Trip Reports - 10/21/99 - Wayne's Halloween Report

Story and photos by Wayne Busch

I bolted upright in bed from the dream Wednesday morning. “You could die in the car on the highway” was the thought that ran through my head just before my eyes snapped wide open, but it was the dream that haunted me now. More than a dream, it was a full color, minutely detailed vision. A vision I interpreted to mean I was going to die! Just the thing you want running through your head on the day you’re leaving to challenge the biggest, baddest, climbing in the Southeast, Whiteside Mountain, North Carolina.

The vision went like this;

My climbing partner Jason Hale and I were approaching Looking Glass Rock to climb at The Nose in predawn darkness. Why Looking Glass? I don’t know, but this is the vision. I had the sense there was a lot of activity, people coming and going, something was happening. Instead of the forested trail that leads to the true base of the cliff, in the dream there was an open rolling field. I walked across it, aware that in the twilight there were others purposely coming and going, though I could not see them. At the base of the rock, stood an old street lamp, illuminating the start of the climb. It cast a yellow arc of light on the dark granite, and I set my pack down here. So detailed was this dream, that I saw the electrical box that powered the light in some bushes nearby. To my left, a dirt road led to the base of the cliffs, and SUV’s were coming and going. I looked up and saw a series of jagged peaks and ledges, with heavy snow cover, purple and gray in the twilight. Upon these ledges were tents. Lots of tents. Red, yellow, blue, illuminated from within, glowing brightly. There was one huge long tent in the middle of the cliff called the “Wing Tent”. It looked as if someone was shooting a North Face ad. It was beautiful. I knew there were people up there, a lot of activity, but I couldn’t make out what was going on. I was disappointed, we would not be able to climb here today, the rock was covered with people. But it was beautiful, and I stood for a few minutes taking in the sights as the sky grew lighter as dawn approached. Then just at the point before the sun came above the horizon, someone up on the ledges above called out “It’s time to go”. A silhouetted line of hang-gliders started streaming off the cliff, gliding out toward the rising sun above the valley, then arcing back and down into the darkness below. It was spectacular, vivid, a prophesy. I awoke with the feeling of dread, my heart racing. I was spooked!

As the day went on, I ran my errands, and packed my gear, an eerie fluttering in my chest, feeling as if I couldn’t catch my breath. It was panic, I recognized it, but couldn’t shake it. I found it hard to focus on what I was doing and hoped, at times, Jason would call with the disappointed excuse that he couldn’t get away this weekend. But the call never came, and I met him at his house a little after 5 PM. We threw his gear in my van and we hit the highway for the long drive to the mountains. I never mentioned the dream to Jason, lest it come true if I spoke it. I would live with the haunting feelings for the entire trip.

We drove north to Macon, with an occasional sprinkle of rain. A cold front was passing through with clear weather behind, pushing a band of showers ahead of it. We left the Interstate Highway, and got on Highway 441 to cross northward through the remainder of Georgia. Behind this cold front was another, with the promise of cold and blustery conditions over the next few days. We decided to head first to Whiteside Mountain, NC, to take advantage of the best of the weather, and insure our chances of success on this first visit. We started looking for a place to camp for the night near Tallulah Gorge, Georgia, but found all the familiar campgrounds full. We just needed a place to park for the night, nothing fancy, just some rest. We found it in a clandestine field behind a defunct restaurant, and passed the night peacefully.

See large photo of start of the Original Route

I was up early, awaking with the hope that I would have shaken my fear, but it clung to me like a bad smell. We were on the road at 6 AM, and wound up through the foothills, entering the mountains of North Carolina just above Dillard, GA. The sun was coming above the horizon when we pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead at Whiteside. It was cold and frosty, but warming quickly. We cooked a light breakfast, sorted our gear choosing a scant rack, much less than my fears told me we needed. $2 went into the registration envelope, and we started up the wet trail that loops along the top of the mountain. We were approaching from the backside, the enormous cliff faces out of sight around the West end of the long mountain facing more or less to the South. Fall was in full glory, the canopy ablaze in red, yellow and orange leaves, a heavy littering of them obscuring the path. “This is the climbers trail” Jason remarked, as he passed through a couple of low cedar shrubs and started a steep and slippery descent to the base of the South side. The massive granite cliffs soon revealed themselves above us, saturated with water cascading down the faces, sparkling in the morning sunshine. It had apparently rained a good deal more here than to the South, everything was wet. I slipped and went down hard on my hip, thinking “Great, I’m going to kill myself on the trail before I even get to the climb”. We slithered our way East for another half hour, to an area that had to hold the start of our route. Everything else looked impossibly steep, at least for those of our mortal abilities. We spent another 15 minutes scouting the possibilities, trying to spot the single bolt 90 feet up that provided the only protection on the first 150 foot pitch of our 10 pitch oddessy. The only thing visible on the smooth slab above was a single small rock, somehow precariously balancing in the middle of nothingness. The bolt was nowhere to be found.

Considering the bolt was really inadequate security anyway, I donned my harness, stowed my hiking boots in my pack, clipped on the gear, and shook hands with my partner before heading up the sloping 5.7R incline. No big deal actually, I enjoy slab climbing and this was well within my comfort zone except for the fact I knew I was going to die and this was the first opportunity. Might as well get it over with. The rock sitting mysteriously in the middle of the face turned out to be a small loop of gray nylon sling tied through the missing bolt, and I proceeded to the ledge above now fully confident we were on the right path. I tied off to a small tree, and Jason followed me up.

View large version of photo

We planned to swap leads, so I passed the gear to Jason, and he clambered up the second pitch (5.8R) to another ledge above and to the left. The “R” rating applies to almost every pitch on the climb, meaning “runout”. It’s a long way between opportunities to place gear. 3 - 4 pieces of protection per pitch was average, meaning any falls would be very long and serious.

I don’t know what came over me on the third pitch. For some reason, I ignored the guide and chose to go my own way. It’s supposed to be rated 5.7, with adequate protection, possibly one of the easiest and safest pitches on the climb. It starts with a walk along the ledge 50 feet to the left, up a couple of cracks for 20 feet, a traverse right under an overhang, to an obvious corner / crack. Continuing further right, brings you to a nice flake that makes for much easier climbing.

I scrambled up, made the traverse, and came to the corner crack. It looked hard. I could see the easier route off to the right. I’m not sure why I made my next decision, but I know fear, panic, and the certainty that my death was imminent must have played into it. There was a large flake on the wall next to the corner crack. There appeared to be little positive climbing above it. I somehow deduced I would start up this face, work my way through what lay above, and if it were not negotiable, I would transition back to the corner and continue up it. HUH? Who knows why, but I started up the face, gaining the flake. Once above it, the holds disappeared and I made a panicked effort to get back to the corner crack. I failed, and fell about 20 feet onto the ledge below. Jason did a fine job easing my fall, but it did shake me up and put a twist in my ankle I would feel the rest of the day. Still, I persisted in climbing according to my designs. Yet another option presented, the face to the left of the corner. I eased out, liked what I found, and proceeded on to the two bolts at the anchor 40 feet above. Jason followed via the corner/crack.

The fourth pitch (5.10a) presented Jason with another corner crack, a challenging move that took a few explorations to dissect. Once above though, the face climbing went well. The fifth pitch (5.7R) was mine, very exposed, and supposedly without protection, though I managed to find a placement or two before gaining a long narrow ledge with an excellent view of the West faces. Several routes here approach 1000 ft in height, are incredibly steep, and are as near to a big wall experience as can be found on the East coast.

Enlarge photo of east view

The sixth pitch is known as the Crescent Pitch (5.8+) and would prove a nice test for Jason. There is a large overhanging bulge of rock up and right of our ledge. Jason swung out, then up along the side of the bulge via a layback crack until it ran thin. It’s a scary maneuver, and he found himself hanging out there with nowhere to go except back to the left. “I guess that’s why they call it the Crescent Pitch” I called up to him, commenting he’d made a large arc around the bulge and back onto the face again. From here he continued up to tie in at four bolts in a line below the crux of the climb, pitch 7.

Somehow I knew I would end up leading this pitch. I wasn’t up to climbing 5.11 on my best day, and here I was looking up at the problem that presented above. A small block of stone stuck out from the wall. Below it, was a small edge that served as a handhold. There was a decent side-pull on the right side of the block. But above it, the face was smooth and blank for many feet. Not a thing to grab on to once I pulled up. To the left of the block, a stream of water cascaded down the face. It appeared as if there was a decent toe hold in the midst of the flow, but it would wet my shoes and make them slick for the delicate climbing above. This was going to be tough. There was of course, the coward's way out. Three bolts had been placed about 4 feet apart, allowing passage of this difficult section by aiding through it - clipping into the bolts and hauling up on slings. It would most likely be the way I made it through, but not without a try at the pure version first. A couple of attempts showed me quickly how futile the purist route would be. I was not up to the task, at least not today. I would kid myself and say next time I would pull this move, mantle up on the block, make the delicate steps left across the blank face and onto the unprotectable 5.8 face climbing that led to the next ledge. But today, I aided the section.

Once on the face, I proceeded upward looking for a ledge which formed pitch 8, The Traverse. I saw nothing. I entered a blocky area where the flow of water seemed to originate, and delicately passed through it. There should be some hint of a ledge up here, going off to the right, but I saw none. It had to be here somewhere. Pitch 8, The Traverse, goes horizontally right a full rope length or more, with no protection. I saw nothing that looked inviting for such an excursion, except a ledge 40 feet above going off to the left. Maybe I was confused. I was definitely shaken. Hell, I was going to die! Maybe the ledge above had a subtle right edge indiscernible from below as well as the huge portion running to the left. It was all I could see, so I proceeded on. Then I came upon a shiny new bolt and hanger! Safety! I clipped into it and spied another up and to the left, leading to the ledge above. The holds disappeared, and the climbing turned to delicate friction, but I like such a challenge and went on. A third bolt appeared just below the ledge, and easing up with only two tiny crystals for fingertips, I eased onto the safety of the big ledge. I knew this was wrong, but I was safe. There’s something to be said for that. Jason followed me up and joined me, impressed with the delicate maneuvers needed to gain our position. But where the hell were we?

See large version of west view

We pulled out the topo map and studied it. I  located the three bolts I had used and realized I had deviated onto another route. OOPS. Now we had a conundrum. I looked at the overhanging route at the west end of the ledge and saw the water cascading down it. It was Jason’s turn to lead. “I’m not up to it, we’ve got to go down” he said.  I didn’t want to do it either.

I apologized for my mistake profusely as we sacrificed a couple of his favorite pieces of gear to leave behind as a rappel anchor. We each donated a couple of carabiners to the rig, and Jason rappelled the 40 feet back down to the wet area then another 50 feet horizontally to a dry ledge beneath a small block. Once secure, I joined him and pulled the rope from the anchor above. Though I was ashamed of my mistake in missing the traverse, I was still callous enough to realize I had inadvertently done two pitches of climbing, and reasoned Jason could have the next two. He would lead the 5.2 R/X traverse, and the next runout 5.6 pitch above.

Jason took off on the traverse, with me urging him to find any protection he could along the way, as I didn’t relish the thought of a full rope-length fall. I’d made it this far and was still alive. I knew my demise lay ahead, and there were only two pitches left. Jason made his way out to the right, finding a few spots to place protection along the way. There was hope, at least on this pitch! The guidebook said he would disappear around a corner, and he did as predicted. But my hope evaporated as the rope disappeared. A full rope length meant 165 feet. We were using a 200 foot rope, and it was all gone. The two bolts at the end of the pitch Jason was looking for never appeared. Again, something was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t the traverse after all.

“How’s it look above, like 5.6?” I called to him. “Yeah, it’s O.K.” he called back, "I’m coming back a bit to build an anchor". I took in the slack as he worked back towards me. “I must be bolt-blind, here they are” he called to me as he found the two missing bolts at the end of the pitch. Once he was anchored, I delicately proceeded out to join him. “The next pitch is yours, it looks a lot harder than 5.6 and I’m rattled,” I insisted. He took off and worked his way to the old piton that marked the end of pitch nine. One more to go.

View large image of Wayne atop O.R.

Pitch 10. I could see the tops of the trees that capped the mountain above. I took the gear from Jason, and started up the easy 5.6 ground above. The first of the trees came into full view. I sunk one piece of gear, followed soon after with another. I could hear voices of the tourists above, those who had walked the trail to the top of the cliffs. The rock got wet and mossy, but I continued without placing another piece of protection. I was going to make it to the top, and nothing could stop me now. At last I was there. I tied the rope around a stout tree and called down to Jason. He soon joined me, and we high fived, shook hands, and congratulated each other on a fine effort. We had made our first climb of Whiteside, and our first real climb together. What a future lay ahead.

We paused for a couple of pictures, then hiked back down to the parking lot. I was alive. Success. It was sweet. As we sat at the van drinking and snacking, stowing the gear, and changing into fresh clothes, a group of children gathered spurred by curiosity of all our climbing gear. Jason patiently explained to them what we’d done and how the gear was used. Soon, their parents joined the group. “What do people from Florida know about climbing?” asked one woman. “Well, we just climbed this mountain” we replied. Enough said. The families departed, and we went in search of pizza and beer. We found the pizza, but dry counties predominate in this area and we sufficed with soft drinks. After dinner, we drove to Looking Glass Rock near Brevard, and spent the night at the trailhead to the South Wall.

Though I’ve been to Looking Glass several times, I’ve done few routes there. I typically end up repeating prior ascents with those who want to experience a few of the classic lines. Jason has been fewer times, but done a greater variety of routes, and was willing to introduce me to a few new climbs. We hiked in to the South Wall, the most popular area on the mountain, to find most of the routes saturated with sheets of flowing water. Though our choices were restricted, Second Coming (5.7) was dry, and we set to preparing for the climb.

Show large photo of South Face

Again, the dream haunted me. Now we were at Looking Glass, the location of the vision. It had been my suggestion, though I now questioned my prior bravado. “Your leading,” said Jason, and though I graciously offered to let him show me the way, he had been there before and insisted it was my opportunity that lay ahead. And so, we spent the morning at the South Wall. I led both pitches of Second Coming, then moved on to an adjacent route Rat’s Ass (5.9), and led both pitches of it. Though I protested I was shaky, nervous, and insecure, Jason assured me my leads were as smooth as he’d ever seen and I completed both climbs without difficulty. The sun past the midpoint of the sky, and I commented that if we we’re going to have time to complete all four pitches of Sundial (5.8), we’d better head for The Nose area at Looking Glass. I was now determined to face this dream head on, and get it behind me.

We packed up, hiked back to the van, and drove the 15 minutes to The Nose trailhead. We sprang from the car, undaunted by the gathering of vehicles at the small parking area, and hoofed it 20 minutes up the trail to the base of the cliffs. Part of the dream came true. Every route was taken. A camp group had taken over the entire area. For a while we stood looking up at the rock, our minds trying to figure some solution to the problem, a way past the web of ropes that stretched above. Outside of putting up a new route, yet unclimbed, there was no solution. As in the dream, we would not climb here today.

It was late to go back to the South Wall (and a lot of effort) so I suggested we head into town and pay a visit to the new owner of Looking Glass Outfitters. Here, we could replace the pieces of gear left behind at Whiteside, then use the rest of the afternoon driving back to Tallulah Gorge. We hadn’t climbed there for almost two years, it would be a nice diversion. We also wanted to visit the new bistro, The China Cat Restaurant at the Tallulah Point overlook and sample the fare. Neither activity proved fruitful. Joe Bryson, the new owner of the outfitters store, was out climbing this afternoon. Nor did he carry the particular brand of gear Jason sought. To top it all off, we arrived at the China Cat just as Jack Loveless was closing up. “Sorry, I know it's only 5 in the afternoon, but our grill is closed... I could make you a peanut butter and jelly on a croissant." We declined the generous offer, and spent the rest of the evening in search of a place to camp for the night. We finally found a camp, but that’s another story entirely.

Enlarge photo of Wayne pointing

Saturday morning was cold at Tallulah Gorge, Georgia. We registered at the interpretive center, and descended into the steep canyon below. This morning, we chose Mescaline Daydream (5.8) as a suitable starting point, and again Jason convinced me I would lead. For a two pitch 5.8 climb, it offers quite a variety of challenges. It starts with an awkward chimney that leads into a cave, then exits via a tricky roof maneuver onto a sloping crack to a hanging belay from the tip of a pointed block of stone. The plan was to switch leads for the second pitch, but there was no easy way for Jason to pass me at the hanging belay. Again the fearful vision arose within me, and I took half an hour before I gained the gumption to continue on through the second pitch. It proved easier than it looked, and I was pleased to tie in to the chains at the top. Since this anchor was conveniently located atop the classic Flying Frog (5.10), I suggested we top-rope it. I rappelled to the bottom and climbed back via the crimpy face of black rock to the anchors with Jason managing my rope from above. I’d had enough. We rappelled to the ground, and climbed back out of the gorge via the climbers trail.

Lunch called. This time, the grill at the China Cat was at peak performance and we sampled several of the savory offerings cooked up by Jack and Maria Loveless. Her homemade veggie Skye Burgers are excellent, the fresh pasta delectable, and the tuna croissant tasty. Best food we had all trip, and sure to be on our agenda for our next visit. Jason was still looking for a bit more tweak for his fingers, and Jack suggested a bouldering spot or two. They proved disappointing. But when I spied a rock wall near a power plant, Jason’s eye’s lit up. We spent a couple hours trying to put together a traverse along this difficult section of rock, armed with Jason’s toothbrush to scrub the slippery lichen from the tiny edges. The sun passed lower into the west and I suggested we start our long drive home. Jason vowed to return to this spot and keep working this problem, jokingly named the Power Plant traverse.

The climbing was over. I had survived. All I had to do was make it home. We drove into the night, a blast of cold wind propelling us South as the first icy dagger of winter plunged into the heart of Dixie. Around midnight, I dropped Jason at his house, and carefully drove across town, wary of the last chance for the prophecy to be fulfilled. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and let myself in. The dogs greeted me, and my wife stirred from her sleep to give me a big hug and a kiss. What a stupid dream.

How to send your Trip Report

Top of Page

`