The Lone Ranger
03-23-2005, 02:13 AM
Stone Mountain State Park (http://hikingthecarolinas.com/stone.php), in Western North Carolina used to be one of my favorite places to go hiking back when I lived in that part of the country.
Stone Mountain itself is, as the geologists say, an igneous plug that formed and crystallized into granodiorite somewhere between 400 and 350 million years ago. It formed some 390 meters underground when a plug of lava cooled and hardened into rock. Later, as the land was thrust upward and the overlying rock was eroded away, what would eventually be called “Stone Mountain” was exposed. One of the things I loved to do after hiking up to the top was sit on the bare rock and marvel at how I was in contact with something that was approximately 400 million years old. I mean, just think of it! That rock formed long before there were dinosaurs. In fact, when it formed, plants and animals were just moving onto land for the first time.
So, one day it occurred to me that it would be kinda fun to climb the face of Stone Mountain, rather than just hike the trails to the top.
Back in my younger days, they taught me this song in Sunday School that went, “I don’t know about your ancestors, but mine didn’t swing from a tree!” My mother once wondered out loud if maybe there really was something to this “evolution” business after all, given that her one and only son seemed to be determined to climb every tree or other object he encountered that was more than 10 feet high or so and would hold still. My childhood pals and I never used ropes or other climbing gear because 1.) everybody knew that only sissies needed ropes to climb things, and 2.) our parents refused to subsidize our bad habits by buying us climbing gear.
Anyway, I got it into my head to climb Stone Mountain that day, it being there and all.
I stood back some distance from the mountain’s face, surveying it. It was a beautiful, sunny day with not a cloud in the sky – just perfect for climbing. The rock face was mostly a sheer, smooth wall of granodiorite, but there a few places that looked like they might be a little tricky.
After I mentally mapped out my ascent, I hiked up to the base to begin my ascent. Things went well at first. I was able to find the occasional foothold and finger hold, and so I slowly inched my way up the mountain. After awhile, I noticed that the air temperature seemed to be dropping, but I paid it no heed. By the time I was maybe a quarter of the way up, it occurred to me that an awfully strong wind had come up. And why had it gotten so dark? Pausing on a shelf that was at least a quarter-inch wide, I took a break to survey my surroundings. The sky had darkened considerably during my ascent, and rather ominous-looking clouds were rapidly blotting out the sun. Hmm. Well, at least it wasn’t raining or anything. So, I continued on.
About a third of the way up, I ran into a problem. It seems that an overhang had mysteriously appeared between my initial survey of the mountain and my reaching this point. (You’ve got to be careful, some mountains are tricky that way.) The only way to continue my ascent at this point would be to leap upward and outward, catch the overhang, and haul myself up. This maneuver would prove spectacularly unsuccessful should there prove to be no fingerholds on the overhang. A careful examination revealed no particular evidence of fingerholds. A quick glance at the ground far below convinced me that the consequences of failure would be rather drastic.
What to do?
It appeared that the overhang might be less of a problem over to my left, so I sidled along the rock face for about 100 yards, hoping that the overhang would diminish in size. It did, but then the mountain came up with another trick. Just before the overhang diminished enough that it might be conquerable, the mountain presented me with a sheer, unclimbable surface. Spider-man couldn’t have climbed that surface with pitons and ropes.
So, I paused to consider my situation.
It was about then that I noticed the first few raindrops beginning to fall. A few large birds were circling just overhead. “Hmm, Cathartes aura,” I noted. “That’s strange, I don’t smell anything dead nearby; I wonder what those vultures are circling for?” Maybe they thought something in the vicinity was about to die, but I didn’t see any moribund chipmunks or suicidal snakes. Stupid birds.
It was definitely raining by then.
I decided that perhaps it would be the better part of valor (or wisdom, anyway) to go back down. This presented a problem. For those of you with little free-climbing experience, allow me to point out that it’s considerably easier to climb up than to climb down, because you can’t see where you’re going during the latter. And at this point, gravity is not your friend.
Suffice it to say that I eventually made it down.
Shortly after I got back to terra firma, the rain stopped. The sun came out, and in no time at all, the rocks were just as dry as could be. I’m sure it was only a trick of the wind, and that deep, rumbling sound I heard wasn’t laughter at all.
Clearly, I had chosen poorly when I was contemplating routes of ascent. So, I hiked back out into the meadow to consider my options again.
About this time, three young people approached, wearing helmets, pads, and climbing gloves. They were carrying hammers, pitons, and approximately 10 miles of rope apiece. They were quite friendly, and chatted amiably as they examined the mountainside. They told me that they were planning to climb the mountain, which I would surely have never guessed otherwise. The leader of the group estimated that it’d take about 2 hours. “Just out of curiosity,” I asked him, “how long do you think it would take to free-climb it?” He shuddered involuntarily and replied, “I don’t know, because only an idiot would even think about free-climbing that rock face!”
“Yeah, heh, heh. I’m sure you’re right. Just idle curiosity on my part.”
Stone Mountain itself is, as the geologists say, an igneous plug that formed and crystallized into granodiorite somewhere between 400 and 350 million years ago. It formed some 390 meters underground when a plug of lava cooled and hardened into rock. Later, as the land was thrust upward and the overlying rock was eroded away, what would eventually be called “Stone Mountain” was exposed. One of the things I loved to do after hiking up to the top was sit on the bare rock and marvel at how I was in contact with something that was approximately 400 million years old. I mean, just think of it! That rock formed long before there were dinosaurs. In fact, when it formed, plants and animals were just moving onto land for the first time.
So, one day it occurred to me that it would be kinda fun to climb the face of Stone Mountain, rather than just hike the trails to the top.
Back in my younger days, they taught me this song in Sunday School that went, “I don’t know about your ancestors, but mine didn’t swing from a tree!” My mother once wondered out loud if maybe there really was something to this “evolution” business after all, given that her one and only son seemed to be determined to climb every tree or other object he encountered that was more than 10 feet high or so and would hold still. My childhood pals and I never used ropes or other climbing gear because 1.) everybody knew that only sissies needed ropes to climb things, and 2.) our parents refused to subsidize our bad habits by buying us climbing gear.
Anyway, I got it into my head to climb Stone Mountain that day, it being there and all.
I stood back some distance from the mountain’s face, surveying it. It was a beautiful, sunny day with not a cloud in the sky – just perfect for climbing. The rock face was mostly a sheer, smooth wall of granodiorite, but there a few places that looked like they might be a little tricky.
After I mentally mapped out my ascent, I hiked up to the base to begin my ascent. Things went well at first. I was able to find the occasional foothold and finger hold, and so I slowly inched my way up the mountain. After awhile, I noticed that the air temperature seemed to be dropping, but I paid it no heed. By the time I was maybe a quarter of the way up, it occurred to me that an awfully strong wind had come up. And why had it gotten so dark? Pausing on a shelf that was at least a quarter-inch wide, I took a break to survey my surroundings. The sky had darkened considerably during my ascent, and rather ominous-looking clouds were rapidly blotting out the sun. Hmm. Well, at least it wasn’t raining or anything. So, I continued on.
About a third of the way up, I ran into a problem. It seems that an overhang had mysteriously appeared between my initial survey of the mountain and my reaching this point. (You’ve got to be careful, some mountains are tricky that way.) The only way to continue my ascent at this point would be to leap upward and outward, catch the overhang, and haul myself up. This maneuver would prove spectacularly unsuccessful should there prove to be no fingerholds on the overhang. A careful examination revealed no particular evidence of fingerholds. A quick glance at the ground far below convinced me that the consequences of failure would be rather drastic.
What to do?
It appeared that the overhang might be less of a problem over to my left, so I sidled along the rock face for about 100 yards, hoping that the overhang would diminish in size. It did, but then the mountain came up with another trick. Just before the overhang diminished enough that it might be conquerable, the mountain presented me with a sheer, unclimbable surface. Spider-man couldn’t have climbed that surface with pitons and ropes.
So, I paused to consider my situation.
It was about then that I noticed the first few raindrops beginning to fall. A few large birds were circling just overhead. “Hmm, Cathartes aura,” I noted. “That’s strange, I don’t smell anything dead nearby; I wonder what those vultures are circling for?” Maybe they thought something in the vicinity was about to die, but I didn’t see any moribund chipmunks or suicidal snakes. Stupid birds.
It was definitely raining by then.
I decided that perhaps it would be the better part of valor (or wisdom, anyway) to go back down. This presented a problem. For those of you with little free-climbing experience, allow me to point out that it’s considerably easier to climb up than to climb down, because you can’t see where you’re going during the latter. And at this point, gravity is not your friend.
Suffice it to say that I eventually made it down.
Shortly after I got back to terra firma, the rain stopped. The sun came out, and in no time at all, the rocks were just as dry as could be. I’m sure it was only a trick of the wind, and that deep, rumbling sound I heard wasn’t laughter at all.
Clearly, I had chosen poorly when I was contemplating routes of ascent. So, I hiked back out into the meadow to consider my options again.
About this time, three young people approached, wearing helmets, pads, and climbing gloves. They were carrying hammers, pitons, and approximately 10 miles of rope apiece. They were quite friendly, and chatted amiably as they examined the mountainside. They told me that they were planning to climb the mountain, which I would surely have never guessed otherwise. The leader of the group estimated that it’d take about 2 hours. “Just out of curiosity,” I asked him, “how long do you think it would take to free-climb it?” He shuddered involuntarily and replied, “I don’t know, because only an idiot would even think about free-climbing that rock face!”
“Yeah, heh, heh. I’m sure you’re right. Just idle curiosity on my part.”