Last summer, my friend Cassy and I made a list of climbs we wanted to climb in Squamish and frothed with each other about which ones we wanted to have Slaydie days together on. The Oracle (5.12a PG13) at Murrin Park was one of these climbs. Having heard of the ankle-breaking, gear-ripping reputation of the Oracle, we decided to work our way up to it with New Life (5.11b) being our first climb together off of our summer bucket list. But after the 2nd pitch, we bailed. Everyone warned us about New Life’s reachy move, but Cassy and I tried to prove everyone wrong with a vengeance. Cut to me ⎯ spraining the joints between my spine and ribs, and Cassy trying to work out the move by inverting while I was choking on my laughter. My season had all but ended with that injury, and she’d have to tell me stories of her adventures over ramen and gravel lot tailgating dates. Cassy was able to tick off that summer bucket list one by one on her own, and a few weeks later, she flashed the Oracle (like the badass bitch she was).
Unfortunately, this past winter, Cassy ended up passing away in Argentina. Cassy was a force to be reckoned with. The climbs that made our list were of the most intimidating and scary to me, as if I could only try them in my dreams. And yet, her psyche and her spirit made me feel as stoked and as bold as her. She made me, and I know many others, feel truly capable and strong. Her absence is keenly felt, but it seems like she’s still motivating all of us to get after it the way she did.
I ran into a few hiccups and some mental challenges that winter, dealing with grief and a lot of fear surrounding climbing. I went on a few climbing trips and there was not one that I didn't cry at least a little, and most of them I ended up crying a lot. The ways that the winter manifested in my climbing was hard to pin down, wrestling with climbing as a place of solace, flow, psyche but also of mourning, fear, and frustration. I thought maybe with a big trip in the spring, I would find my psyche again. With that in mind, I bought the van of my dreams (thanks Ollie!) with all my savings and thought I would embark on a mega road trip out West. #Vanlife am I right? I would go and find myself, be an independent badass bitch, and get after it like Cass. But little did I know that I would be a week into this trip, crying while placing gear and unable to climb above my pieces.
The stoke I felt for climbing felt hollow and joyless. Maybe it was the anxiety talking but I questioned most of my decisions from the previous few years, wondering if it was all worth it—the loss, the neglected relationships, the incredibly extended PhD candidacy, the hemorrhaging funds from the bank account. Sometimes I can be a little dramatic, but here we were experiencing another classic millennial existential crisis. I wanted to want to climb in Yosemite for the first time, to travel alone, to love rock climbing. And yet, I was dreading it. I couldn’t trust myself to make safe decisions, I was scared to go and meet strangers to find climbing partners.
I instead found myself heading back east to Indian Creek, and before I knew it, I fell into the rhythm of creek crossings, purple flower frolicking, and sandstone try-hard. The next few weeks passed by in a blur of dance parties, movie nights and rock groveling. I began to feel strong and confident again (mostly thanks to my dear friend Layla and her unending psyche and inspiration) and was looking forward to heading westward. After arriving in Squamish, I fell back into familiar rhythms, an amazing community, and some world-class granite climbing. I was motivated and felt more capable than I ever had before. Nat supported me on the Grand Wall on my birthday—having climbed it two years prior and not knowing how to crack climb, I was expecting the worst—but it was pure Type 1 fun. It wasn’t long until my attention shifted to that list that Cassy and I never got to finish.
Enter the Oracle— the spicy, ultra-classic, all-gear line at Quercus Cliff. The Oracle lands right in the middle of the crag that stands alone in a forest clearing, a beautiful wandering line protected by discontinuous angled cracks on a vertical wall. The climb heads up the face starting with easy unprotected climbing, sweet technical movement on side pulls and crimps, two distinct cruxes, and a few no hands rests. The gear is finicky, with tricky and particular placements that can make this climb a dangerous ground up attempt and an awesome achievement to flash.
A couple of sessions in and I went from—“Oh man I will never lead this” to “OK the cruxes are hard for me, but I think I can manage safely”. I had worked out the gear, including 4 nuts protecting the bottom section, and managed to find a piece for the second crux that wasn’t super physical to place. During these sessions, I spent a ton of time working out some short person beta.
I was ready to start mock leading it when I went to set up a top rope and ended up slipping and falling in some hiker’s poo at the top of the climb. Instead of mock leading it that day, I ended up with some shoes I needed to pressure wash at the campground (that ended up getting stolen a few days later. Little did they know, I didn’t wash them that well!). I went back the next day, hesitant to set up a top rope, so ended up leading it in some slight mist that turned to rain midway up the route. The runouts felt scary with the wetness, but I also knew I could protect myself by climbing well, taking my time, and breathing. I fell at both cruxes, but I surprised myself with how calm I felt, experiencing a flow of movement by knowing exactly where my next placements would be. The only big question mark at this point was the second crux—a powerful move for me with small feet that seemed to keep on slipping.
I came back to the Oracle six times overall in the course of two weeks. I got into the habit of climbing through to the second crux, falling, then climbing to the top. I didn’t feel intimidated by the climb anymore, mostly just frustrated I couldn’t do it—I knew it well, I was managing my fear through my breathing, focusing on my footwork, breaking down the climb into smaller sections. But I didn’t know how to link it all together! I couldn’t figure out the X-factor that I needed to clip those chains. I figured that as long as I kept showing up and trying, I would be clipping the chains at some point… Right?
On one attempt, I had climbed to the top of the second crux, and my foot slipped before I could place my next piece. My feet were a few feet above my last piece, and the rope ended up behind my leg, flipping me upside-down while I was falling. While I was in the air, I managed to orient myself in relation to where the wall was, and I was able to prevent my head from hitting the wall (but I was also wearing my helmet!). I was safe but a bit rattled, and I knew I would freak out if I waited too long to get back on the route. So I immediately got back on and climbed the rest of the route, but had to work a lot harder to stay calm and keep my heart rate down.
The day that I sent, I didn’t really have any expectations when I got on the route, expecting to again fall at the second crux. To my surprise, I stuck the crux hold without my foot slipping, and suddenly found myself one move away from when I took that scary fall. I was partially in disbelief and partially terrified. I had finally linked through from the bottom, and I knew I just had to keep it together to not blow it at this point. So again, I broke down the next sequences into smaller sections, shakily climbing through, but focusing on my footwork and managing the fear pump. Next thing I know, I was clipping the chains and had successfully climbed my first 5.12 on gear.
Something that I was told and kept on repeating to myself during this process was that I just needed to keep showing up. Even in moments in which I didn’t want to or felt it was pointless, if I kept showing up, one day it would happen. The Oracle was the first climb I truly got to know, the intricacies, the pacing, the flow. I truly enjoyed this process and learned a lot about myself in the ways that I deal with fear, frustration, and failure. I found myself inspired, motivated, and pushing back against the internal narrative of not being capable enough or brave enough. I learned to breathe and move with my fear, accepting and working with what I was feeling, rather than fighting it. I learned that I was capable enough to recognize and gauge risk. This climb meant a lot to me—it made me feel close to Cassy, it made me feel brave, it made me feel excited about climbing. I’m grateful to have had someone who has inspired me so deeply to try something I thought was just out of reach. Cass was relentless in the way she would always show up. So I’m sticking to this mantra for the rest of the summer, and whether or not I send the next route on the list, I know good things will come from it either way.
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