ledge, peers upward 90 feet to the soles of my shoes, now directly overhead. A single, upward flip of the rope at this point will unseat every runner on every horn between here and the ground. The ground, blue and hazy in the void beneath my sweating, scrabbling, wimpering self. Hey. What's this? Somewhere along the useless, mossy seam at the back of the hand-wide ramp, a 3/4" crack opens up for a length of five inches. First I pinch myself, to be sure I'm not dreaming, then stuff the short opening with every piece of protection that will fit. I stuff more, draining the rack. The crack disappears behind a mass of wires, cables, spectra, carabiners and slings, as I dance up this aesthetic classic. Wrap my left armpit over another of those wonderful, solid horns and call for more slings. Miles away, inconcievably far above, the pitch will end, after dusk, where a sweet night breeze breathes softly across the evening walls. "OFF BELAY!!" ..... "What?" "Come on up! It's a piece of CAKE!!" ..... "What did he say?" ******************************­*************************