A Breath Day Story for my Clan

OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime. 'Trying to make a deadline (Nov. 30) on a promise made to myself and a friend. I'm two hours late. I click onto Yahoo Canyon group to see that several of you have been talking about me! Hope this doesn't mean that you won't talk about me at FreezeFest? Nice surprise, though. Thanks for your b-day wishes. To you all, I get even with this long tale ( which lost all the fonts and subtle characters...oh well. I do hope you enjoy it.

OF PITS AND PENDULUMS

November, 2009 Bowen Island, BC

"...Hey, by the way, check out this link. You're famous! Later, J.J."

I stared at the email, confused, "Hmmmmmm, that's random".

Feeling inept and a bit leery, I move the cursor over the link and click. A beautiful web page appears with bright red titles and an arrow prompt. Another click and I marvel as my screen strobes through images of a large group of men walking across sandstone. Change; now guys in wet suits and helmets moving down, over and around obstacles in a beautiful canyon. Change; someone tosses something attached to a rope resulting in cheers just off camera. Change, change and change again; a lone figure struggles to ascend a rope out of a water filled pot hole. (Gawd, this looks somehow familiar.) Change, change again; more compelling action and intense music. Then to my amazement, a man makes a huge dynamic jump into a pool!

"What?! This makes no sense at all. This is nuts!"

Rapid fire images flash on and off faster than my mind can process. Bold dialogue and intense music rolls over the top of it. One man speaks about the technical aspects of the canyon, "The pot holes become deeper. The challenges become bigger...If you can't move through a place like this with a lot of speed, aaaaaah, you're in big trouble." Back to action. Back to the same guy. Back to action, more action, and another face shot of a reclining fellow who describes the proper use of a sand bag used as a rappel anchor. What?! More action. The music becomes quiet. The first guy again, with a serious nod adds, "Be careful out there, it's a serious place". Then, my gapping mouth drops another inch as a Hollywood style fade in with title and release date appears on my screen. Then stillness. Hmmmmmmmmm, I sit captivated. It is a very well done video for sure. It invites, it intrigues and it confuses me! Why the sense that I've been there? What is my relationship to this?

I stare for a moment and begin to read the print below. "The legend precedes this canyon. With only a handful of known descents, limited beta…" "What the heck is beta?", I say out loud. I read on, "…complex logistics, and extremely remote access, it is certainly one of the plateau's premiere wilderness slot canyons." Ahhhhh, oh my gosh! Synapses finally bridge the gap and zap! I do know this place! "In true wilderness ethic, our team set out to document a descent, applying various low-impact techniques developed over the course of year's of canyoneering experience. Stay tuned in the weeks ahead. This is just a preview."

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(Approximately 28 years earlier) Aug. 23, 1981 Back and Beyond, Utah

Deep inside the calm depths of the dark pit, we attempt to gain the lip far above us. Our thin neoprene offers some buoyancy and protection from the incessant chill but we've been treading water a long while. Now the fatigue is hard to ignore. Once again, he takes a deep breath and we time our next attempt without the need for words. I cock my knee high as he grasps my foot with both his hands. Our timing is near perfect. His body tenses cueing me to prepare to propel my body upward along the wall, stretching and reaching as high I can. As I am thrust upward he is repeatedly submerged. The rock is slippery from our failed attempts. Our eyes are well trained to see irregularities in the rock. Over and over my fingers confirm what my eyes are not seeing. Once again, I focus on a shallow diagonal crack far above. This time our timing is even more perfect. The trigger; NOW! The upward thrust comes. Statically balancing on his hands I straighten my knee. My body uncoils as I throw all momentum up into a long stretch. A sputter from below. He resurfaces treading the water. He quickly reaches to offer help again. My feet scramble, my left palm presses into the wall below me and I strain upward. MUST....DO THIS! Two of my fingers catch the bottom edge of the crack. I pull HARD, every tissue in my right arm fires up! PULL! I quiet my body against the wall. Concentration quiets my raging brain. Determined. Focused. Must do this!

I counterbalance the right arm's flex upward against the left arm's push downward. I make tiny dynamic changes as my chest rises in micro movements up the rock. Knees are bent, smeared against stone as the toes inch upward. Eyes are fixed on the critical finger hold. I feel the subtle shift of the fulcrum and allow a mini wave of jubilation. NOT THERE YET!

My shoulders drop to the cold stone. I replant my mantling left hand. I shift my mind away from the burn in the bicep and concentrate my focus on the two finger placement in the crack. My head slowly rises even with my hand. To my horror a tiny face with bulging eyes appears beneath my buried fingers! As my torso slides past, my grip deepens adding another finger to the crack. I see the little frog is further squeezed. On impulse I want to release it! My survival instinct screams NOOOOOOO! A moment of struggle. I'm desperate to withdraw my fingers and tend to this little creature. Crushed in its own home. Me, the intruder! I turn my gaze the opposite direction and resist the urge to vomit. One last pull and push! I flop up onto the flat rock and quickly anchor for my partner to climb up. I'm out! We're out! The loss of that tiny life weighs heavy on me as we pull and coil the rope to continue on down the canyon. I don't allow my gaze to go there. I feel no jubilation. This canyon is beginning to wear me down.

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March, 2010 In the Irish Canyons, Utah

"JENNY! JOHANNA!" I jolt and freeze. I look in the direction of this barking command. Tom, sits not ten feet away (close enough to whisper our names and be heard). He does not look up as he continues to secure the buckle on his boot, "I WANT YOU BOTH TO GO LAST! AND! PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO WHAT THE OTHERS ARE DOING!"

Insult passes in a moment as I remind myself that I have a lot to learn...relearn...whatever. I am not going to quit this early. Besides, I recall what it is like to go out with newbies; to be in charge and ….besides I have prepared myself well. I will not let my ego cause upset for me, not now. I have prepared myself for the possibility of this, and worse, I think. I glance over at Johanna to see her reaction. Her expression gives away nothing.

The others finish their preparations for the descent into the tight little canyon. I stand and watch closely, as ordered. Niggly little whispering voices of doubt begin , "Will my body remember? Will I be able to keep up with these younger people? Can I find the joy in being with strangers in such a big group? Will they accept me? I do have a car at the bottom and freedom to bail out…."

I am standing slack jawed, and not paying close attention, as I had been instructed. I realize that everyone has moved down the canyon. Grateful for the diversion from following this thinking; The Path of Doom, I look up. A stern glance from Tom and I know that it is my turn. He makes no attempt to hide his impatience. I step briskly forward.

-3/4 hour later:

"JENNY!" I flinch but continue coiling the sand coated rope. I offer my full attention as Tom hollers down at me from the top of the rappel. "WE DON'T COIL THE ROPE! WE STUFF IT IN THE ROPE BAG!" I see a thick bag laying off to one side, assume it to be THE ROPE BAG, and bend to pick it up, as ordered. I am aware that several people are watching me with wary eyes. I notice that Tom has now turned his attention elsewhere. I KNOW that there is a Right way and a Wrong way to stuff the rope in the bag. Tough, I think! I am anxious to move on and don't want to allow for my growing irritation. I sense concern from the watching faces as I push the rope, neatly looped in a perfect climber's coil, into the bag. I consider briefly before throwing back a response. "TOM!" He stops and peers around a fluted edge to look down at me. "STOP YELLING AT ME!" I smile sweetly and swing the rope bag over a shoulder as I turn. I pause in my second step to hear; "Jenny! I'm not YELLING at you. I'm just speaking LOUDLY."

He melts me, then. Literally, I fall in love with Tom Jones at that moment. I'm not saying that I don't startle and flinch at the tone in his voice and the sternness on his face sometimes when he addresses me. I learn to face him eye-to-eye, even through the occasional tears that well up in mine when I take a Tom slap personally.

Ram invited me join in on this trip. Although we all defer to Tom once we begin our descent, I look to them both as being the experts. I watch every move they make that day and pay close attention to every tidbit they share between themselves and with the others in the group. I sorely feel the sting of not taking their suggestion "to layer up" from the previous night's instructional discourse. I learn a new way of moving in watching them. I discover that my body thrills at the movement. When my old habits of climbing down the canyon move me to exhaustion, I get behind Ram and copy the efficiency in which he descends. I learn to "elevator down" rather than the highly physical four points of contact way of descent that I'm accustomed to.

Over and over, I am awestruck and shocked to witness such evolution in things where I was once an expert. I can tie most knots without looking, literally. But I see knots and rappel blocking techniques that I'd never seen before. Their multiple layers of clothing and neoprene offers protection in using new techniques. Nearly everything is new to me; helmets, specialized shoes, neo everything, gloves, new rappel devices, biner blocks, single strand rappels off of pencil thin static rope, resetting rope lengths, rope bags and (gulp) the Death Knot used as a standard for joining ropes. What about the water knot and the double grapevine? I am afraid to ask...rather afraid to waste time on their answer. It is quicker to simply watch and let myself naturally absorb it. Besides, most of it makes very good sense.

I am humbled. I'm struck dumb and sometimes numb. I am forced to surrender my old beliefs. Either that or struggle and challenge constantly. I have to let go of years of experience and open up to a beginner's mind again. Very early in the day it becomes apparent that I need to choose; resist the new techniques or embrace them. I chose the later and decide to fully trust these guys.

I didn't come into this without checking these guys out. I bouncing around the internet reading trip reports and stories. In the process I learned about links and blogs and forums and trip reports and discovered mysterious acronyms, guide services and guide books and certification institutions and archives and photos galore! I know these guys are well respected and considered some of the best. Their two faces appeared in the original video I had found. I eased my way into the arena of email communication-relation and exchanged correspondence. The result; I am invited to join this trip.

I spent the next two months preparing my body. I know that being efficient in my movement is critical for me. I am no longer the fit young adventurer of decades past. My body was broken, ripped and worn. Years of gravity sports has taken a heavy toll. If I want to be in for the long haul then I have to learn to operate within my own limits. First, I have to discover them. More relevant, as it turns out, I mentally prepare myself for either success or failure. This was the day! The moment to choose. In the clarity of this decision it becomes easy. I decide to trust my decision and just enjoy it. I love it! I am having so much fun that I no longer have any doubts. I was like a weasel in the hen house. I can't get enough. I even enjoy moving through the canyon in a big group. Head to tail, lining up as if in a cattle chute. I offer my customary "MOOOOOO MOOOOO". No one laughs. I decide to behave!

Before the day is over Johanna and I have both worked our way to the front of the procession. She moves with confidence and grace in her denim pants. My body preforms well for me. I thrill at the movement, the discovery of which position, is needed for solution to each challenge. I am totally caught up in the excitement of playing on the edges of balance, friction, gravity and falling. There is an invitation to stay, to play, to explore, meet Ram's family and friends for another 14 days! I feel such excitement, sense the opportunities that are there for me. I find a passionate, beautiful, deep and lost love.

That night in my tent I treat the bloody abrasions on knuckles, wrists, knees, hips, elbows and shoulders. I notice the numerous angry bruises. I promise myself that I'll pay closer attention to everything that these two guys say. Stop the mind chatter and questioning. Trust them and myself and fully experience everything. This reentry seems to be more like entering a new sport. So many changes. So much to give up. So much to gain. This is really fun. It just might turn out REALLY well...…..as I drop into deep sleep.

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Aug. 23,1981 The Pit of Despair, Utah

I loosen my grip and watch the rope delicately slip through my fingers, paying line out. It moves around a smooth shoulder of rock and out of sight. I have moved back up the canyon and settle into low body belay. There are no natural anchors available and we cannot afford to sacrifice another bolt for belay. Our supply is dangerously low. We had jointly explored our options standing at the brink of the cavernous pit. None were easy. We considered and carefully evaluated risks. There seemed like only one best chance. We agreed. It was dangerous. I was grim but we committed to a plan. However, it means that I will be out of view to see how it plays out.

Initially, we are close enough for conversation, although there is little cause for much of that. We are finely tuned climbing partners. I give him slack as he requires it without words and often anticipate it as I hear his progress. I am glad I took that last long look at our route while he was preparing to set out. Now I must rely on his commands and the images that I can recall of the dark right wall and the gaping hole beneath.

"BE READY!", he calls. I know he is now balanced delicately on tiny irregularities in the rock. At this position the rope between us offers him little safety in case he falls. We both know this, but I ready myself in the event this happens. Until he sets the first bolt in place, he risks falling twice the distance he has traveled, plus the stretch in the rope! Worse, his free fall, even with the friction I have created between us, would result in his body slamming violently into the up canyon wall. Better if he dropped into the water. But that could mean failure of our plan and critical time wasted. I cannot visualize that. I wait. I hope. He works. I feel the tension just out of sight as he carefully taps out a hole, replaces tools, blows out the dust, hangs a hanger, tightens the nut and FINALLY sets the first bolt. I hear the welcome sound of a carabiner gate close. We exhale in unison. Now that we have a solid anchor between us, the rope is of great benefit to him.

"WATCH ME NOW!" He is back to work. "I'VE GOT YOU!", I reassure him. A short rest and he moves on.The next section is critical; the crux, we call it. I listen to his soft foot placement, his breathing and then the tapping of his hammer as he turns the bit into the hard stone. I imagine him pulling out one of his custom made anchors and dropping it into the first hole.

He calls again, "OK, I'M MOVING!". This means he is moving higher to drill another hole for the other custom anchor. When this one is placed, I feel relief again as he clips in. I hear him exhale and I follow suit. His voice is tense and farther away now. I can hear the click of the lever as he removes the first retrievable bolt leaving an empty hole. Again and again, he repeats the process, as he moves diagonally upward in an agonizing effort to gain the height we need.

He seems so far away. I feel for his solitary labour, but I am helpless to offer him anything more than my silent attention to the rope connecting us. At each pause in the belay I strain to listen, anxious for clues to his progress and to relieve my impatience. It has been a long while and I'm feeling a nagging chill from sitting in wet neoprene without moving for so long. I hear the tapping stop, the unique clatter of metal on rock (I close my eyes and imagine all the tools essential to our survival dropping safely into a pocket or securely attached with a leash to hang from his harness.) I can hear the nut being turned on a bolt and know that he has reached the high point. I thrill at the sound of a carabiner slipping into the hanger. I anticipate his pull for a shank of rope and hear a carabiner gate click again. I open my eyes again, inhale deeply and exhale with a shiver.



"GIVE ME TENSION, OK?" I comply and he allow the rope of hold his weight he hangs, resting. I hear him let out a full chest of air. A deep inhale and again. I feel a vibration down the rope and imagine him hanging his arms at his side and shaking the fatigue and cramping out. I imagine his charming disarming grin that he gives himself when he feels satisfaction with himself. I allow a smile too and alternately release my cramping hands. Short and sweet, is the moment. Time flies by at a horrifying speed. At this stage, I know exactly where he is. The huge pit is now directly below him. We have much work to do before we can celebrate this important yet insignificant victory.

"OK. LET ME DOWN A BIT!" he hollers from across the wide expanse. I hear courage and determination in his voice. But around the edges I can hear the toll that has been taken in this dangerous and critical passage. I fill the chasm between us with prayer like hope. But there is a lacy fringe of fear present as well. This move is not the crux but it is the most critical objective in the success of our plan. I feel his weight pull rope tight around my back, across my right hip and over my palms as I control his drop.



"THAT'S IT! HOLD ME NOW!" I hear his feet shuffle across the steep wall one way, pause and then the other as he pendulums from the high anchor over the huge void beneath. Three or four times the rope strains and relaxes as he works to maximize the distance with each pass. I imagine his feet leaping horizontally along the wall. I hear the shuffle slow and then pause. Now it repeats toward the other side. It then quickens and I imagine his body reaching, his arm thrust out to gain the furthest advantage at the down canyon side of the pendulum swing. The next attempt takes him further, as the sounds of his efforts echo across the huge chasm and around the corner where I blindly sit braced.

Then suddenly, "ROPE!!!" Argh! I freeze. One heart beat. Argh, ROPE?! Another heart beat. What does he want?!

"DO YOU WANT SLACK or TENSION?" I scream. I desperately want to react to his urgent need. My body aches to respond but the consequences of the WRONG action on my end of the rope might mean the difference between our living and dying. I prime to repeat my call as a fraction of a second ticks by in slow-motion-crisis-time.

Finally,"SLACK!!!" It comes in a strained voice that I fear holds a hint of failure and surrender. I rush to feed him rope, desperate to believe it was not too late in coming. I could not tell at which point of the pendulum's arch he was stopped. Oh please, oh please, oh....

But I hear shuffling, gruffing, panting and then nothing. This was good news! I exhaled deeply. The first in nearly an hour I realize. Until this moment, I had only been able to imagine his exact location. Based on my memory of our original survey and route plan, I could only make a wild guess at his exact location. Much of the time, his balance depended on the lung full of air. He was not going to waste breath to carry on a diatribe of his progress in the midst of the execution of such a delicate maneuver! During the process of the the critical pendulum, I could never determine at which point of the arch he was paused. I only could tell that he had not reached the maximum distance when I felt his movement relayed down the line to me and the muffled shuffling began again. But now, I am certain. This rapid paying out of rope could only mean one thing; my partner has successfully gained the lip on the other side of the monster toilet bowl-shaped watery hole. We were going to survive this cold pit of despair.

Despite the miscommunication at the final moment, he has done it! Soon in a voice filled with fatigue, relief and a with a slight tinge of frustration came, "OFF BELAY!"

I prepare to follow the same route, to retrieve what I can. I had indeed drawn the long stick this time. I'm short , slower with the hand drill, slow to volunteer on this one, lucky and less bold. For a long long time he had been out on the proverbial short end of the rope and done a masterful job! Now, it was my turn.

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May 2010 Fence Canyon Camp, Utah

-Ahhhh, Jennae Mae! You are nearly old enough to be my Mom. -(Ouch. I let it sink in.) How old is your mom, Dan? -I don't know. She was born in 1951, I think. -What day? -The last day of November, I think. -Ahhhhhhhhhh man! I am exactly as old as your Mom. Ahhhhhhhhh! Dan, I'll kill you if you tell ANYONE that! Ahhhhhhhhh. That is really creepy.

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Aug. 23, 1981 Back and Beyond, Utah

We leave our camp stepping through the chill of night's shadow into the welcome sun and climb up toward the top of the rocky fold. My partner and I each carry a 150' of 11mm dynamic rope coiled over a shoulder. These ropes will now be retired from our climbing arsenal and designated to the gorging gear. Our Farmer John wetsuits are strapped to the outside of our fanny packs. Between us we have two liters of water, iodine tablets, granola bars, apples, cheese, a hand drill, bits, rock hammer, bolts, hangers, thin plastic tubing, sling, a Swiss Army knife each, two custom designed retrievable anchors and two 35 mm cameras in altered Pelican boxes. This little gem gave us only a few glimpses into the depths when standing on the rims. Perusing contour lines on the topo map gave an estimate on elevation drops. How many, what kind and how long? Only getting into the gut of it would we find out.

The plan was to move fast, stay confident and travel light. This first descent into this lovely little eroded treasure would require the use of every item we carry that day. Up and around the top of the drainage, we find a way to drop in. This early entry still offers escape if we opt to retreat. We share a giggle or comment on a canyon feature but don't say much. As we climb and rappel deeper through the channels of rock and pools we stop discussing the commitment required each time we pull a rappel rope or downclimb a spot that would be not upclimbable. Time and time again we eliminate our escape route out. It is an awareness we share but choose not to speak of. The stunning beauty lures us to linger and take a few photos. But the pull of the unknown is powerful. Our commitment to this place is tangible now. We've placed our bargain with it. It fills us with urgency.

Our excitement grows as we work efficiently and quickly through tight constrictions, down pour-overs, drops of hanging walls of lush vegetation, through fragile pools teaming with aquatic life, and pot hole obstacles that seem to grow in challenge and magnitude as the canyon walls swallow the light and tower far above. Over and over we drill bolts anchors into the canyon's flanks to allow our continued passage down and eventually, hopefully out the bottom. We drape earth toned webbing at every opportunity; our bolt supply runs dangerously low as is our daylight. Working around and through the monster pot holes, eats up hours. It requires us to extend our skills and combine our efforts at every challenge. It becomes a game of survival. We are as mice in the bottom of a watery bucket. To fail to get out ensures a chilled toilet bowl grave. Passing beneath an elegant arch we move on to discover yet a larger toilet bowl. Truly it is a Paul Bunyan's potty.

We climb delicately around or over obstacles. Several times we construct rope pendulums to avoid several of the deeper pits. Valuable minutes pass as we stand at the brink of a massive gaping hole, several increments larger than the last. Looking into it and up the other side, we see no way through, past or around it. Has our cleverness and skill run out, right here at this problem we have not imagined? We consider our solutions, weigh our options and for the first time, the true seriousness of this game hits us. We are deep in a very remote area, it is a great adventure up to this point but now we are faced with the great challenge. We consider our options carefully. Option one: drop into the deep pool and choose a cold dark watery grave if we fail. Option two: stay trapped within the confines of the rocky channel. Caught between the last climbable drop and this place. A slow death from cold and thirst. Option three: Come up with something else. Good choice. We take option three.

We consider our remaining bolts anchors. We have used many in less than a mile and no indication of change in contour or character of the canyon. We have a long way to go. Will there be a way to climb out? Can we afford to bolt our way out from the bottom? The water is very cold and rewarming is becoming more difficult. The pools are too deep to find leverage to drill or assist each other. Time is becoming a very critical factor. A bivouac is not discussed. It wouldn't solve the problem anyway. We are climbers. So we look to the rock for solution. We would go high and seek passage across the stone.

Over an hour passes. My partner executes an amazing feat of skill and courage and we are across. Yet this canyon is far from finished with us. It will tax us for all we have and spit us out the bottom in the day's waning moments. We arrive back at camp tired, hungry and silent. We have shared a very private bond of camaraderie. I feel a reverent gratitude for our good fortune for having seen this special place. I have a wealth of humility for having left traces of our passing as we worked through the challenges in this pristine place.

With some sadness I ponder what might be left that is lasting? A dozen metal bolts? A hand full of nylon slings? A smashed frog in a crack? Would all of these one day wash and wear away? Does any of it even matter? I let the fatigue flush away the sadness. It occurred to me afterward. What if this canyon had literally been testing us? Maybe this short little water carved passageway had held us captive. Had worked us to our limits. Presenting challenges and luring us on with its beauty and our lust. Then had it allowed our escape? Would it name us as we had it? Would it be an honorable name? Did we earn it? Or would it mock us as insignificant migrant creatures passing through its complex corridors teaming with life. Delicately balanced systems. Had we done any permanent damage in our passage? I hoped with all my heart we had not.

So the name of this special place came a bit later and after much reflection. This was our first canyon together. From this powerful experience we discover a common hunger for adventure. But it was a private passion. Even as we began to plan the next trip, we speak of this one with deep humility and reverence. What was there to talk about? What would we say? We had an arrangement with a like-minded friend, to tell where we were going, just in case. He did the same with us, "So our bodies would be retrieved for our grieving parents". We didn't speak of this canyon to others. We rarely spoke of it to each other except the occasional comment about the manic pits and memorable pendulums.

My partner and I explored several other canyon gems, offering up names, like blessings to honor the places and the privilege to witness their pristine wild states. These were private adventures and we chose to keep all of our explorations and first descents to ourselves and a few select friends. What would we tell? Who would understand? Why would we want to turn a spotlight on these beautiful and fragile places? The thrill of being in a place untouched by human presence, being the first footsteps and first to see the sculpture and light in a place was something profound and unique. It was a privileged gift in a changing time. It created a pestering desire for more. By the very nature of our lust, it was private. Selfish it was. These were sanctuaries of light, stone and immeasurable beauty. It seemed an act of sacrilege and dishonor to invite masses of people into these sacred and fragile places. To speak of it, we risked losing the very things we loved. So we agreed and we did not.

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October, 2010 SLC, Utah

The woman opens the screen door. She is expecting me and opens the main door to allow my entry. I recognize the cheekbones and lips. She is a large woman, tall and strong of bone, not large with excess though. I introduce myself, a polite gesture. She invites me in. I exaggerate a nod to the passenger waiting in my car in the driveway as I enter the house. I don't want to stay long. I'm just here to pick up a "gift" from this woman's son. Stepping out of my shoes, (a very civilized custom where I live in Canada) I notice the handmade quilts and heirlooms hung from the walls as I follow her. I smile and respond politely as she shows me the family photos, generations of faces. I see my friend's face in graduation garments, dressed up for a sister's wedding, younger but not much changed. I see his face in his siblings too. Of course, we speak casually about the connection we share; my friend, her son, and the adventures we have shared that brought us together. Where she offers no approval of his adventuring, I add elements of my respect for him. Where she acknowledges her concerns in his risk taking choices, I offer her a lighter view.

Finally, she descends the stairs to return with my "gift" and presents me with a large framed print. I know what it is before I see it. It is a stunning black and white 24"x 36"photo of our Pit of Despair. The eye is drawn to the center. A tiny figure in a wetsuit is struggling to crawl over the lip of a cavernous round pit. The huge wall beneath him shows his watery trail out of the pool below. The camera angle captures a chilling beauty and amplifies the size of the pit and the significance of the little human's successful endeavor to escape. I feel my knees slightly buckle remembering my passage through this place, over 28 years ago. I pause, recalling recent images of my return to this place, a few months back. I it from her hand. I can find no words. I know that there is nothing I can say to help her understand what I know. To help her understand what her son and I both know. Why he would give me this gift and its significance to me. How could I share the many things that I share in common with her son that she may never ever understand?

"He is too generous. He can't afford to give me this…..", filling the air with trivial niceties as I retreat to the door.

She follows but seems to want to extend our visit, to stretch it out into something else. Outside she still stands quietly behind me. After carefully padding and tucking the gift into my car, I turn to face her. I see her as if for the first time as a woman, a mother, a life of church and family and friends and domestic bliss. It was a life style I had imagined for myself and chose a different path, many years ago..

We prepare ourselves for fare thee well. I look up at her face and realize that she is my age, my peer, my contemporary. But she looks younger, I'm sure! I recall my image in the mirror. My hair is filled with grey streaks. Her hair is a lush brown and neatly groomed. My rough toes poke through my gritty Chacos and my favorite blue jeans haven't been washed in weeks. I look at her conservative attire and notice that she is immaculate in every way. Her skin is clear and wrinkle free. I recall the years and years of direct and reflected sun from rock, snow and water that has worked with wind and sand to sculpt deep fissures in my face and turn my skin to tissue texture. I see a scarred, weathered hand of an old woman with twisting joints and wrinkled flesh reach out to accept the smooth and manicured one she extends in return. I love my hands. People have noticed them and commented on their uniqueness since my early twenties. They have served me well. Suddenly the contrast between myself and this woman seems not to matter anymore. I realize that I'm fine with being this age. I'm proud to wear my scars and years on my face and hands. I'm happy and grateful that I am still moving through these magical canyons and finding such love and deep camaraderie with so many people, some even far younger than her son. ---------

October, 2010 Facebook Email

Jenny to Dan: I met ½ of your parental unit. Your Mom is beautiful. She looks younger than I do. She is actually! Her birthday is the day before mine but minus a year! Don't ya know yo' own mum's birthday, boy? Remember, I know where you live now and I'll hunt you down if you tell anyone that I'm old enough to be yo'r mamma!

I picked up your generous gift. Thank you, you scamp. Too extravagant. `Not in your budget for this year, lil' bro! I love it though. You were the catalyst for all of this, you know. Full circle, eh? I love you. Be safe out there and see you when you get back on the continent. ---------------

November 30, 2010 Bowen Island, British Columbia,

It is my birthday! On this day, 59 years ago a little value closed between my heart and lungs inviting a suck of air to begin my life as baby human. My Breath Day.

More importantly, today, I celebrate the first anniversary of my reentry into the canyons, my Awakening. I have a deep felt gratitude to Dan for his integrity and care in guiding me in. To Tom, as well, for teaching this old dog new tricks with all the patience he could muster. There are many others who have warmly welcomed me onto trips and supported my wobbling ego until I found my stride. I think them most generous and thank them. I have bottomless pit full of gratitude to my dear new/old friend Ram. With his good and generous heart he invited me into his family and circle of friends (is there a bigger gift?). At his invitation this year I have seen 41 new canyons and have 60 new friends, many of which are very dear and close to my heart. There is a list of others that will soon become so, as well. Add to that number the reunion of four old friends from "back in the day" as a result of my reentry.

I move in a different way at fifty-nine. I give careful attention to the ever present pull of gravity. I've learned this year to let go of much, hang on to newly defined important things and thank my good luck for everything. My life is rich with adventure texture and a rekindled passion for being out in the wild places. Whereas my past offers me wonderful memories of venturing through pristine canyons with one talented partner, my present reveals the relevance of my place in Clan. The future seems more promising than ever before. I'm off one trip and begin plans for the next. . My husband of 20 years delights in my rebirth into the wild. We share a partnership full of breath and dynamic space. In the union of our experiences we find a deeper view of the world. He is generous and kind. His steadiness offers freedom for me to fling myself across the universe. And he always welcomes me home. My job as an artist allows complete flexibility and creative outlet. I welcome the empty nest whole heartedly as our only child is off to university this year. Lil' Cricket, I called her when she was deep with my bursting belly. I pulled a needle with coloured threads through a hoop of stretched linen to form a lasting message. My hope for her future; "I wish for you two things; I wish you roots and I wish you wings."

What a wonderful new world it is. Webs of internet connections everywhere. A flick of a fingertip opens a prompt arrow on a little video clip on the face of a computer screen. This action connects a synapse in memory which sends a soul's roots deep into past discovery and results in unfolded broad soaring wings!

Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers I am, Jenny

Wonderful read Jenny, I thoroughly enjoyed it.  Your description of that pit and the crossing reminded me of our first time in there.  We all looked up at the ancient bolts with absolutely no love for that option of crossing that pot hole.  The purpose was after all to complete the canyon direct.  That and that route just looked like a heinous grunt fest, so great job.  By the way I love that picture that Dan took as well, it's awesome.  Now whenever you look at it you will know you have a picture of me.  I hope you had a great Birthday, I look forward to meeting you.  I promise I am not as crazy as Ram has made me out to be.

What a great read Jenny. Thanks for giving me a good reason to procrastinate my work this morning! You are an inspiration.

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:
OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime. 'Trying to make a deadline (Nov. 30) on a promise made to myself and a friend. I'm two hours late. I click onto Yahoo Canyon group to see that several of you have been talking about me! Hope this doesn't mean that you won't talk about me at FreezeFest? Nice surprise, though. Thanks for your b-day wishes. To you all, I get even with this long tale ( which lost all the fonts and subtle characters...oh well. I do hope you enjoy it.
> OF PITS AND PENDULUMS
> November, 2009 > Bowen Island, BC
"...Hey, by the way, check out this link. You're famous! > Later, > J.J."
I stared at the email, confused, "Hmmmmmm, that's random".
Feeling inept and a bit leery, I move the cursor over the link and click. A beautiful web page appears with bright red titles and an arrow prompt. Another click and I marvel as my screen strobes through images of a large group of men walking across sandstone. Change; now guys in wet suits and helmets moving down, over and around obstacles in a beautiful canyon. Change; someone tosses something attached to a rope resulting in cheers just off camera. Change, change and change again; a lone figure struggles to ascend a rope out of a water filled pot hole. (Gawd, this looks somehow familiar.) Change, change again; more compelling action and intense music. Then to my amazement, a man makes a huge dynamic jump into a pool!
"What?! This makes no sense at all. This is nuts!"
Rapid fire images flash on and off faster than my mind can process. Bold dialogue and intense music rolls over the top of it. One man speaks about the technical aspects of the canyon, "The pot holes become deeper. The challenges become bigger...If you can't move through a place like this with a lot of speed, aaaaaah, you're in big trouble." Back to action. Back to the same guy. Back to action, more action, and another face shot of a reclining fellow who describes the proper use of a sand bag used as a rappel anchor. What?! More action. The music becomes quiet. The first guy again, with a serious nod adds, "Be careful out there, it's a serious place". Then, my gapping mouth drops another inch as a Hollywood style fade in with title and release date appears on my screen. Then stillness. Hmmmmmmmmm, I sit captivated. It is a very well done video for sure. It invites, it intrigues and it confuses me! Why the sense that I've been there? What is my relationship to this?
I stare for a moment and begin to read the print below. > "The legend precedes this canyon. With only a handful of known descents, limited beta…" > "What the heck is beta?", I say out loud. > I read on, "…complex logistics, and extremely remote access, it is certainly one of the plateau's premiere wilderness slot canyons." > Ahhhhh, oh my gosh! Synapses finally bridge the gap and zap! I do know this place! > "In true wilderness ethic, our team set out to document a descent, applying various low-impact techniques developed over the course of year's of canyoneering experience. > Stay tuned in the weeks ahead. This is just a preview."
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(Approximately 28 years earlier) > Aug. 23, 1981 > Back and Beyond, Utah
Deep inside the calm depths of the dark pit, we attempt to gain the lip far above us. Our thin neoprene offers some buoyancy and protection from the incessant chill but we've been treading water a long while. Now the fatigue is hard to ignore. Once again, he takes a deep breath and we time our next attempt without the need for words. I cock my knee high as he grasps my foot with both his hands. Our timing is near perfect. His body tenses cueing me to prepare to propel my body upward along the wall, stretching and reaching as high I can. As I am thrust upward he is repeatedly submerged. The rock is slippery from our failed attempts. Our eyes are well trained to see irregularities in the rock. Over and over my fingers confirm what my eyes are not seeing. Once again, I focus on a shallow diagonal crack far above. This time our timing is even more perfect. The trigger; NOW! The upward thrust comes. Statically balancing on his hands I straighten my knee. My body uncoils as I throw all momentum up into a long stretch. A sputter from below. He resurfaces treading the water. He quickly reaches to offer help again. My feet scramble, my left palm presses into the wall below me and I strain upward. MUST....DO THIS! Two of my fingers catch the bottom edge of the crack. I pull HARD, every tissue in my right arm fires up! PULL! I quiet my body against the wall. Concentration quiets my raging brain. Determined. Focused. Must do this!
I counterbalance the right arm's flex upward against the left arm's push downward. I make tiny dynamic changes as my chest rises in micro movements up the rock. Knees are bent, smeared against stone as the toes inch upward. Eyes are fixed on the critical finger hold. I feel the subtle shift of the fulcrum and allow a mini wave of jubilation. NOT THERE YET!
My shoulders drop to the cold stone. I replant my mantling left hand. I shift my mind away from the burn in the bicep and concentrate my focus on the two finger placement in the crack. My head slowly rises even with my hand. To my horror a tiny face with bulging eyes appears beneath my buried fingers! As my torso slides past, my grip deepens adding another finger to the crack. I see the little frog is further squeezed. On impulse I want to release it! My survival instinct screams NOOOOOOO! A moment of struggle. I'm desperate to withdraw my fingers and tend to this little creature. Crushed in its own home. Me, the intruder! I turn my gaze the opposite direction and resist the urge to vomit. One last pull and push! I flop up onto the flat rock and quickly anchor for my partner to climb up. I'm out! We're out! The loss of that tiny life weighs heavy on me as we pull and coil the rope to continue on down the canyon. I don't allow my gaze to go there. I feel no jubilation. This canyon is beginning to wear me down.
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March, 2010 > In the Irish Canyons, Utah
"JENNY! JOHANNA!" I jolt and freeze. I look in the direction of this barking command. Tom, sits not ten feet away (close enough to whisper our names and be heard). He does not look up as he continues to secure the buckle on his boot, > "I WANT YOU BOTH TO GO LAST! AND! PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO WHAT THE OTHERS ARE DOING!"
Insult passes in a moment as I remind myself that I have a lot to learn...relearn...whatever. I am not going to quit this early. Besides, I recall what it is like to go out with newbies; to be in charge and ….besides I have prepared myself well. I will not let my ego cause upset for me, not now. I have prepared myself for the possibility of this, and worse, I think. I glance over at Johanna to see her reaction. Her expression gives away nothing.
The others finish their preparations for the descent into the tight little canyon. I stand and watch closely, as ordered. Niggly little whispering voices of doubt begin , "Will my body remember? Will I be able to keep up with these younger people? Can I find the joy in being with strangers in such a big group? Will they accept me? I do have a car at the bottom and freedom to bail out…."
I am standing slack jawed, and not paying close attention, as I had been instructed. I realize that everyone has moved down the canyon. Grateful for the diversion from following this thinking; The Path of Doom, I look up. A stern glance from Tom and I know that it is my turn. He makes no attempt to hide his impatience. I step briskly forward.
-3/4 hour later:
"JENNY!" I flinch but continue coiling the sand coated rope. I offer my full attention as Tom hollers down at me from the top of the rappel. > "WE DON'T COIL THE ROPE! WE STUFF IT IN THE ROPE BAG!" > I see a thick bag laying off to one side, assume it to be THE ROPE BAG, and bend to pick it up, as ordered. I am aware that several people are watching me with wary eyes. I notice that Tom has now turned his attention elsewhere. I KNOW that there is a Right way and a Wrong way to stuff the rope in the bag. Tough, I think! I am anxious to move on and don't want to allow for my growing irritation. I sense concern from the watching faces as I push the rope, neatly looped in a perfect climber's coil, into the bag. I consider briefly before throwing back a response. > "TOM!" > He stops and peers around a fluted edge to look down at me. > "STOP YELLING AT ME!" I smile sweetly and swing the rope bag over a shoulder as I turn. I pause in my second step to hear; > "Jenny! I'm not YELLING at you. I'm just speaking LOUDLY."
He melts me, then. Literally, I fall in love with Tom Jones at that moment. I'm not saying that I don't startle and flinch at the tone in his voice and the sternness on his face sometimes when he addresses me. I learn to face him eye-to-eye, even through the occasional tears that well up in mine when I take a Tom slap personally.
Ram invited me join in on this trip. Although we all defer to Tom once we begin our descent, I look to them both as being the experts. I watch every move they make that day and pay close attention to every tidbit they share between themselves and with the others in the group. I sorely feel the sting of not taking their suggestion "to layer up" from the previous night's instructional discourse. I learn a new way of moving in watching them. I discover that my body thrills at the movement. When my old habits of climbing down the canyon move me to exhaustion, I get behind Ram and copy the efficiency in which he descends. I learn to "elevator down" rather than the highly physical four points of contact way of descent that I'm accustomed to.
Over and over, I am awestruck and shocked to witness such evolution in things where I was once an expert. I can tie most knots without looking, literally. But I see knots and rappel blocking techniques that I'd never seen before. Their multiple layers of clothing and neoprene offers protection in using new techniques. Nearly everything is new to me; helmets, specialized shoes, neo everything, gloves, new rappel devices, biner blocks, single strand rappels off of pencil thin static rope, resetting rope lengths, rope bags and (gulp) the Death Knot used as a standard for joining ropes. What about the water knot and the double grapevine? I am afraid to ask...rather afraid to waste time on their answer. It is quicker to simply watch and let myself naturally absorb it. Besides, most of it makes very good sense.
I am humbled. I'm struck dumb and sometimes numb. I am forced to surrender my old beliefs. Either that or struggle and challenge constantly. I have to let go of years of experience and open up to a beginner's mind again. Very early in the day it becomes apparent that I need to choose; resist the new techniques or embrace them. I chose the later and decide to fully trust these guys.
I didn't come into this without checking these guys out. I bouncing around the internet reading trip reports and stories. In the process I learned about links and blogs and forums and trip reports and discovered mysterious acronyms, guide services and guide books and certification institutions and archives and photos galore! I know these guys are well respected and considered some of the best. Their two faces appeared in the original video I had found. I eased my way into the arena of email communication-relation and exchanged correspondence. The result; I am invited to join this trip.
I spent the next two months preparing my body. I know that being efficient in my movement is critical for me. I am no longer the fit young adventurer of decades past. My body was broken, ripped and worn. Years of gravity sports has taken a heavy toll. If I want to be in for the long haul then I have to learn to operate within my own limits. First, I have to discover them. More relevant, as it turns out, I mentally prepare myself for either success or failure. This was the day! The moment to choose. In the clarity of this decision it becomes easy. I decide to trust my decision and just enjoy it. I love it! I am having so much fun that I no longer have any doubts. I was like a weasel in the hen house. I can't get enough. I even enjoy moving through the canyon in a big group. Head to tail, lining up as if in a cattle chute. I offer my customary "MOOOOOO MOOOOO". No one laughs. I decide to behave!
Before the day is over Johanna and I have both worked our way to the front of the procession. She moves with confidence and grace in her denim pants. My body preforms well for me. I thrill at the movement, the discovery of which position, is needed for solution to each challenge. I am totally caught up in the excitement of playing on the edges of balance, friction, gravity and falling. There is an invitation to stay, to play, to explore, meet Ram's family and friends for another 14 days! I feel such excitement, sense the opportunities that are there for me. I find a passionate, beautiful, deep and lost love.
That night in my tent I treat the bloody abrasions on knuckles, wrists, knees, hips, elbows and shoulders. I notice the numerous angry bruises. I promise myself that I'll pay closer attention to everything that these two guys say. Stop the mind chatter and questioning. Trust them and myself and fully experience everything. This reentry seems to be more like entering a new sport. So many changes. So much to give up. So much to gain. This is really fun. It just might turn out REALLY well...…..as I drop into deep sleep.
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Aug. 23,1981 > The Pit of Despair, Utah
I loosen my grip and watch the rope delicately slip through my fingers, paying line out. It moves around a smooth shoulder of rock and out of sight. I have moved back up the canyon and settle into low body belay. There are no natural anchors available and we cannot afford to sacrifice another bolt for belay. Our supply is dangerously low. We had jointly explored our options standing at the brink of the cavernous pit. None were easy. We considered and carefully evaluated risks. There seemed like only one best chance. We agreed. It was dangerous. I was grim but we committed to a plan. However, it means that I will be out of view to see how it plays out.
Initially, we are close enough for conversation, although there is little cause for much of that. We are finely tuned climbing partners. I give him slack as he requires it without words and often anticipate it as I hear his progress. I am glad I took that last long look at our route while he was preparing to set out. Now I must rely on his commands and the images that I can recall of the dark right wall and the gaping hole beneath.
"BE READY!", he calls. I know he is now balanced delicately on tiny irregularities in the rock. At this position the rope between us offers him little safety in case he falls. We both know this, but I ready myself in the event this happens. Until he sets the first bolt in place, he risks falling twice the distance he has traveled, plus the stretch in the rope! Worse, his free fall, even with the friction I have created between us, would result in his body slamming violently into the up canyon wall. Better if he dropped into the water. But that could mean failure of our plan and critical time wasted. I cannot visualize that. I wait. I hope. He works. I feel the tension just out of sight as he carefully taps out a hole, replaces tools, blows out the dust, hangs a hanger, tightens the nut and FINALLY sets the first bolt. I hear the welcome sound of a carabiner gate close. We exhale in unison. Now that we have a solid anchor between us, the rope is of great benefit to him.
> "WATCH ME NOW!" He is back to work. > "I'VE GOT YOU!", I reassure him. A short rest and he moves on.The next section is critical; the crux, we call it. I listen to his soft foot placement, his breathing and then the tapping of his hammer as he turns the bit into the hard stone. I imagine him pulling out one of his custom made anchors and dropping it into the first hole.
He calls again, "OK, I'M MOVING!". This means he is moving higher to drill another hole for the other custom anchor. When this one is placed, I feel relief again as he clips in. I hear him exhale and I follow suit. His voice is tense and farther away now. I can hear the click of the lever as he removes the first retrievable bolt leaving an empty hole. Again and again, he repeats the process, as he moves diagonally upward in an agonizing effort to gain the height we need.
He seems so far away. I feel for his solitary labour, but I am helpless to offer him anything more than my silent attention to the rope connecting us. At each pause in the belay I strain to listen, anxious for clues to his progress and to relieve my impatience. It has been a long while and I'm feeling a nagging chill from sitting in wet neoprene without moving for so long. I hear the tapping stop, the unique clatter of metal on rock (I close my eyes and imagine all the tools essential to our survival dropping safely into a pocket or securely attached with a leash to hang from his harness.) I can hear the nut being turned on a bolt and know that he has reached the high point. I thrill at the sound of a carabiner slipping into the hanger. I anticipate his pull for a shank of rope and hear a carabiner gate click again. I open my eyes again, inhale deeply and exhale with a shiver.
&#8232;&#8232;"GIVE ME TENSION, OK?" I comply and he allow the rope of hold his weight he hangs, resting. I hear him let out a full chest of air. A deep inhale and again. I feel a vibration down the rope and imagine him hanging his arms at his side and shaking the fatigue and cramping out. I imagine his charming disarming grin that he gives himself when he feels satisfaction with himself. I allow a smile too and alternately release my cramping hands. Short and sweet, is the moment. Time flies by at a horrifying speed. At this stage, I know exactly where he is. The huge pit is now directly below him. We have much work to do before we can celebrate this important yet insignificant victory.
"OK. LET ME DOWN A BIT!" he hollers from across the wide expanse. I hear courage and determination in his voice. But around the edges I can hear the toll that has been taken in this dangerous and critical passage. I fill the chasm between us with prayer like hope. But there is a lacy fringe of fear present as well. This move is not the crux but it is the most critical objective in the success of our plan. I feel his weight pull rope tight around my back, across my right hip and over my palms as I control his drop.
&#8232;&#8232;"THAT'S IT! HOLD ME NOW!" > I hear his feet shuffle across the steep wall one way, pause and then the other as he pendulums from the high anchor over the huge void beneath. Three or four times the rope strains and relaxes as he works to maximize the distance with each pass. I imagine his feet leaping horizontally along the wall. I hear the shuffle slow and then pause. Now it repeats toward the other side. It then quickens and I imagine his body reaching, his arm thrust out to gain the furthest advantage at the down canyon side of the pendulum swing. The next attempt takes him further, as the sounds of his efforts echo across the huge chasm and around the corner where I blindly sit braced.
Then suddenly, "ROPE!!!" > Argh! I freeze. One heart beat. Argh, ROPE?! Another heart beat. What does he want?!
"DO YOU WANT SLACK or TENSION?" I scream. > I desperately want to react to his urgent need. My body aches to respond but the consequences of the WRONG action on my end of the rope might mean the difference between our living and dying. I prime to repeat my call as a fraction of a second ticks by in slow-motion-crisis-time.
Finally,"SLACK!!!" It comes in a strained voice that I fear holds a hint of failure and surrender. I rush to feed him rope, desperate to believe it was not too late in coming. I could not tell at which point of the pendulum's arch he was stopped. Oh please, oh please, oh....
But I hear shuffling, gruffing, panting and then nothing. > This was good news! I exhaled deeply. The first in nearly an hour I realize. > Until this moment, I had only been able to imagine his exact location. Based on my memory of our original survey and route plan, I could only make a wild guess at his exact location. Much of the time, his balance depended on the lung full of air. He was not going to waste breath to carry on a diatribe of his progress in the midst of the execution of such a delicate maneuver! During the process of the the critical pendulum, I could never determine at which point of the arch he was paused. I only could tell that he had not reached the maximum distance when I felt his movement relayed down the line to me and the muffled shuffling began again. But now, I am certain. This rapid paying out of rope could only mean one thing; my partner has successfully gained the lip on the other side of the monster toilet bowl-shaped watery hole. We were going to survive this cold pit of despair.
Despite the miscommunication at the final moment, he has done it! > Soon in a voice filled with fatigue, relief and a with a slight tinge of frustration came, "OFF BELAY!"
I prepare to follow the same route, to retrieve what I can. I had indeed drawn the long stick this time. I'm short , slower with the hand drill, slow to volunteer on this one, lucky and less bold. For a long long time he had been out on the proverbial short end of the rope and done a masterful job! Now, it was my turn.
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May 2010 > Fence Canyon Camp, Utah
-Ahhhh, Jennae Mae! You are nearly old enough to be my Mom. > -(Ouch. I let it sink in.) How old is your mom, Dan? > -I don't know. She was born in 1951, I think. > -What day? > -The last day of November, I think. > -Ahhhhhhhhhh man! I am exactly as old as your Mom. Ahhhhhhhhh! Dan, I'll kill you if you tell ANYONE that! Ahhhhhhhhh. That is really creepy.
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Aug. 23, 1981 > Back and Beyond, Utah
> We leave our camp stepping through the chill of night's shadow into the welcome sun and climb up toward the top of the rocky fold. My partner and I each carry a 150' of 11mm dynamic rope coiled over a shoulder. These ropes will now be retired from our climbing arsenal and designated to the gorging gear. Our Farmer John wetsuits are strapped to the outside of our fanny packs. Between us we have two liters of water, iodine tablets, granola bars, apples, cheese, a hand drill, bits, rock hammer, bolts, hangers, thin plastic tubing, sling, a Swiss Army knife each, two custom designed retrievable anchors and two 35 mm cameras in altered Pelican boxes. This little gem gave us only a few glimpses into the depths when standing on the rims. Perusing contour lines on the topo map gave an estimate on elevation drops. How many, what kind and how long? Only getting into the gut of it would we find out.
The plan was to move fast, stay confident and travel light. This first descent into this lovely little eroded treasure would require the use of every item we carry that day. Up and around the top of the drainage, we find a way to drop in. This early entry still offers escape if we opt to retreat. We share a giggle or comment on a canyon feature but don't say much. As we climb and rappel deeper through the channels of rock and pools we stop discussing the commitment required each time we pull a rappel rope or downclimb a spot that would be not upclimbable. Time and time again we eliminate our escape route out. It is an awareness we share but choose not to speak of. The stunning beauty lures us to linger and take a few photos. But the pull of the unknown is powerful. Our commitment to this place is tangible now. We've placed our bargain with it. It fills us with urgency.
Our excitement grows as we work efficiently and quickly through tight constrictions, down pour-overs, drops of hanging walls of lush vegetation, through fragile pools teaming with aquatic life, and pot hole obstacles that seem to grow in challenge and magnitude as the canyon walls swallow the light and tower far above. Over and over we drill bolts anchors into the canyon's flanks to allow our continued passage down and eventually, hopefully out the bottom. We drape earth toned webbing at every opportunity; our bolt supply runs dangerously low as is our daylight. Working around and through the monster pot holes, eats up hours. It requires us to extend our skills and combine our efforts at every challenge. It becomes a game of survival. We are as mice in the bottom of a watery bucket. To fail to get out ensures a chilled toilet bowl grave. Passing beneath an elegant arch we move on to discover yet a larger toilet bowl. Truly it is a Paul Bunyan's potty.
We climb delicately around or over obstacles. Several times we construct rope pendulums to avoid several of the deeper pits. Valuable minutes pass as we stand at the brink of a massive gaping hole, several increments larger than the last. Looking into it and up the other side, we see no way through, past or around it. Has our cleverness and skill run out, right here at this problem we have not imagined? We consider our solutions, weigh our options and for the first time, the true seriousness of this game hits us. We are deep in a very remote area, it is a great adventure up to this point but now we are faced with the great challenge. We consider our options carefully. Option one: drop into the deep pool and choose a cold dark watery grave if we fail. Option two: stay trapped within the confines of the rocky channel. Caught between the last climbable drop and this place. A slow death from cold and thirst. Option three: Come up with something else. Good choice. We take option three.
We consider our remaining bolts anchors. We have used many in less than a mile and no indication of change in contour or character of the canyon. We have a long way to go. Will there be a way to climb out? Can we afford to bolt our way out from the bottom? The water is very cold and rewarming is becoming more difficult. The pools are too deep to find leverage to drill or assist each other. Time is becoming a very critical factor. A bivouac is not discussed. It wouldn't solve the problem anyway. We are climbers. So we look to the rock for solution. We would go high and seek passage across the stone.
Over an hour passes. My partner executes an amazing feat of skill and courage and we are across. Yet this canyon is far from finished with us. It will tax us for all we have and spit us out the bottom in the day's waning moments. We arrive back at camp tired, hungry and silent. We have shared a very private bond of camaraderie. I feel a reverent gratitude for our good fortune for having seen this special place. I have a wealth of humility for having left traces of our passing as we worked through the challenges in this pristine place.
With some sadness I ponder what might be left that is lasting? A dozen metal bolts? A hand full of nylon slings? A smashed frog in a crack? Would all of these one day wash and wear away? Does any of it even matter? I let the fatigue flush away the sadness. It occurred to me afterward. What if this canyon had literally been testing us? Maybe this short little water carved passageway had held us captive. Had worked us to our limits. Presenting challenges and luring us on with its beauty and our lust. Then had it allowed our escape? Would it name us as we had it? Would it be an honorable name? Did we earn it? Or would it mock us as insignificant migrant creatures passing through its complex corridors teaming with life. Delicately balanced systems. Had we done any permanent damage in our passage? I hoped with all my heart we had not.
So the name of this special place came a bit later and after much reflection. This was our first canyon together. From this powerful experience we discover a common hunger for adventure. But it was a private passion. Even as we began to plan the next trip, we speak of this one with deep humility and reverence. What was there to talk about? What would we say? We had an arrangement with a like-minded friend, to tell where we were going, just in case. He did the same with us, "So our bodies would be retrieved for our grieving parents". We didn't speak of this canyon to others. We rarely spoke of it to each other except the occasional comment about the manic pits and memorable pendulums.
My partner and I explored several other canyon gems, offering up names, like blessings to honor the places and the privilege to witness their pristine wild states. These were private adventures and we chose to keep all of our explorations and first descents to ourselves and a few select friends. What would we tell? Who would understand? Why would we want to turn a spotlight on these beautiful and fragile places? The thrill of being in a place untouched by human presence, being the first footsteps and first to see the sculpture and light in a place was something profound and unique. It was a privileged gift in a changing time. It created a pestering desire for more. By the very nature of our lust, it was private. Selfish it was. These were sanctuaries of light, stone and immeasurable beauty. It seemed an act of sacrilege and dishonor to invite masses of people into these sacred and fragile places. To speak of it, we risked losing the very things we loved. So we agreed and we did not.
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October, 2010 > SLC, Utah
The woman opens the screen door. She is expecting me and opens the main door to allow my entry. I recognize the cheekbones and lips. She is a large woman, tall and strong of bone, not large with excess though. I introduce myself, a polite gesture. She invites me in. I exaggerate a nod to the passenger waiting in my car in the driveway as I enter the house. I don't want to stay long. I'm just here to pick up a "gift" from this woman's son. Stepping out of my shoes, (a very civilized custom where I live in Canada) I notice the handmade quilts and heirlooms hung from the walls as I follow her. I smile and respond politely as she shows me the family photos, generations of faces. I see my friend's face in graduation garments, dressed up for a sister's wedding, younger but not much changed. I see his face in his siblings too. Of course, we speak casually about the connection we share; my friend, her son, and the adventures we have shared that brought us together. Where she offers no approval of his adventuring, I add elements of my respect for him. Where she acknowledges her concerns in his risk taking choices, I offer her a lighter view.
Finally, she descends the stairs to return with my "gift" and presents me with a large framed print. I know what it is before I see it. It is a stunning black and white 24"x 36"photo of our Pit of Despair. The eye is drawn to the center. A tiny figure in a wetsuit is struggling to crawl over the lip of a cavernous round pit. The huge wall beneath him shows his watery trail out of the pool below. The camera angle captures a chilling beauty and amplifies the size of the pit and the significance of the little human's successful endeavor to escape. I feel my knees slightly buckle remembering my passage through this place, over 28 years ago. I pause, recalling recent images of my return to this place, a few months back. I it from her hand. I can find no words. I know that there is nothing I can say to help her understand what I know. To help her understand what her son and I both know. Why he would give me this gift and its significance to me. How could I share the many things that I share in common with her son that she may never ever understand?
"He is too generous. He can't afford to give me this…..", filling the air with trivial niceties as I retreat to the door.
She follows but seems to want to extend our visit, to stretch it out into something else. Outside she still stands quietly behind me. After carefully padding and tucking the gift into my car, I turn to face her. I see her as if for the first time as a woman, a mother, a life of church and family and friends and domestic bliss. It was a life style I had imagined for myself and chose a different path, many years ago..
We prepare ourselves for fare thee well. I look up at her face and realize that she is my age, my peer, my contemporary. But she looks younger, I'm sure! I recall my image in the mirror. My hair is filled with grey streaks. Her hair is a lush brown and neatly groomed. My rough toes poke through my gritty Chacos and my favorite blue jeans haven't been washed in weeks. I look at her conservative attire and notice that she is immaculate in every way. Her skin is clear and wrinkle free. I recall the years and years of direct and reflected sun from rock, snow and water that has worked with wind and sand to sculpt deep fissures in my face and turn my skin to tissue texture. I see a scarred, weathered hand of an old woman with twisting joints and wrinkled flesh reach out to accept the smooth and manicured one she extends in return. I love my hands. People have noticed them and commented on their uniqueness since my early twenties. They have served me well. Suddenly the contrast between myself and this woman seems not to matter anymore. I realize that I'm fine with being this age. I'm proud to wear my scars and years on my face and hands. I'm happy and grateful that I am still moving through these magical canyons and finding such love and deep camaraderie with so many people, some even far younger than her son. > ---------
October, 2010 > Facebook Email
Jenny to Dan: > I met ½ of your parental unit. Your Mom is beautiful. She looks younger than I do. She is actually! Her birthday is the day before mine but minus a year! Don't ya know yo' own mum's birthday, boy? Remember, I know where you live now and I'll hunt you down if you tell anyone that I'm old enough to be yo'r mamma!
I picked up your generous gift. Thank you, you scamp. Too extravagant. `Not in your budget for this year, lil' bro! I love it though. You were the catalyst for all of this, you know. Full circle, eh? > I love you. Be safe out there and see you when you get back on the continent. > ---------------
November 30, 2010 > Bowen Island, British Columbia,
It is my birthday! On this day, 59 years ago a little value closed between my heart and lungs inviting a suck of air to begin my life as baby human. My Breath Day.
More importantly, today, I celebrate the first anniversary of my reentry into the canyons, my Awakening. I have a deep felt gratitude to Dan for his integrity and care in guiding me in. To Tom, as well, for teaching this old dog new tricks with all the patience he could muster. There are many others who have warmly welcomed me onto trips and supported my wobbling ego until I found my stride. I think them most generous and thank them. I have bottomless pit full of gratitude to my dear new/old friend Ram. With his good and generous heart he invited me into his family and circle of friends (is there a bigger gift?). At his invitation this year I have seen 41 new canyons and have 60 new friends, many of which are very dear and close to my heart. There is a list of others that will soon become so, as well. Add to that number the reunion of four old friends from "back in the day" as a result of my reentry.
I move in a different way at fifty-nine. I give careful attention to the ever present pull of gravity. I've learned this year to let go of much, hang on to newly defined important things and thank my good luck for everything. My life is rich with adventure texture and a rekindled passion for being out in the wild places. Whereas my past offers me wonderful memories of venturing through pristine canyons with one talented partner, my present reveals the relevance of my place in Clan. The future seems more promising than ever before. I'm off one trip and begin plans for the next. . My husband of 20 years delights in my rebirth into the wild. We share a partnership full of breath and dynamic space. In the union of our experiences we find a deeper view of the world. He is generous and kind. His steadiness offers freedom for me to fling myself across the universe. And he always welcomes me home. My job as an artist allows complete flexibility and creative outlet. I welcome the empty nest whole heartedly as our only child is off to university this year. Lil' Cricket, I called her when she was deep with my bursting belly. I pulled a needle with coloured threads through a hoop of stretched linen to form a lasting message. My hope for her future; "I wish for you two things; I wish you roots and I wish you wings."
What a wonderful new world it is. Webs of internet connections everywhere. A flick of a fingertip opens a prompt arrow on a little video clip on the face of a computer screen. This action connects a synapse in memory which sends a soul's roots deep into past discovery and results in unfolded broad soaring wings!
Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers > I am, > Jenny >

What a great story. So courageous and inspiring, yet humble at the same time. I especially enjoyed the part about age, as it is something I reflect on often; my mom is just a year older than you and many other very active and adventurous people I choose to and love to recreate with, yet she has chosen for herself a very different lifestyle. I would love to share a canyoneering experience with her, but she is unwilling. I'm grateful that I've been able to share the experience with my dad and sister (and that my sister, like me, is now obsessed).

I can only imagine what it was like to be in Cricket that day in 1981, so it was a thrill to read your first-hand account of some of the more anxious moments of the day. I was surprised to read that you felt so worried about your mark in the canyon. I wonder how you feel about the evidence you left of your passage back then compared with the amount of gear scattered around the canyons today?

Wow, what a year! Everything you've done seems like it's been much longer than a year...how many trips have you made it down for this year, and why the heck aren't you coming to FF!?

Anyway, here are a few of my favorite lines: >"To my horror a tiny face with bulging eyes appears beneath my buried fingers!"

So sad! But alas, I once witnessed the unintended crushing of a frog by another canyoneer...so don't feel so bad; fate would have it that this happens sometimes.

> "'Jenny! I'm not YELLING at you. I'm just speaking LOUDLY.' He melts me, then. Literally, I fall in love with Tom Jones at that moment. "

LOL! I know the tone, and the feeling. That guy!

>"I was like a weasel in the hen house. I can't get enough."

>"It is an awareness we share but choose not to speak of. The stunning beauty lures us to linger and take a few photos. But the pull of the unknown is powerful. Our commitment to this place is tangible now. We've placed our bargain with it. It fills us with urgency."

>"We consider our options carefully. Option one:...choose a cold dark watery grave if we fail. Option two:...A slow death from cold and thirst. Option three: Come up with something else. Good choice. We take option three."

Seems like the decision is pretty cut and dry when you put it this way...glad you and your partner were able to figure out a solution to the problem. In a similar situation I hope that I would try, try, try until I succeed or fail trying, as opposed to failing to try.

>"My partner and I explored several other canyon gems, offering up names, like blessings to honor the places and the privilege to witness their pristine wild states. These were private adventures and we chose to keep all of our explorations and first descents to ourselves and a few select friends. What would we tell? Who would understand? Why would we want to turn a spotlight on these beautiful and fragile places? The thrill of being in a place untouched by human presence, being the first footsteps and first to see the sculpture and light in a place was something profound and unique. It was a privileged gift in a changing time. It created a pestering desire for more. By the very nature of our lust, it was private. Selfish it was. These were sanctuaries of light, stone and immeasurable beauty. It seemed an act of sacrilege and dishonor to invite masses of people into these sacred and fragile places. To speak of it, we risked losing the very things we loved. So we agreed and we did not."

I think no one should feel obliged to share beta... sharing is a privilege and a joy, as is keeping it an intimate memory between partners.

"I love my hands. People have noticed them and commented on their uniqueness since my early twenties. They have served me well. Suddenly the contrast between myself and this woman seems not to matter anymore. I realize that I'm fine with being this age. I'm proud to wear my scars and years on my face and hands. I'm happy and grateful that I am still moving through these magical canyons and finding such love and deep camaraderie with so many people, some even far younger than her son."

"With his good and generous heart he invited me into his family and circle of friends (is there a bigger gift?)."

Thanks for sharing, and happy belated birthday! -Malia

An amazing read, Jenny. Thank you so much!

I noticed your hands when we first met, in August. Definitely climbers hands - the last joints of your fingers, in particular. You have strong, yet deft digits. Noticed them again the other day, as you were getting popcorn out of the bag at the movie. Full of character, full of strength. I'm glad you love your hands - they're beautiful!

And yeah, we'll talk about you at FreezeFest!

Kev



--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:
OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime. 'Trying to make a deadline (Nov. 30) on a promise made to myself and a friend. I'm two hours late. I click onto Yahoo Canyon group to see that several of you have been talking about me! Hope this doesn't mean that you won't talk about me at FreezeFest?

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:
OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well
OF PITS AND PENDULUMS

> Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers > I am, > Jenny



I concur with the others who have commented on this peiece. The writing is compelling. The words dense with meaning and feeling. Some have likely been put off by the length. I suggest these folks reconsider and carve out the 10 minutes it will take to read this wonderful piece. Make sure there are no distractions, so you can bath in it. Once you get going, you will not be able to stop. An instant classic, destined for a place of "honour" in Stefan's and Dave "Canyon Tales." Kudos for this carefully crafted work. Ram

And on the October trip, she broke one of those fingers at the last joint. While I would have been "waaa waaa call the wambulance" or "I got issues, please get the tissues", she simply made jokes about another bend digit. That is when someone would bring it up. Among many other qualities, she is a tough character too. R

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "cirrus2000_telus_net" <cirrus2000@...> wrote:
An amazing read, Jenny. Thank you so much!
I noticed your hands when we first met, in August. Definitely climbers hands - the last joints of your fingers, in particular. You have strong, yet deft digits. Noticed them again the other day, as you were getting popcorn out of the bag at the movie. Full of character, full of strength. I'm glad you love your hands - they're beautiful!
And yeah, we'll talk about you at FreezeFest!
Kev

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@> wrote:

OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime. 'Trying to make a deadline (Nov. 30) on a promise made to myself and a friend. I'm two hours late. I click onto Yahoo Canyon group to see that several of you have been talking about me! Hope this doesn't mean that you won't talk about me at FreezeFest? >

I totally agree. Found it a really enjoyable read. So cool that it was the catalyst for a reunion of sorts; and a jaunt into the past, allowing you to get back into gorging as well as a trip down memory lane.

Thanks also for your original efforts in Poe canyon! As you likely know, my group, as well as Jason's group; both went high over the monster pothole, and we used your original bolts; almost 30 years later... (I'm interested in making another passage through the canyon, but like you, was definitely humbled by the serious beauty of the place. It's still the only canyon I ever had a (relatively) unplanned bivvy in. Thankfully, we knew it to be a possibility; and had at least a minimal amount of bivvy gear with us...) During our passage through, we commented several times how amazing the original folks must have been to place some of those bolts... Major kudos to you guys.

I'm looking forward to another trip through; but I want to be much more skilled and practiced with the new sandtrap...

I wish you the happiest of (now belated) birthdays, and look forward to the day when we cross paths!

Take care, A.J.

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "evergreen_dean" <dbrooks@...> wrote:
What a great read Jenny. Thanks for giving me a good reason to procrastinate my work this morning! You are an inspiration.
--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@> wrote:

OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime....

Ram do you remember our first impression, and comments about that high route.  I was laughing and squeezing my fist reading about the first passage.  What a visual.

--- On Wed, 12/1/10, RAM adkramoo@aol.com> wrote:

From: RAM adkramoo@aol.com> Subject: [from Canyons Group] Re: A Breath Day Story for my Clan To: Yahoo Canyons Group Date: Wednesday, December 1, 2010, 2:19 PM















 













--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:

>

> OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well

>

> OF PITS AND PENDULUMS



> Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers

> I am,

> Jenny



I concur with the others who have commented on this peiece. The writing is compelling. The words dense with meaning and feeling. Some have likely been put off by the length. I suggest these folks reconsider and carve out the 10 minutes it will take to read this wonderful piece. Make sure there are no distractions, so you can bath in it. Once you get going, you will not be able to stop. An instant classic, destined for a place of "honour" in Stefan's and Dave "Canyon Tales." Kudos for this carefully crafted work.

Ram

This is what I wrote about it...

The high bypass is commented on by my partners. There is no love in their voices. I wonder what the geometry of the place is like? I will find out soon enough, I'm sure. <snip> Before we exit the area, I check out the bypass route, up high.<snip> Up there where I hope never to go! Ever!

It is such a great story Jenny wrote. She states how conflicted she is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too. The place made all the events of the last year occur, but the story is about oh so much more than that. I am glad it is guarded by such daunting difficulties. I regret the amount of attention I have helped draw toward it. The place is so dangerous and "engineering" solutions are not enough to mitigate the danger. I am REALLY happy to have made such a special new friend. I just wish part of the price isn't a bit more wilderness lost. Ram

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, Steven Jackson <stjalliance@...> wrote:
Ram do you remember our first impression, and comments about that high route.  I was laughing and squeezing my fist reading about the first passage.  What a visual.
--- On Wed, 12/1/10, RAM <adkramoo@...> wrote:
From: RAM <adkramoo@...
Subject: [from Canyons Group] Re: A Breath Day Story for my Clan > To: Yahoo Canyons Group
Date: Wednesday, December 1, 2010, 2:19 PM







>  






--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@> wrote:


OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well


OF PITS AND PENDULUMS

> Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers
> I am,
> Jenny

I concur with the others who have commented on this peiece. The writing is compelling. The words dense with meaning and feeling. Some have likely been put off by the length. I suggest these folks reconsider and carve out the 10 minutes it will take to read this wonderful piece. Make sure there are no distractions, so you can bath in it. Once you get going, you will not be able to stop. An instant classic, destined for a place of "honour" in Stefan's and Dave "Canyon Tales." Kudos for this carefully crafted work.
Ram














> >

Jenny, I hope you had a wonderful Breath Day. It took me all day to finally get some personal time to sit and enjoy your posting. Thank you for such an awesome read!



________________________________

OF PITS AND PENDULUMS

November, 2009 Bowen Island, BC

"...Hey, by the way, check out this link. You're famous! Later, J.J."

I stared at the email, confused, "Hmmmmmm, that's random".

Thank you for sharing that Jenny. Made my morning! Hope to see you in a canyon again before too long. Bill

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:
OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well past my bedtime. 'Trying to make a deadline (Nov. 30) on a promise made to myself and a friend. I'm two hours late. I click onto Yahoo Canyon group to see that several of you have been talking about me! Hope this doesn't mean that you won't talk about me at FreezeFest? Nice surprise, though. Thanks for your b-day wishes. To you all, I get even with this long tale ( which lost all the fonts and subtle characters...oh well. I do hope you enjoy it.
> OF PITS AND PENDULUMS
> November, 2009 > Bowen Island, BC
"...Hey, by the way, check out this link. You're famous! > Later, > J.J."
I stared at the email, confused, "Hmmmmmm, that's random".
Feeling inept and a bit leery, I move the cursor over the link and click. A beautiful web page appears with bright red titles and an arrow prompt. Another click and I marvel as my screen strobes through images of a large group of men walking across sandstone. Change; now guys in wet suits and helmets moving down, over and around obstacles in a beautiful canyon. Change; someone tosses something attached to a rope resulting in cheers just off camera. Change, change and change again; a lone figure struggles to ascend a rope out of a water filled pot hole. (Gawd, this looks somehow familiar.) Change, change again; more compelling action and intense music. Then to my amazement, a man makes a huge dynamic jump into a pool!
"What?! This makes no sense at all. This is nuts!"
Rapid fire images flash on and off faster than my mind can process. Bold dialogue and intense music rolls over the top of it. One man speaks about the technical aspects of the canyon, "The pot holes become deeper. The challenges become bigger...If you can't move through a place like this with a lot of speed, aaaaaah, you're in big trouble." Back to action. Back to the same guy. Back to action, more action, and another face shot of a reclining fellow who describes the proper use of a sand bag used as a rappel anchor. What?! More action. The music becomes quiet. The first guy again, with a serious nod adds, "Be careful out there, it's a serious place". Then, my gapping mouth drops another inch as a Hollywood style fade in with title and release date appears on my screen. Then stillness. Hmmmmmmmmm, I sit captivated. It is a very well done video for sure. It invites, it intrigues and it confuses me! Why the sense that I've been there? What is my relationship to this?
I stare for a moment and begin to read the print below. > "The legend precedes this canyon. With only a handful of known descents, limited beta…" > "What the heck is beta?", I say out loud. > I read on, "…complex logistics, and extremely remote access, it is certainly one of the plateau's premiere wilderness slot canyons." > Ahhhhh, oh my gosh! Synapses finally bridge the gap and zap! I do know this place! > "In true wilderness ethic, our team set out to document a descent, applying various low-impact techniques developed over the course of year's of canyoneering experience. > Stay tuned in the weeks ahead. This is just a preview."
---------------
(Approximately 28 years earlier) > Aug. 23, 1981 > Back and Beyond, Utah
Deep inside the calm depths of the dark pit, we attempt to gain the lip far above us. Our thin neoprene offers some buoyancy and protection from the incessant chill but we've been treading water a long while. Now the fatigue is hard to ignore. Once again, he takes a deep breath and we time our next attempt without the need for words. I cock my knee high as he grasps my foot with both his hands. Our timing is near perfect. His body tenses cueing me to prepare to propel my body upward along the wall, stretching and reaching as high I can. As I am thrust upward he is repeatedly submerged. The rock is slippery from our failed attempts. Our eyes are well trained to see irregularities in the rock. Over and over my fingers confirm what my eyes are not seeing. Once again, I focus on a shallow diagonal crack far above. This time our timing is even more perfect. The trigger; NOW! The upward thrust comes. Statically balancing on his hands I straighten my knee. My body uncoils as I throw all momentum up into a long stretch. A sputter from below. He resurfaces treading the water. He quickly reaches to offer help again. My feet scramble, my left palm presses into the wall below me and I strain upward. MUST....DO THIS! Two of my fingers catch the bottom edge of the crack. I pull HARD, every tissue in my right arm fires up! PULL! I quiet my body against the wall. Concentration quiets my raging brain. Determined. Focused. Must do this!
I counterbalance the right arm's flex upward against the left arm's push downward. I make tiny dynamic changes as my chest rises in micro movements up the rock. Knees are bent, smeared against stone as the toes inch upward. Eyes are fixed on the critical finger hold. I feel the subtle shift of the fulcrum and allow a mini wave of jubilation. NOT THERE YET!
My shoulders drop to the cold stone. I replant my mantling left hand. I shift my mind away from the burn in the bicep and concentrate my focus on the two finger placement in the crack. My head slowly rises even with my hand. To my horror a tiny face with bulging eyes appears beneath my buried fingers! As my torso slides past, my grip deepens adding another finger to the crack. I see the little frog is further squeezed. On impulse I want to release it! My survival instinct screams NOOOOOOO! A moment of struggle. I'm desperate to withdraw my fingers and tend to this little creature. Crushed in its own home. Me, the intruder! I turn my gaze the opposite direction and resist the urge to vomit. One last pull and push! I flop up onto the flat rock and quickly anchor for my partner to climb up. I'm out! We're out! The loss of that tiny life weighs heavy on me as we pull and coil the rope to continue on down the canyon. I don't allow my gaze to go there. I feel no jubilation. This canyon is beginning to wear me down.
----------
March, 2010 > In the Irish Canyons, Utah
"JENNY! JOHANNA!" I jolt and freeze. I look in the direction of this barking command. Tom, sits not ten feet away (close enough to whisper our names and be heard). He does not look up as he continues to secure the buckle on his boot, > "I WANT YOU BOTH TO GO LAST! AND! PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO WHAT THE OTHERS ARE DOING!"
Insult passes in a moment as I remind myself that I have a lot to learn...relearn...whatever. I am not going to quit this early. Besides, I recall what it is like to go out with newbies; to be in charge and ….besides I have prepared myself well. I will not let my ego cause upset for me, not now. I have prepared myself for the possibility of this, and worse, I think. I glance over at Johanna to see her reaction. Her expression gives away nothing.
The others finish their preparations for the descent into the tight little canyon. I stand and watch closely, as ordered. Niggly little whispering voices of doubt begin , "Will my body remember? Will I be able to keep up with these younger people? Can I find the joy in being with strangers in such a big group? Will they accept me? I do have a car at the bottom and freedom to bail out…."
I am standing slack jawed, and not paying close attention, as I had been instructed. I realize that everyone has moved down the canyon. Grateful for the diversion from following this thinking; The Path of Doom, I look up. A stern glance from Tom and I know that it is my turn. He makes no attempt to hide his impatience. I step briskly forward.
-3/4 hour later:
"JENNY!" I flinch but continue coiling the sand coated rope. I offer my full attention as Tom hollers down at me from the top of the rappel. > "WE DON'T COIL THE ROPE! WE STUFF IT IN THE ROPE BAG!" > I see a thick bag laying off to one side, assume it to be THE ROPE BAG, and bend to pick it up, as ordered. I am aware that several people are watching me with wary eyes. I notice that Tom has now turned his attention elsewhere. I KNOW that there is a Right way and a Wrong way to stuff the rope in the bag. Tough, I think! I am anxious to move on and don't want to allow for my growing irritation. I sense concern from the watching faces as I push the rope, neatly looped in a perfect climber's coil, into the bag. I consider briefly before throwing back a response. > "TOM!" > He stops and peers around a fluted edge to look down at me. > "STOP YELLING AT ME!" I smile sweetly and swing the rope bag over a shoulder as I turn. I pause in my second step to hear; > "Jenny! I'm not YELLING at you. I'm just speaking LOUDLY."
He melts me, then. Literally, I fall in love with Tom Jones at that moment. I'm not saying that I don't startle and flinch at the tone in his voice and the sternness on his face sometimes when he addresses me. I learn to face him eye-to-eye, even through the occasional tears that well up in mine when I take a Tom slap personally.
Ram invited me join in on this trip. Although we all defer to Tom once we begin our descent, I look to them both as being the experts. I watch every move they make that day and pay close attention to every tidbit they share between themselves and with the others in the group. I sorely feel the sting of not taking their suggestion "to layer up" from the previous night's instructional discourse. I learn a new way of moving in watching them. I discover that my body thrills at the movement. When my old habits of climbing down the canyon move me to exhaustion, I get behind Ram and copy the efficiency in which he descends. I learn to "elevator down" rather than the highly physical four points of contact way of descent that I'm accustomed to.
Over and over, I am awestruck and shocked to witness such evolution in things where I was once an expert. I can tie most knots without looking, literally. But I see knots and rappel blocking techniques that I'd never seen before. Their multiple layers of clothing and neoprene offers protection in using new techniques. Nearly everything is new to me; helmets, specialized shoes, neo everything, gloves, new rappel devices, biner blocks, single strand rappels off of pencil thin static rope, resetting rope lengths, rope bags and (gulp) the Death Knot used as a standard for joining ropes. What about the water knot and the double grapevine? I am afraid to ask...rather afraid to waste time on their answer. It is quicker to simply watch and let myself naturally absorb it. Besides, most of it makes very good sense.
I am humbled. I'm struck dumb and sometimes numb. I am forced to surrender my old beliefs. Either that or struggle and challenge constantly. I have to let go of years of experience and open up to a beginner's mind again. Very early in the day it becomes apparent that I need to choose; resist the new techniques or embrace them. I chose the later and decide to fully trust these guys.
I didn't come into this without checking these guys out. I bouncing around the internet reading trip reports and stories. In the process I learned about links and blogs and forums and trip reports and discovered mysterious acronyms, guide services and guide books and certification institutions and archives and photos galore! I know these guys are well respected and considered some of the best. Their two faces appeared in the original video I had found. I eased my way into the arena of email communication-relation and exchanged correspondence. The result; I am invited to join this trip.
I spent the next two months preparing my body. I know that being efficient in my movement is critical for me. I am no longer the fit young adventurer of decades past. My body was broken, ripped and worn. Years of gravity sports has taken a heavy toll. If I want to be in for the long haul then I have to learn to operate within my own limits. First, I have to discover them. More relevant, as it turns out, I mentally prepare myself for either success or failure. This was the day! The moment to choose. In the clarity of this decision it becomes easy. I decide to trust my decision and just enjoy it. I love it! I am having so much fun that I no longer have any doubts. I was like a weasel in the hen house. I can't get enough. I even enjoy moving through the canyon in a big group. Head to tail, lining up as if in a cattle chute. I offer my customary "MOOOOOO MOOOOO". No one laughs. I decide to behave!
Before the day is over Johanna and I have both worked our way to the front of the procession. She moves with confidence and grace in her denim pants. My body preforms well for me. I thrill at the movement, the discovery of which position, is needed for solution to each challenge. I am totally caught up in the excitement of playing on the edges of balance, friction, gravity and falling. There is an invitation to stay, to play, to explore, meet Ram's family and friends for another 14 days! I feel such excitement, sense the opportunities that are there for me. I find a passionate, beautiful, deep and lost love.
That night in my tent I treat the bloody abrasions on knuckles, wrists, knees, hips, elbows and shoulders. I notice the numerous angry bruises. I promise myself that I'll pay closer attention to everything that these two guys say. Stop the mind chatter and questioning. Trust them and myself and fully experience everything. This reentry seems to be more like entering a new sport. So many changes. So much to give up. So much to gain. This is really fun. It just might turn out REALLY well...…..as I drop into deep sleep.
-----------------------
Aug. 23,1981 > The Pit of Despair, Utah
I loosen my grip and watch the rope delicately slip through my fingers, paying line out. It moves around a smooth shoulder of rock and out of sight. I have moved back up the canyon and settle into low body belay. There are no natural anchors available and we cannot afford to sacrifice another bolt for belay. Our supply is dangerously low. We had jointly explored our options standing at the brink of the cavernous pit. None were easy. We considered and carefully evaluated risks. There seemed like only one best chance. We agreed. It was dangerous. I was grim but we committed to a plan. However, it means that I will be out of view to see how it plays out.
Initially, we are close enough for conversation, although there is little cause for much of that. We are finely tuned climbing partners. I give him slack as he requires it without words and often anticipate it as I hear his progress. I am glad I took that last long look at our route while he was preparing to set out. Now I must rely on his commands and the images that I can recall of the dark right wall and the gaping hole beneath.
"BE READY!", he calls. I know he is now balanced delicately on tiny irregularities in the rock. At this position the rope between us offers him little safety in case he falls. We both know this, but I ready myself in the event this happens. Until he sets the first bolt in place, he risks falling twice the distance he has traveled, plus the stretch in the rope! Worse, his free fall, even with the friction I have created between us, would result in his body slamming violently into the up canyon wall. Better if he dropped into the water. But that could mean failure of our plan and critical time wasted. I cannot visualize that. I wait. I hope. He works. I feel the tension just out of sight as he carefully taps out a hole, replaces tools, blows out the dust, hangs a hanger, tightens the nut and FINALLY sets the first bolt. I hear the welcome sound of a carabiner gate close. We exhale in unison. Now that we have a solid anchor between us, the rope is of great benefit to him.
> "WATCH ME NOW!" He is back to work. > "I'VE GOT YOU!", I reassure him. A short rest and he moves on.The next section is critical; the crux, we call it. I listen to his soft foot placement, his breathing and then the tapping of his hammer as he turns the bit into the hard stone. I imagine him pulling out one of his custom made anchors and dropping it into the first hole.
He calls again, "OK, I'M MOVING!". This means he is moving higher to drill another hole for the other custom anchor. When this one is placed, I feel relief again as he clips in. I hear him exhale and I follow suit. His voice is tense and farther away now. I can hear the click of the lever as he removes the first retrievable bolt leaving an empty hole. Again and again, he repeats the process, as he moves diagonally upward in an agonizing effort to gain the height we need.
He seems so far away. I feel for his solitary labour, but I am helpless to offer him anything more than my silent attention to the rope connecting us. At each pause in the belay I strain to listen, anxious for clues to his progress and to relieve my impatience. It has been a long while and I'm feeling a nagging chill from sitting in wet neoprene without moving for so long. I hear the tapping stop, the unique clatter of metal on rock (I close my eyes and imagine all the tools essential to our survival dropping safely into a pocket or securely attached with a leash to hang from his harness.) I can hear the nut being turned on a bolt and know that he has reached the high point. I thrill at the sound of a carabiner slipping into the hanger. I anticipate his pull for a shank of rope and hear a carabiner gate click again. I open my eyes again, inhale deeply and exhale with a shiver.
&#8232;&#8232;"GIVE ME TENSION, OK?" I comply and he allow the rope of hold his weight he hangs, resting. I hear him let out a full chest of air. A deep inhale and again. I feel a vibration down the rope and imagine him hanging his arms at his side and shaking the fatigue and cramping out. I imagine his charming disarming grin that he gives himself when he feels satisfaction with himself. I allow a smile too and alternately release my cramping hands. Short and sweet, is the moment. Time flies by at a horrifying speed. At this stage, I know exactly where he is. The huge pit is now directly below him. We have much work to do before we can celebrate this important yet insignificant victory.
"OK. LET ME DOWN A BIT!" he hollers from across the wide expanse. I hear courage and determination in his voice. But around the edges I can hear the toll that has been taken in this dangerous and critical passage. I fill the chasm between us with prayer like hope. But there is a lacy fringe of fear present as well. This move is not the crux but it is the most critical objective in the success of our plan. I feel his weight pull rope tight around my back, across my right hip and over my palms as I control his drop.
&#8232;&#8232;"THAT'S IT! HOLD ME NOW!" > I hear his feet shuffle across the steep wall one way, pause and then the other as he pendulums from the high anchor over the huge void beneath. Three or four times the rope strains and relaxes as he works to maximize the distance with each pass. I imagine his feet leaping horizontally along the wall. I hear the shuffle slow and then pause. Now it repeats toward the other side. It then quickens and I imagine his body reaching, his arm thrust out to gain the furthest advantage at the down canyon side of the pendulum swing. The next attempt takes him further, as the sounds of his efforts echo across the huge chasm and around the corner where I blindly sit braced.
Then suddenly, "ROPE!!!" > Argh! I freeze. One heart beat. Argh, ROPE?! Another heart beat. What does he want?!
"DO YOU WANT SLACK or TENSION?" I scream. > I desperately want to react to his urgent need. My body aches to respond but the consequences of the WRONG action on my end of the rope might mean the difference between our living and dying. I prime to repeat my call as a fraction of a second ticks by in slow-motion-crisis-time.
Finally,"SLACK!!!" It comes in a strained voice that I fear holds a hint of failure and surrender. I rush to feed him rope, desperate to believe it was not too late in coming. I could not tell at which point of the pendulum's arch he was stopped. Oh please, oh please, oh....
But I hear shuffling, gruffing, panting and then nothing. > This was good news! I exhaled deeply. The first in nearly an hour I realize. > Until this moment, I had only been able to imagine his exact location. Based on my memory of our original survey and route plan, I could only make a wild guess at his exact location. Much of the time, his balance depended on the lung full of air. He was not going to waste breath to carry on a diatribe of his progress in the midst of the execution of such a delicate maneuver! During the process of the the critical pendulum, I could never determine at which point of the arch he was paused. I only could tell that he had not reached the maximum distance when I felt his movement relayed down the line to me and the muffled shuffling began again. But now, I am certain. This rapid paying out of rope could only mean one thing; my partner has successfully gained the lip on the other side of the monster toilet bowl-shaped watery hole. We were going to survive this cold pit of despair.
Despite the miscommunication at the final moment, he has done it! > Soon in a voice filled with fatigue, relief and a with a slight tinge of frustration came, "OFF BELAY!"
I prepare to follow the same route, to retrieve what I can. I had indeed drawn the long stick this time. I'm short , slower with the hand drill, slow to volunteer on this one, lucky and less bold. For a long long time he had been out on the proverbial short end of the rope and done a masterful job! Now, it was my turn.
----------------
May 2010 > Fence Canyon Camp, Utah
-Ahhhh, Jennae Mae! You are nearly old enough to be my Mom. > -(Ouch. I let it sink in.) How old is your mom, Dan? > -I don't know. She was born in 1951, I think. > -What day? > -The last day of November, I think. > -Ahhhhhhhhhh man! I am exactly as old as your Mom. Ahhhhhhhhh! Dan, I'll kill you if you tell ANYONE that! Ahhhhhhhhh. That is really creepy.
---------------
Aug. 23, 1981 > Back and Beyond, Utah
> We leave our camp stepping through the chill of night's shadow into the welcome sun and climb up toward the top of the rocky fold. My partner and I each carry a 150' of 11mm dynamic rope coiled over a shoulder. These ropes will now be retired from our climbing arsenal and designated to the gorging gear. Our Farmer John wetsuits are strapped to the outside of our fanny packs. Between us we have two liters of water, iodine tablets, granola bars, apples, cheese, a hand drill, bits, rock hammer, bolts, hangers, thin plastic tubing, sling, a Swiss Army knife each, two custom designed retrievable anchors and two 35 mm cameras in altered Pelican boxes. This little gem gave us only a few glimpses into the depths when standing on the rims. Perusing contour lines on the topo map gave an estimate on elevation drops. How many, what kind and how long? Only getting into the gut of it would we find out.
The plan was to move fast, stay confident and travel light. This first descent into this lovely little eroded treasure would require the use of every item we carry that day. Up and around the top of the drainage, we find a way to drop in. This early entry still offers escape if we opt to retreat. We share a giggle or comment on a canyon feature but don't say much. As we climb and rappel deeper through the channels of rock and pools we stop discussing the commitment required each time we pull a rappel rope or downclimb a spot that would be not upclimbable. Time and time again we eliminate our escape route out. It is an awareness we share but choose not to speak of. The stunning beauty lures us to linger and take a few photos. But the pull of the unknown is powerful. Our commitment to this place is tangible now. We've placed our bargain with it. It fills us with urgency.
Our excitement grows as we work efficiently and quickly through tight constrictions, down pour-overs, drops of hanging walls of lush vegetation, through fragile pools teaming with aquatic life, and pot hole obstacles that seem to grow in challenge and magnitude as the canyon walls swallow the light and tower far above. Over and over we drill bolts anchors into the canyon's flanks to allow our continued passage down and eventually, hopefully out the bottom. We drape earth toned webbing at every opportunity; our bolt supply runs dangerously low as is our daylight. Working around and through the monster pot holes, eats up hours. It requires us to extend our skills and combine our efforts at every challenge. It becomes a game of survival. We are as mice in the bottom of a watery bucket. To fail to get out ensures a chilled toilet bowl grave. Passing beneath an elegant arch we move on to discover yet a larger toilet bowl. Truly it is a Paul Bunyan's potty.
We climb delicately around or over obstacles. Several times we construct rope pendulums to avoid several of the deeper pits. Valuable minutes pass as we stand at the brink of a massive gaping hole, several increments larger than the last. Looking into it and up the other side, we see no way through, past or around it. Has our cleverness and skill run out, right here at this problem we have not imagined? We consider our solutions, weigh our options and for the first time, the true seriousness of this game hits us. We are deep in a very remote area, it is a great adventure up to this point but now we are faced with the great challenge. We consider our options carefully. Option one: drop into the deep pool and choose a cold dark watery grave if we fail. Option two: stay trapped within the confines of the rocky channel. Caught between the last climbable drop and this place. A slow death from cold and thirst. Option three: Come up with something else. Good choice. We take option three.
We consider our remaining bolts anchors. We have used many in less than a mile and no indication of change in contour or character of the canyon. We have a long way to go. Will there be a way to climb out? Can we afford to bolt our way out from the bottom? The water is very cold and rewarming is becoming more difficult. The pools are too deep to find leverage to drill or assist each other. Time is becoming a very critical factor. A bivouac is not discussed. It wouldn't solve the problem anyway. We are climbers. So we look to the rock for solution. We would go high and seek passage across the stone.
Over an hour passes. My partner executes an amazing feat of skill and courage and we are across. Yet this canyon is far from finished with us. It will tax us for all we have and spit us out the bottom in the day's waning moments. We arrive back at camp tired, hungry and silent. We have shared a very private bond of camaraderie. I feel a reverent gratitude for our good fortune for having seen this special place. I have a wealth of humility for having left traces of our passing as we worked through the challenges in this pristine place.
With some sadness I ponder what might be left that is lasting? A dozen metal bolts? A hand full of nylon slings? A smashed frog in a crack? Would all of these one day wash and wear away? Does any of it even matter? I let the fatigue flush away the sadness. It occurred to me afterward. What if this canyon had literally been testing us? Maybe this short little water carved passageway had held us captive. Had worked us to our limits. Presenting challenges and luring us on with its beauty and our lust. Then had it allowed our escape? Would it name us as we had it? Would it be an honorable name? Did we earn it? Or would it mock us as insignificant migrant creatures passing through its complex corridors teaming with life. Delicately balanced systems. Had we done any permanent damage in our passage? I hoped with all my heart we had not.
So the name of this special place came a bit later and after much reflection. This was our first canyon together. From this powerful experience we discover a common hunger for adventure. But it was a private passion. Even as we began to plan the next trip, we speak of this one with deep humility and reverence. What was there to talk about? What would we say? We had an arrangement with a like-minded friend, to tell where we were going, just in case. He did the same with us, "So our bodies would be retrieved for our grieving parents". We didn't speak of this canyon to others. We rarely spoke of it to each other except the occasional comment about the manic pits and memorable pendulums.
My partner and I explored several other canyon gems, offering up names, like blessings to honor the places and the privilege to witness their pristine wild states. These were private adventures and we chose to keep all of our explorations and first descents to ourselves and a few select friends. What would we tell? Who would understand? Why would we want to turn a spotlight on these beautiful and fragile places? The thrill of being in a place untouched by human presence, being the first footsteps and first to see the sculpture and light in a place was something profound and unique. It was a privileged gift in a changing time. It created a pestering desire for more. By the very nature of our lust, it was private. Selfish it was. These were sanctuaries of light, stone and immeasurable beauty. It seemed an act of sacrilege and dishonor to invite masses of people into these sacred and fragile places. To speak of it, we risked losing the very things we loved. So we agreed and we did not.
---------
October, 2010 > SLC, Utah
The woman opens the screen door. She is expecting me and opens the main door to allow my entry. I recognize the cheekbones and lips. She is a large woman, tall and strong of bone, not large with excess though. I introduce myself, a polite gesture. She invites me in. I exaggerate a nod to the passenger waiting in my car in the driveway as I enter the house. I don't want to stay long. I'm just here to pick up a "gift" from this woman's son. Stepping out of my shoes, (a very civilized custom where I live in Canada) I notice the handmade quilts and heirlooms hung from the walls as I follow her. I smile and respond politely as she shows me the family photos, generations of faces. I see my friend's face in graduation garments, dressed up for a sister's wedding, younger but not much changed. I see his face in his siblings too. Of course, we speak casually about the connection we share; my friend, her son, and the adventures we have shared that brought us together. Where she offers no approval of his adventuring, I add elements of my respect for him. Where she acknowledges her concerns in his risk taking choices, I offer her a lighter view.
Finally, she descends the stairs to return with my "gift" and presents me with a large framed print. I know what it is before I see it. It is a stunning black and white 24"x 36"photo of our Pit of Despair. The eye is drawn to the center. A tiny figure in a wetsuit is struggling to crawl over the lip of a cavernous round pit. The huge wall beneath him shows his watery trail out of the pool below. The camera angle captures a chilling beauty and amplifies the size of the pit and the significance of the little human's successful endeavor to escape. I feel my knees slightly buckle remembering my passage through this place, over 28 years ago. I pause, recalling recent images of my return to this place, a few months back. I it from her hand. I can find no words. I know that there is nothing I can say to help her understand what I know. To help her understand what her son and I both know. Why he would give me this gift and its significance to me. How could I share the many things that I share in common with her son that she may never ever understand?
"He is too generous. He can't afford to give me this…..", filling the air with trivial niceties as I retreat to the door.
She follows but seems to want to extend our visit, to stretch it out into something else. Outside she still stands quietly behind me. After carefully padding and tucking the gift into my car, I turn to face her. I see her as if for the first time as a woman, a mother, a life of church and family and friends and domestic bliss. It was a life style I had imagined for myself and chose a different path, many years ago..
We prepare ourselves for fare thee well. I look up at her face and realize that she is my age, my peer, my contemporary. But she looks younger, I'm sure! I recall my image in the mirror. My hair is filled with grey streaks. Her hair is a lush brown and neatly groomed. My rough toes poke through my gritty Chacos and my favorite blue jeans haven't been washed in weeks. I look at her conservative attire and notice that she is immaculate in every way. Her skin is clear and wrinkle free. I recall the years and years of direct and reflected sun from rock, snow and water that has worked with wind and sand to sculpt deep fissures in my face and turn my skin to tissue texture. I see a scarred, weathered hand of an old woman with twisting joints and wrinkled flesh reach out to accept the smooth and manicured one she extends in return. I love my hands. People have noticed them and commented on their uniqueness since my early twenties. They have served me well. Suddenly the contrast between myself and this woman seems not to matter anymore. I realize that I'm fine with being this age. I'm proud to wear my scars and years on my face and hands. I'm happy and grateful that I am still moving through these magical canyons and finding such love and deep camaraderie with so many people, some even far younger than her son. > ---------
October, 2010 > Facebook Email
Jenny to Dan: > I met ½ of your parental unit. Your Mom is beautiful. She looks younger than I do. She is actually! Her birthday is the day before mine but minus a year! Don't ya know yo' own mum's birthday, boy? Remember, I know where you live now and I'll hunt you down if you tell anyone that I'm old enough to be yo'r mamma!
I picked up your generous gift. Thank you, you scamp. Too extravagant. `Not in your budget for this year, lil' bro! I love it though. You were the catalyst for all of this, you know. Full circle, eh? > I love you. Be safe out there and see you when you get back on the continent. > ---------------
November 30, 2010 > Bowen Island, British Columbia,
It is my birthday! On this day, 59 years ago a little value closed between my heart and lungs inviting a suck of air to begin my life as baby human. My Breath Day.
More importantly, today, I celebrate the first anniversary of my reentry into the canyons, my Awakening. I have a deep felt gratitude to Dan for his integrity and care in guiding me in. To Tom, as well, for teaching this old dog new tricks with all the patience he could muster. There are many others who have warmly welcomed me onto trips and supported my wobbling ego until I found my stride. I think them most generous and thank them. I have bottomless pit full of gratitude to my dear new/old friend Ram. With his good and generous heart he invited me into his family and circle of friends (is there a bigger gift?). At his invitation this year I have seen 41 new canyons and have 60 new friends, many of which are very dear and close to my heart. There is a list of others that will soon become so, as well. Add to that number the reunion of four old friends from "back in the day" as a result of my reentry.
I move in a different way at fifty-nine. I give careful attention to the ever present pull of gravity. I've learned this year to let go of much, hang on to newly defined important things and thank my good luck for everything. My life is rich with adventure texture and a rekindled passion for being out in the wild places. Whereas my past offers me wonderful memories of venturing through pristine canyons with one talented partner, my present reveals the relevance of my place in Clan. The future seems more promising than ever before. I'm off one trip and begin plans for the next. . My husband of 20 years delights in my rebirth into the wild. We share a partnership full of breath and dynamic space. In the union of our experiences we find a deeper view of the world. He is generous and kind. His steadiness offers freedom for me to fling myself across the universe. And he always welcomes me home. My job as an artist allows complete flexibility and creative outlet. I welcome the empty nest whole heartedly as our only child is off to university this year. Lil' Cricket, I called her when she was deep with my bursting belly. I pulled a needle with coloured threads through a hoop of stretched linen to form a lasting message. My hope for her future; "I wish for you two things; I wish you roots and I wish you wings."
What a wonderful new world it is. Webs of internet connections everywhere. A flick of a fingertip opens a prompt arrow on a little video clip on the face of a computer screen. This action connects a synapse in memory which sends a soul's roots deep into past discovery and results in unfolded broad soaring wings!
Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers > I am, > Jenny >

Jenny's story reminds me of another first.  All of us has our story about our first entry into the canyoneering clan so to speak.  Some of us have another story of our entry into the Ram clan.  Or any other special group of people that you have built great friendships with and experienced great places with.  I am also a member of the Mapleton crew, or the dutch oven crew as we have come to be known.  I remember each story with fondness.  My story of entry into the quote unquote canyoneering clan, and Ram clan started at the same time.  I started entry with a little chastisement about my brazen solo twilight racing trip through Sandthrax.  Guess who dolled out the advice?  My first canyon with Ram was Sandthrax at the very next F.F.  That felt like my acceptance into the Ram clan.  If Ram can pull up the story it is a great read.  What are your stories?

--- On Wed, 12/1/10, Steven Jackson stjalliance@yahoo.com> wrote:

From: Steven Jackson stjalliance@yahoo.com> Subject: Re: [from Canyons Group] Re: A Breath Day Story for my Clan To: Yahoo Canyons Group Date: Wednesday, December 1, 2010, 6:59 PM















 









Ram do you remember our first impression, and comments about that high route.  I was laughing and squeezing my fist reading about the first passage.  What a visual.



--- On Wed, 12/1/10, RAM adkramoo@aol.com> wrote:



From: RAM adkramoo@aol.com>

Subject: [from Canyons Group] Re: A Breath Day Story for my Clan

To: Yahoo Canyons Group

Date: Wednesday, December 1, 2010, 2:19 PM



 



--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:



>



> OK, you scamps. I have been pounding away at the keyboard, well



>



> OF PITS AND PENDULUMS



> Happily a new/old member of The Clan of the Canyoneers



> I am,



> Jenny



I concur with the others who have commented on this peiece. The writing is compelling. The words dense with meaning and feeling. Some have likely been put off by the length. I suggest these folks reconsider and carve out the 10 minutes it will take to read this wonderful piece. Make sure there are no distractions, so you can bath in it. Once you get going, you will not be able to stop. An instant classic, destined for a place of "honour" in Stefan's and Dave "Canyon Tales." Kudos for this carefully crafted work.



Ram

Here is the post by Scott Card with the solo Sandthrax TR. One reply below the post from Hank http://groups.yahoo.com/group/canyons/message/58649

Here is Spidey's post of the solo, with 17 replies below http://groups.yahoo.com/group/canyons/message/30872

One of the 17 replies was this one . The third one? I guess I was the one to ask questions of you? ;-) http://groups.yahoo.com/group/canyons/message/30887

Just read the rest of the 17 reply posts. Nice comments and tangents all around

The story of our first canyon together and aseries of replies http://groups.yahoo.com/group/canyons/message/34731 or if your prefer the story with pictures and no replies, Tom's Rave, with Hanks photos http://www.canyoneeringusa.com/rave/0701freeze/index301.htm Ram

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, Steven Jackson <stjalliance@...> wrote:
Jenny's story reminds me of another first.  All of us has our story about our first entry into the canyoneering clan so to speak.  Some of us have another story of our entry into the Ram clan.  Or any other special group of people that you have built great friendships with and experienced great places with.  I am also a member of the Mapleton crew, or the dutch oven crew as we have come to be known.  I remember each story with fondness.  My story of entry into the quote unquote canyoneering clan, and Ram clan started at the same time.  I started entry with a little chastisement about my brazen solo twilight racing trip through Sandthrax.  Guess who dolled out the advice?  My first canyon with Ram was Sandthrax at the very next F.F.  That felt like my acceptance into the Ram clan.  If Ram can pull up the story it is a great read.  What are your stories?

> This is what I wrote about it...
The high bypass is commented on by my partners. There is no love in > their voices. I wonder what the geometry of the place is like? I > will find out soon enough, I'm sure. > <snip> Before we exit the area, I > check out the bypass route, up high.<snip> Up there > where I hope never to go! Ever!

I can relate to that. Took a bit of a ground fall when one of the hook holes blew out. Glad I padded the landing with our packs (thinking a ground fall was a possibility since I was hooking up on soft sandstone.) The high route is definitely not for the faint of heart; and all other options should be tried first.

The funny thing is, had you guys not been in front of us that day, I don't know if we would have gone the high route as quickly. Interesting dynamics; for sure. We didn't see any water coming up the other side, and didn't notice the evidence you left (you mentioned in your story that you poured the sandbags out so we would notice.) So we assumed you went high too... Always neat to re-analyze the decisions made...

> It is such a great story Jenny wrote. She states how conflicted she > is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too.

Sorry for maybe being part of that attention/wilderness lost. I do appreciate the experience of being able to have gone through it; so thanks, for whatever it's worth or however you want to take it...

Thankfully, with the high price of admission, and the serious obstacles; I don't see the place becoming a trade route anytime soon...

Take care, A.J.

wow, jenny, wow. thanks for the story.

makes me want to scamper back down there this spring. It has been nine years! want to share the driving?

ziff

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Malia" <msmnificent@...> wrote:

<snip> I was surprised to read that you felt so worried about your mark in the canyon. I wonder how you feel about the evidence you left of your passage back then compared with the amount of gear scattered around the canyons today?>

Sweet Maila (and thanks to ALL the rest of you for your supportive posts), Thank you for your kind comments and for taking the LONG time to read my story. I'm honoured that you found so many parts that you enjoyed.

I'm curious about this one. Why surprised that I felt concern/worry? I STILL have great regret for leaving traces in ANY of the canyons we visited. Our bolts are still in there! This year I returned to four of our early explorations and clipped into our old bolts in all but one! This one we totally ghosted! Thirty years ago we didn't have the tools in our arsenal that we have today. We used the tools available and my clever partner invented some for unique situations. We used natural anchors when available, of course. I now own a well used SandTrap and have a Pot Shot and Omnisling en route. These tools wouldn't solve some canyon obstacles but they sure do help in the Leave-No-Trace ethic for those that find that important. Or even those that MIGHT think it important! Last month I was blessed to play in fourteen new canyons, three of which were new explorations. I can count on one hand (with some fingers not counted) the total gear we left in any of the canyons we did! To descend a pristine canyon and leave nothing lasting is amazing! Admittedly, we left footprints, skid marks, rope grooves, a sunken rappel device, food bits and maybe some crushed critters. But I'm thrilled that we all thought it important and did our best.

Compared to what is scattered around the canyons today, you ask? I believe in the goodness of people. If one cares about these things, they will put some effort into leaving less evidence of their passage through. That is I all I can hope for. I try my best not to judge, as well. There are likely as many reasons folks are in the canyons as there are canyons. No doubt, more people in a canyon equals more trace of human passage. We are a messy species; maybe a bit reckless and careless. Care less?

Most folks care, I believe. We just get caught up in being human and forget sometimes.

Now, what about you? How do you feel about the impact our species is having on the canyons today?

With humility and respect I am, Jenny

Thanks Ram. Your stories are Da Bomb. If mine was a little fire cracker for folks that makes me feel honoured.

From your comment: <<She states how conflicted she is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too.>>

Yes, this is an understatement. It haunts me. I posted it in the wee hours of the morning. I thought I was so clever in leaving out names and places. Sans Beta. Betaless. Is that a new word? But over a cup of coffee it was not subtle at all. I have many mixed emotions on it now. On the one hand, I delight at the triggers that pulled memories for those that have been in this canyon. I enjoy reading their experiences very much. Thanks for sharing those guys! I would love to read more.

On the other hand, it may (or may not) increase traffic into a remote and fragile ecosystem. This was most important to me/us 30 years ago. What changed? Tons! Trip reports, photos, forum comments, beta, historical notes, maps, video clips...lots has changed. Wanna know a real killer for me? My name pops up when I inquire to GoogleGod with specific canyon queries ! Never in a 1/2 a century did I prepare for this!

So, check out Webster's New Canyoneering Dictionary. Look up the word hypocrite. See my photo beside it?

I also feel compelled to comment that I returned to this canyon with a very special group last May. NOT ONE of them posted a trip report or labeled photos from the trip. Was this just chance? Did they notice the unique pristine quality of the area and felt moved to silence? Would I flatter myself to think it was out of respect for me and the way I feel about the place? In case of the later, THANK YOU guys too. I think it makes a difference. I think YOU make a difference! ALL of us do!

It brings tears to me ol' eyes it does.

Humbly and grateful I am, Jenny

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "RAM" <adkramoo@...> wrote:

> It is such a great story Jenny wrote. She states how conflicted she is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too. The place made all the events of the last year occur, but the story is about oh so much more than that. I am glad it is guarded by such daunting difficulties. I regret the amount of attention I have helped draw toward it. The place is so dangerous and "engineering" solutions are not enough to mitigate the danger. I am REALLY happy to have made such a special new friend. I just wish part of the price isn't a bit more wilderness lost. > Ram

Thank you VERY much for sharing this very moving message. Age is a door, not a barrier (and I am older than you so I can say this based on my own awareness).

Jenny, I'm so late to this thread that I'm embarrassed. But WOW!!! What a story! What a life! The narrative switching back 27 years in your past was great story telling. It's an instant classic

That's what makes this Group so great. Sometimes I can't follow it in real-time, but I ALWAYS follow it.

Thanks!!!!!!!

Rich

--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "Jenny" <jenny.carverbc@...> wrote:



Thanks Ram. Your stories are Da Bomb. If mine was a little fire cracker for folks that makes me feel honoured.
From your comment: <<She states how conflicted she is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too.>
> Yes, this is an understatement. It haunts me. I posted it in the wee hours of the morning. I thought I was so clever in leaving out names and places. Sans Beta. Betaless. Is that a new word? But over a cup of coffee it was not subtle at all. I have many mixed emotions on it now. On the one hand, I delight at the triggers that pulled memories for those that have been in this canyon. I enjoy reading their experiences very much. Thanks for sharing those guys! I would love to read more.
On the other hand, it may (or may not) increase traffic into a remote and fragile ecosystem. This was most important to me/us 30 years ago. What changed? Tons! Trip reports, photos, forum comments, beta, historical notes, maps, video clips...lots has changed. Wanna know a real killer for me? My name pops up when I inquire to GoogleGod with specific canyon queries ! Never in a 1/2 a century did I prepare for this!
So, check out Webster's New Canyoneering Dictionary. Look up the word hypocrite. See my photo beside it?
I also feel compelled to comment that I returned to this canyon with a very special group last May. NOT ONE of them posted a trip report or labeled photos from the trip. Was this just chance? Did they notice the unique pristine quality of the area and felt moved to silence? Would I flatter myself to think it was out of respect for me and the way I feel about the place? In case of the later, THANK YOU guys too. I think it makes a difference. I think YOU make a difference! ALL of us do!
It brings tears to me ol' eyes it does.
Humbly and grateful I am, > Jenny
--- In Yahoo Canyons Group, "RAM" <adkramoo@> wrote:
> It is such a great story Jenny wrote. She states how conflicted she is about drawing attention to the place. I feel it too. The place made all the events of the last year occur, but the story is about oh so much more than that. I am glad it is guarded by such daunting difficulties. I regret the amount of attention I have helped draw toward it. The place is so dangerous and "engineering" solutions are not enough to mitigate the danger. I am REALLY happy to have made such a special new friend. I just wish part of the price isn't a bit more wilderness lost.
Ram >