Couch to FA: 5 Tips for Putting Up a First Ascent

FKA of "Whiskey Religion" near Savage Gulf, Tennessee

You don't need to be Rob Robinson or Jeep Gaskin to put up a first ascent. You don't even need to be a good climber. As you will see when you scroll through the "New Routes in Your Area" feature of Mountain Project, you just need to find a tiny chosspile in your neck of the woods you deem worthy enough to share with the world wide web. So lace up, tie in, and follow these 5 easy steps for putting up an insignificant first ascent.

1. Prep and train by eating a steady diet of pizza, ice cream, and burritos while watching plenty of Netflix to help prepare your body and mind for the physically and mentally taxing process of a first ascent. This is the little known "Couch to FA" method of route development.

2. Visit less popular, seldom climbed areas. You are more likely to find something that has never been climbed in an area where, well, not many people go to climb because it probably isn't great. Even if you don't find a first ascent you can feel like you did by cleaning all the cob webs off a route that hasn't been done in a season or two (re: everything in Suck Creek). Be prepared for the slab to be a bit mossy and for granddaddy longlegs to crawl on your finger locks.

3. Carry a spider stick.

4. Bring your friend's brother who doesn't climb but does enjoy traipsing off into the woods. They'll stumble upon some unknown chunk of rock and call you to come and look at it. Maybe when you do, you'll see a short chosspile with a lichened face and a seemingly unclimbed crack that -- if cleaned up -- may garner half a star on Mountain Project. Friend's brothers are optional but preferable to doing any bushwhacking for yourself. Let them do the grunt work so you can focus all your energy on sending the gnar.

5. After the send comes the real challenge: think of a clever route name worthy of posting online. Sure, this route may garner half of a star on Mountain Project but a clever name will attract the attention it probably doesn't deserve. The real climbers developing the real classic lines are simply too greedy or too busy to share the fruits of their labor with the online community (aside from their ambiguous instagram posts!) but you're not! The world deserves to know about your mossy 30 ft. trad route or your lowball traverse boulder problem and a good route name will get 'em there.

This post has been UPDATED with an ADDENDUM: 

6. You weren't there first. First ascents are hard and you have to be Rob Robinson or Jeep Gaskin.

Nobody wants to read your trip report about climbing 5.4!

Andrew feeling bold on big holds and biiiig air

 

Recently, myself and two other teachers took advantage of our spring break. While our students flocked to the sunny beaches of Florida's Gulf Coast, we headed for the frosty hills of the North Carolina high country. Andrew and I have been climbing together for about two years now since I moved to Chattanooga; his meticulous attention to detail and systems and my general lack of self-preservation work pretty well together. Since Paul has only recently been learning the ways of the stone, we headed for the Southeast's Flatirons -- the Linville Gorge -- for some 5.fun adventure. 

This was Andrew's first trip to the Gorge and Paul's first time to climb multipitch so we chose to link up a few classic "5.easy" routes for a full day of vertical fun hogging: "Jim Dandy" (5.4, 3p, II) + pitch 3 of "Cave Route" (5.5, II) to the Lightning Ledge +  the low 5th class traverse and scramble to the summit. The whole thing can be done with a light rack of draws but we took a few TCU's and Aliens to sew it up.

Leaving behind the bulk of the rack at the base of "Jim Dandy"

I have described "Jim Dandy" as plain old, good, clean fun. Like bombing a hill on a skateboard fun. Or riding a bike around the city at night fun. Or rewatching episodes of 30 Rock fun. The first pitch is okay, but the second ascends a right leaning ramp into the North Carolina sky and then up a fun face and crack to a belay. I have yet to climb it without smiling. 

Pitch three is a 4th class traverse up and right to the Lunch Ledge and can be linked with p2 with some drag. In fact, having done the route twice before, I had no idea there was a set of anchors between the two. We pitched it out. Lunch Ledge is a behemoth; here, you can pick up your ropes and walk right to ascend a number of fun routes to the Lightning Ledge or to the summit. 

Myself looking gooood while organizing ropes at the Lunch Ledge

Andrew chose to set off on the third pitch of "Cave Route," which is separately known as "Block Route" for the eponymous dihedral with a blocky roof. Face climbing beautiful white stone with gym-like in-cuts and really fun moves on deceptively good holds high above the Pisgah National Forest make this pitch stellar. 

Andrew and Paul at the Lightning Ledge

From the Lightning Ledge we traversed back left to the low 5th class scramble out. Previously, I had only solo'd out from here but with a new climber, recent rain, and minimizing unnecessary risk, we roped up with Paul on an alpine butterfly and "hiked" it to the top. 

Finally coiling ropes after the last "pitch" 

All in all, I believe we were on the wall for about 4 hours. For reference, my buddy Evan and I simul-climbed this same link-up -- opting for "K-Mart Special" (5.6, II) instead of the "Cave Route"-- in about 20 minutes and that's with me being an idiot and getting off route for a bit. But, for a party of three on belay, enjoying the views of the belay ledges, teaching and showing along the way, rappelling once to retrieve a forgotten orange TCU, and me being an idiot figuring out rope management on double belays, we made pretty good time. 

Andrew and I survey the Linville River Gorge looking toward the Amphitheater 

The summit of Table Rock offers expansive views of the deep river gorge below. And though I've worked as a mountain guide taking kids up 13-14,000 ft. mountains in Colorado, Table Rock is the most consistently windy place I've been -- spring, summer, and fall. Most of TR's climbing is protected by the southeast face, but if you climb the uber-classic "North Ridge" (5.5, 2p, II), prepare for some wind! 

Paul atop his first multi-pitch

After a day and a half of perpetual and at times torrential rain, we could not have asked for a better weather day. The rock was dry and the views were stunning. I was the most psyched for Paul who got to the summit, and said "I never imagined I'd get to do this sort at this stage in life -- I'm content." Pretty freakin' rad. 

Summer in the Southeast

It had been five years since I spent a summer in the South. It's hot. Like, really hot. And humid. Somewhere I read a clever acronym about summertime in the South: Snakes, Humidity, Ivy, and Ticks and it's pretty accurate. But the climbing is still oh-so good. You just have to wake up early and chase that shade. I surprised myself and climbed outside almost everyday that it hasn't rained. And since the great state of Tennessee was in a drought, that was most days.  

Summer comes pretty early in the Southeast. Come May, you're sweating just walking from the parking lot to your workplace. My workplace is a high school, so things are beginning to wind down and Daylight Savings Time means I can find time between preparing final exams to get out after school and on the weekends.

Jackson enjoys the movement on "Ethiopia" (5.10+R) at Suck Creek's Roadside Wall

On May 27, I turned in the last of my end-of-the-year paperwork and drove to the New River Gorge with new and old Chattanooga friends. Memorial Day meant the masses had come from all over and the crags felt a lot like a mega-gym at peak time. But the hordes could be avoided by climbing harder than usual on "less than classic" routes which, in turn, meant a lot of fun. 

Abi avoids the crowds by warming up on an unnamed 11 at Summersville Lake

Sydney and I catch the sunset after deep water soloing at Whippoorwhill 

I had intended to spend the whole month of June at the New but had trouble finding partners after the Memorial Day crowds deserted the gorge. Even though 48 hours of deep water soloing and margarita drinking was fun, it was not how I wanted to spend the summer, so I drove back to Chattanooga where I could have consistent partners. 

Sunset Park is without a doubt, my favorite crag in the Chattanooga area and second only to the Obed, my favorite place to climb, period. Andrew (the chemistry teacher at my school) and I have taken advantage of our summer vacations and the crag's shady west-facing cliffs to run through the south-end's classics, as well as some "no-star" moderates. Onto the northside!

Andrew follows the money pitch on Sunset's classic, but seldom travelled, "Northwest Conversion" (5.9)

Sydney beats the heat at Lake Nickajack

Summer bouldering? In the Southeast? Yes, we have that too. Some might say that Alabama's greatest gift to climbing is its boulders. But those who say that usually flock to the Heart of Dixie in January and February, when friction is prime. But down in the Little River Canyon is a treasure trove of water-marked boulders you can get all hot-and-bothered on. When you do, cool off in any number of swimming holes and soak in the gorgeous natural beauty of the place. 

Jamie gets ready to commit to an Alabama top out in the Canyon

Similarly, North Carolina's Linville Gorge offers some some spectacular water-smoothed quartzite boulders in a truly remarkable setting. I love the gorge for its big, airy, and wild multi-pitch but it was rad to experience the place from a new perspective. The bouldering is every bit as adventurous -- maybe more so -- as the towering cliffs above them.

Using word of mouth and screenshot topos, Jamie and I slogged through 1,400 to 1,600 feet of bushwhacking and boulderhopping straight down into the gorge to find a High Country heaven.
I can't wait to come back.

A very fun boulder in the Wonderland sector

Jamie cut her multi-pitch teeth at Table Rock -- eight pitches of 5.fun climbing culminating with the super fun, mega classic "North Ridge." Here she shotguns a well-deserved Busch after topping out while the "uh-oh clouds" storm across the valley.

The North Ridge (5.5)

A year ago, Josh and I traveled around the Mountain West climbing rocks together. I was guiding a trip on his birthday so I made it up to him with a PBR. This year, I earned my buddy-points by belaying him on 27 different routes for his 27th birthday. It was hard. It was ugly. There was grunting, cursing, aiding, hanging, and of course, sending. It was awesome. At the end of the day, this is what joy looks like.

Josh at the end of a birthday sufferfest.

#dirtbagswag whips 007: My 2003 Toyota Room With a View

Josh makes some tailgate coffee in Diablo Canyon, New Mexico

Toyota Tacomas go with rock climbing like Black Diamond cams, dirty Carhart pants, and empty cans of PBR. On any given weekend, you'd be hard pressed to not see one of these fine products of Japanese engineering at any given crag in the United States. And for good reason too. They're dadgum near bullet proof, they hold their shelf life longer than canned yams, and they get pretty good gas mileage to boot.

For the climbing bum, it doesn't take much to make one of these vehicles inhabitable: a camper top and crashpad will do. But dirtbag savants have created all kinds of sophisticated truck bed sleeping apparatuses to enhance the slumber experience. I kept my methodology simple, imitating a popular tripartite system with a removable top platform and plenty of storage space along the two sides.

With the top platform in place, the bed can sleep two comfortably above the wheel wells. Slide the platform out and down and one can sleep down low with ample headroom for sitting up or for stealth camping in Wal Mart parking lots.

I dropped $360 on the Craigslist camper shell and about $100 for the bed platform materials. That's less than $500 for a mountain front room-with-a-view whenever and wherever I want. No reservations required. I can't put a price tag on the simple joy of falling asleep to the dim light of the moon, the cool breeze blowing through the screened windows, and the sound of wind in the trees. Or waking up with the sun, crawling out of my truck, brewing up a cup of coffee on the tailgate, and thumbing through the guidebook to find a place to climb that day. Those are memories that last a lifetime.

If climbing is my conduit for travel, then my truck is the means by which I experience these beautiful places. Many of which a non-climber would never see or feel. When is the last time a non-climber hiked up to the beautiful, geologically perplexing, cobble stone conglomerate walls of El Rito? Or wandered past the roadside overlooks to take in the monstrously steep sandstone cliffs of the wild and scenic Obed River gorge? I spent the past summer driving up the Mountain Standard Time Zone from Diablo Canyon, New Mexico to Ten Sleep, Wyoming. The big mountains and deep canyons are nice but I'm glad to be back in the South; waking up to fleeting fall foliage, foggy mountain mornings, and Cumberland Plateau sandstone.

A room with a view, whenever and wherever I want.

Wild Iris, Wyoming

whip specs

make and model: 2003 Toyota Tacoma Pre-Runner
moniker: pootermobile 2.0
under the hood: 2.7 L DOHC EFI 4-cylinder
gas mileage: 19-23 mpg
dirtbag mods: casette tape adapter, camper shell, bed platform, BF Goodrich All Terrains, and a "Namaste Y'all" bumper sticker

home is where you park it. 

5 Things Working as a Backpacking Guide Taught Me About Climbing and Life

The boys from Antioch, TN on top Mt. Antero

I've spent the last few summers working for a backpacking outfitter that guides groups of teenagers on weeklong treks through Colorado's backcountry and up some of the state's tallest mountains. Some of my most fun, challenging, and rewarding experiences have been in those mountains and these are some of the lessons I've learned.

1. How to be miserable: Growing up backpacking with my friends, if a raccoon ate all our food or the weather wasn't to our liking, we could hike out in the middle of the night and drive to Waffle House. When you're guiding a group of teens through the backcountry and a bear eats half of your week's meals or the stoves don't work or it has rained and hailed for the last seventy-two hours, you just have to deal. Sometimes you fester in a tent all day. Sometimes you hike with a missing toenail. Sometimes you don't eat so your clients can. Sometimes you remain in a perpetual state of damp, soggy, misery because you gave a forgetful client all your Gore-Tex rain gear. Embrace the sufferfest.

You learn how to suffer and how to be okay with it because, well, you're in it and sometimes the only way to get down is to keep going up.

Our group from Texas riding Antero's ridge

2. How to think about ethics: Nobody likes to think of their human behavior as destructive behavior. Whether it is pooping in the desert, picking Columbines in the high country, or accidentally leaving a Clif Bar at your last rest stop. But human action has environmental consequences and we have to be mindful of that. A fed bear is a dead bear because they become dependent on human food. A water reservoir is ruined because a fragile ecosystem was contaminated by human waste. Or maybe it's just robbing another hiker of the joy of seeing a beautiful rare wildflower.

Backpacking ought to make us aware of how our presence has lasting effects on natural spaces. Are all those bolts necessary at the new crag? Should I keep climbing at the boulderfield whose landing areas have been eroded and trampled away? How and where were these ingredients grown for this delicious burger? Leave No Trace goes far beyond a week in the woods.

Jamie helps Daniel across a flooded creek on a pre-season scouting trip of Mt. Ouray

3. How to move light and fast: I got sucked into the super-ultralight backpacking scene pretty quickly in high school. One weekend trip with an external frame and an Army Surplus tent and I was convinced: lighter is better. We made our own stoves, ditched most of our gear, and covered a lot of miles. And though my Gossamer Gear G6 "trashbag with shoulder straps" backpack wasn't practical for guiding,  I was pretty adamant about not carrying anything I didn't absolutely need. I wasn't about to carry a watermelon to summit just to say I did.

Backpacking inspires a certain level of minimalism that can help one achieve one's goals but also leave less impact along the way (see #2). "What can I ditch to shed base weight pounds?" "How much gear do I really need to take up this route?" "How many articles of clothing does my closet actually need? And do I have to buy them brand new?" Do we really need that much stuff?

Robin and I talk about the weather and our fastest route through the snow on Ptarmigan Peak

4. The view from the summit is better together: I've cried in the high country twice. The second time was last summer taking a group of students from West Memphis, Arkansas up Mt. Rinker. Rinker is one of our longest mountains by mileage and this group chose to do it in a five day push instead of our standard six. "Rinker the Stinker" is hard by any means but it was exceptionally hard for one particular student: a sizable offensive lineman we'll call Michael.

I hiked in the back all summit day with Michael and two other guys, taking turns -- quite literally -- carrying him up the mountain. His feet struggled to move, his legs struggled to lift, his lungs wrestled to breathe. Michael legitimately believed he couldn't do it. He told me at least 100 times, "I can't do it." And when he finally did it, he wept. And I did too. Looking back, I recall the wise words spoken on another mountain, "It's easy to shout encouragement from a distance, it's another to walk alongside someone and speak words of hope." 

West Memphis boys sharing the load, still in the valley below Rinker

5. How to appreciate not making it to the top: Sometimes you summit. Sometimes you don't. Backpacking has taught me that failure can be a powerful positive force. As a guide, few things are harder than telling a group of wide eyed students from Texas or Arkansas or Louisiana -- who worked hard and did everything right -- that their climb ends prematurely. That they're not going to summit. The mountains have a way of normalizing failure and they do not discriminate.

The first time I cried in the mountains was telling a group of young students from Houston, Texas that by no fault of their own they were not going to summit. Yes, weather was rolling in but we could have pushed it. No, we didn't summit that day because of a verbally abusive father who came as a parent chaperone. We ended our day early, below the summit ridge, to hopefully avoid long-term emotional wounds. It was hard. It was even harder when a teary eyed eighth grader with a mild form of autism came up and hugged me and the other guide, ecstatic for how far he had come. I looked at the other guide, our lips quivered, and we both cried. I learned that day that the mountain doesn't show us who we are but who we want to be, and I want to be like him.

Nothing feels better than standing on top of a mountain but few things are more powerful than the lessons learned from a failed attempt. Embrace risk. Try hard. Take chances. Fail often. Succeed next time.