Someone should Check Yosemite for Eric Coomer

Sounds like it's his quiet place

He's so fucking emo

Eric Coomer

unread,

Jan 21, 1997, 3:00:00 AM

to

In article <5bj6v0$b…@lace.colorado.edu>,

Amanda Tarr <ta…@refuge.Colorado.EDUwrote:

>Raptor <rap…@conterra.com> wrote:

>>> tdonalek <tdon…@enteract.com> wrote:

>>> >I'll spare everyone from my grumbling about the stupidity of soloing

>>> >(myself included at times) - I'm sure this guy was a better climber than

>>> >I'll ever be - he's also deader than I plan to be anytime soon. It's

>>> >partners and ropes for me, thanks.

>>> >

>>Tell me with an honest heart that too many good young climbers aren't lured

>>by some bullshit mystique passed on by the "pro's" that got into soloing

>>just because it was the last frontier left for them…. I know all too well

>>how climbers in the 60's let their damned ego's turn climbing into some

>>egotistical one-upmanship….and far too often, soloing is an extension of

>>that mind set.

>

>Or, soloing may be a form of meditation. Of finding internal peace. Of trying

>to challenge oneself both emotionally and physically. For me, soloing means

>all this and more.

>ps. makes me recollect the feeling of sitting on your portaledge, last

>night on the wall, just watching the canyon go to sleep. No one to interrupt

>the quiet. No one to thank but yourself for bringing you to this unreal

>perch. Tell me that's all for ego.

Here's the deal. What follows is a very personal trip report. One I wrote

for me and a couple of very close friends. '''I never thought I would post

it. And even now have some reservations of doing so. Maybe some out there

will get the fucking point, the rest of the cattle can just keep chewing

the cud of the day and pleasantly pass it by.''' Yeah, rope soloing isn't

free soloing, but it's not climbing with a partner. But, stop trying to

kid yourself, climbing is dangerous, we all need to figure that out real

quick. You can buy it just as quickly with a trusted partner on the other

end as you can by yourself. I'm sick of seeing these posts cropping up

every now and again calling soloers- roped and free, ego chasing boneheads.

Not everyone climbs for glory or praise. Not everyone climbs just because

it's fun. There can actually be some personal meaning wrapped up in this

meaningless, pointless, absolutely stupid fucking game we all play.

Eric

The Tribute.

One of the hardest question anyone can ask me is, "How many brothers and

sisters do you have?"

I can readily answer, "Two brothers and two sisters." It's the next question

that inevitably follows that hurts so much.

"How old are they?"

I always pause at this point, a little unsure of how to answer. "Well,

I have a sister who's 32, a brother 30, another brother 10, and well,

my other sister would have been 13 this year." My face twisting ever

so slightly as I look away. Even after almost 4 years, the death of my

sister still pains me.

When Rachel was born, my father was doing the 70 hour a week career

military move, and my mom was working full time in real estate. My sister

was in college and my brother was heading that way too. That left me, all

of 13 years old, to do the babysitting. But more than that, I bacame

very close to my sister, more so than anyone else in my family.

She ran from my mom to me when she took her first steps. I was there

when she spoke her first words. She used to think she could turn herself

into Peter Pan by spinning in circles. She'd do that every night before

bed and I would then lift her in my arms and "fly" her up the stairs to

her room.

>>11835721

>The Tribute.

Eventually, my mom had my little brother, Michael, and quit working, but I still

did a lot of babysitting until I went away to college. When I moved, it was

hard only seeing Rachel and Michael a few days out of the year, but we talked on

the phone occaisionally. It still amazes me to this day how fast kids grow.

When I moved back home for two months after graduating from college, I was

amazed at how hard it was to pick Rachel up and fly her around the house. She

was becoming a young adolescent quickly. We sat up late at night talking about

my first 2 week cross-country climbing trip and looking at pictures of the Black

Hills, Devil's Tower, Seneca Rocks. I spent a day trying to teach her how to

do flips off the diving board. She was now becoming more of a friend than

anything. If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent even more time

with her those two months. I never imagined that the day I left for California

would be the last time I ever saw her.

'''The night before the accident, my mom called to tell me she was leaving for the

drive from '''==Virginia to Massachussetts where my father was already

working at his new job==. I was busy at work, and for some reason never asked to

speak to either Michael or Rachel. The next phone call I got from that side of

the country was from my ex-girlfriend asking if anyone had called me yet. I

instantly knew something was wrong. No one had been able to get in touch with

me to tell me that Rachel was dead and that my mother and little brother were in

intensive care. The last thing I ever did for my sister was to help carry her

casket out of the church.

==Every year on the anniversary of the accident, my wife Emily and I have headed

out to Yosemite alone, =='''usually without any climbing gear. We just spend a few

days taking in the splendor and awesome views of the valley. For one reason

or another, the valley has become intertwined with the memories of my sister.'''

When my little brother came out to visit recently, he and I spent two days

there. I showed him all of the things I wished I could have also shown to

Rachel.

Her birthday is only one week after mine. As I already said, she would have

been 13 this past July. Thirteen, it's hard for me to imagine. I can't

even get over the fact that my little brother is now 10! I remember when I

turned 13. I felt like I was finally becoming an adult. I was one year away

from High School- among the oldest kids in middle school. It was a big time.

I felt the need to do something special for the memory of my sister, for her

13th birthday. I don't know why, I just did.

Some people paint, or sculpt, or have other lasting artistic talents. I have

been blessed with no such luck. '''All I can do is solve calculus equations and

on some weekends pretend that I'm a climber.''' I decided that I would solo a

wall- solo a wall that was at the highest end of difficulty for me. In some

way, this would be a personal celebration of my sister's 13th birthday. It's

unfortunate that her birthday comes in such a hot month. I failed on my first

attempt at Wet Denim due to heat, and more importantly, depression and fear.

The wall had ceased to become a climb. A hasty decision had me asking a friend,

Bob Ternes, if he wanted to do the wall with me. I instantly regretted this.

But I couldn't back out on him. I was glad when we both decided to bail due to

the heat and after effects of a full bottle of Jager. It wouldn't be right for

me climb this wall with a partner. I had to solo it.

>>11835767

I stashed my food and water, vowing to return when the weather cooled. The

next several weeks were hell. I felt like I had let my sister down. I

failed. It's the only wall that I've ever backed off of. It sat in my

stomach, heavey and full of fat. I know those around me could sense something

was wrong. But I couldnt' talk about it. It was just something I had to do.

I spent the weekend before the climb in the valley with many friends, but

everything seemed so distant. I didn't want to be around anyone. I just

wanted to be alone. I wanted to be on the climb instead of just hiking water

back up to the base after the first load was destroyed by a small fire.

Finally, the day came. I loaded the car and said good-by to Emily. I was

at last on my way. As I walked the two loads to the base of the climb, the

many memories of my sister filled my head. It was nice and quiet in the valley.

The hordes of mid-week tourists were finally starting to dwindle. I rolled

out my ridge rest and sleeping bag at the base of the 4th class traverse

ledge, drank my oil can of beer, and stared at the starlit sky as tears began

to stain my cheeks once again. On top of it all, the climb itself was

starting to scare me. I had heard so many negative comments about this route.

It seems that one either loves this climb, or loathes it. Of the four

opinions I received on the climb, two thought it was a great climb, two thought

it was a death trap that one should never gaze upon.

As I loaded the pig and set off on the first pitch, I

told myself not to rush. I would do this wall in a completely relaxed and

slow pace. I had water and food for at least four days. There was no need

to hurry. Rushing now could only lead to error or that familiar hectic

feeling. By the day's end I was sitting alone at awhannee ledge once again

watching the beautiful postcard sunset on the western end of the valley.

Tomorrow, my first real A4 lead awaited. I was somewhat consoled by the

knowlede that a chicken bolt had been placed halfway through this lead.

But all I could think of was how Conrad Anker had taken a huge whistler

somewhere on this climb just a few months ago.

As I climbed the next morning towards the start of the thin crack, I was already

more worried by the low fifth class scrambling I needed to overcome first. My

mouth was dry as I finally reached the first head placement. This pitch is

one of two truly spectacular pitches on this route. A white swath of granite,

hard and clean with the tiniest of seams capped by a slanting roof. I worked

my way along slowly and deliberately. I hesitated at the chicken bolt. I

wanted to pass it by and pull it as I cleaned but my conscience failed me as I

clipped a screamer into it. This bolt is really unecessary. I know that it has

saved at least one possibly injurous fall, but the fact is, if you are

careful, the pitch can be safely climbed without it. Besides, with all of the

slack in my lines due to soloing, it wouldn't have kept me from decking on

the death flake below. The "A1" crack towards the top opened my eyes to some

demented soul's concept of aiding. Thin arrows and a bugaboo or two pulled

me over the lip to two more copper heads and the waiting belay.

I figured that at only A3, the next lead would go a little faster than the

A4 pitch. I would soon learn my folly. Ten feet from the belay I found

myself hooking a completely fractured flake wondering what glue was holding

this decrepit piece in place. A few heads placed in more rotting rock

had me on my way up the next crack. Time slowed as I reached

the belay, I had enough daylight to drill one bomber bolt and set up my camp

and eat before dark. I was still on my pace enjoying the climbing, enjoying

the pain and fear. Radio reception was rapidly improving. My gramicci

ledge was even cooperating as I spent the night in unparalleled slumber.

>>11835800

Twenty feet into the next morning's lead had me staring at another belay. I

guess I stopped too early the day before, but there were plenty of old bolts

below. I clipped and kept moving carefully looking for the major loose block

rumored to be lurking on this pitch. I soon found what I was searching for

as I gingerly hammered a small angle behind its massive form. The rock all

around me shudderd with every slight tap. I stopped hammering for fear of

ripping the block loose. I sill had one more placement to make before getting

to the next rotting crack. I hand placed, and with one tap of the hammer

set the thick arrow on top of the loose block. Below there was finally life as

two climbers were starting the last pitch to awhannee ledge. It felt odd to see

other climbers below me. The end of my pitch was a supreme struggle up an

overhanging slot reminiscent of the days on the 'shroom. Inch by inch I finally

forced myself into the bowels of the next belay. Staring above I could see the

radically flexing flake that marked the next lead.

The hours slipped by as I neared the top of the flake. Once again, I was

in awe of what force was holding all of this climb in place. I was in a corner,

but nestled with me was a flake 40 feet tall, perfectly triangular in cross-

section, seemingly unnattached to anything else. Suspended by the will of

all previous climbers to pass by. Ten feet from the apex a clear fracture

line ran its full width. I placed a large alien near the top and watched in

horror as the cams flared open as I stood in my aiders. I rapidly transferred

back to my lower piece. I moved the cam lower but the flake still expanded

too much. I was afraid that I would finally free this rock from its

imprisonment if I applied full body weight. Instead, I lasooed the top, exhaled

and stood. I was now just in reach of the next crumbling pin placement.

The huge roof of the last pitch was now life size as I slugged my way up another

awkward overhanging corner. Three cheery bolts heralded my arrival. I looked

at my watch. By the time I rapped and cleaned the pitch, I would have enough

time to either lead the final pitch, guaranteeing that I would have to clean

in the dark, or comfortably set up one final bivy on this spectacular wall.

I chose the easier option and was soon feasting in my ledge. The bright

azure sky marked stark contrast with the rust coloured overhang looming above.

As the sky turned to a brilliant pink, I realized that soon my climb would

be over. On the one hand I wanted this climb to last forever; I wanted it

to be an never ending tribute to my sister. The millions of visitors that

would pass through the valley in the years to come could look upon the Leaning

Tower and see me and know. But what difference would it make to them. I

was the only one who knew the significance of this climb. I understand

the pain others feel when someone close to them dies. But I cannot understand

the mobs of sobbing spectators who cry for someone they never knew. Death is

a very personal thing.

My sleep that night was not as restful as before. I would wake and slowly

fix my stare to the roof above. It was massive. A dark brooding locomotive

carreening down the steep grade. Its shadow haunting me, tuanting me to

climb. I felt relieved and frightened as the sky once again brightened with

the dawning light of the next day. I soon found myself at the first of eight

placements I would make along the underbelly of the beast. Halfway through the

roof I would swing and twist with the fate of the wind. Hammering upside

down I dropped a 'biner and watched as it drifted towards impact completely

unimpeaded by anything but the air rushing past. It floated and tumbled

on its way to the ground. Finally, it hit, a slight ping echoed back up to

my ears. As I had helped Rachel do all those nights, I was flying. A big

fat bird suspended on the ether. At times I couldn't even feel the harness

biting into my hips. I could only feel the weightless wonderous feeling.

I pulled over the lip and dispensed with the final difficulties of the climb,

belly flopping my way onto the final ledge. I would eventually be back at my

car, looking blankly at the passers-by who could only stare at the filthly half

human that stood before them.

I took no pictures of this climb. Instead, like the many memories I have of

my sister, the memories of this climb will forever remain only in my mind.

>>11835810

ikr?

Coomer is such a tool

>>11835850

>>11835721

>Coomer is such a tool

He's posting a boook about his dead sister to guilt trip people on a climbing newsgroup because they offended him by saying solo climbing is dangerous.

fucking idiot