The following represents Mike Schreck's view of the ascent of High-E during our climbing vacation. I have edited it slightly for sense and spelling, but otherwise, the views and words herein represent Mike's view of our fantastic experience.

• The Ride In
• T-Minus One Hour and Counting
• Houston, We Have Lift Off
• Roger Houston, We Are Go for Throttle Up, 104 Percent
• The Chinese Water Torture, Shoe Box, Belay Ledge:
• Houston, Tranquillity Base Here. The Eagle has Landed.
• Roger Houston, We Are Go for L.O.S. in: 3, 2, 1…
• It's One Small Step for Man, and One Giant Leap
• We're on the Mains and Ready for Splashdown

The Ride In

Mark Cashman and I had planned this Columbus Day weekend trip for weeks. We were to start in Connecticut, drive to the Gunks in New York, and climb High Exposure. Thenm, after the lactic acid wore off, we would embark on a five hour drive to Safe Harbor PA, meet Eric Redrup, climb everything we could, and then drive seven hours home. All in all it was to be an exciting and brutal climbing weekend.

The excitement started long before the weekend began. It had rained for several days and everything was drenched. To make matters worse, two days before the trip was to start, I was fired. Despite the rain and unemployment we forged ahead.

As we passed through Newburg NY, heading north on I-87, my thoughts were on how I would find work in the midst of the recession. As we passed exit 17 I began to see glimpses of the Shawangunks (The Gunks) through the trees, and my thoughts turned to the climb ahead of us.

One thing that strikes you about the Gunks is that from 20 miles out, this ridge is HUGE. As you turn West off the highway at exit 18 and begin the last leg of the journey on Rt. 299 through the sleepy college town of New Paltz, it literally consumes the entire panorama.

Being faced with more rock than one could possibly climb in a lifetime, I was naturally curious as to where High-E was. So Mark pulled off the road, at the apple orchard, and while staring through a grove of apple trees, he attempted to point out to me where the climb was. "See that red apple next to that clump of brown leaves? Yes. See that branch that touches the apple at a 45 degree angle?" Yea... "It's just to the left of that. See it?" I'm not sure. "Okay, see that bright red tree on the mountain next to that yellow colored rock, and the sloping dihedral?" Uh huh... Well, this went on for 20 minutes to no avail. But I would soon learn why anyone who climbs High-E will never forget what it looks like.

Rounding the final hairpin turn we were shocked to find an endless row of cars parked on the side of the road. It had rained for days! Where did all these people come from? Canada, they came from Canada. It may have been Columbus Day in the States, but it was Thanksgiving Weekend in Canada. These climbers had traveled eight to twelve hours to get to the Gunks, and they were going to climb, come rain or shine. (and I was complaining about the hour and a half we had to drive).

We parked the car, grabbed our packs, and hiked up the well-worn path to The Uberfall. We met one of the Preserve Rangers near the first aid station, and gladly paid the daily use fee. The fee was then four dollars a person. This fee goes directly to the non-profit Mohonk Preserve, Inc, a land trust. Their charter is to provide maintenance and protection of the Preserve as a natural, open space, available to the public on a daily basis. Mark and I have always donated ten dollars each, and we encourage climbers visiting the Preserve to do likewise. It is a small price to pay for the preservation of such a grand site.

After stowing our wallets, we began the brisk fifteen minute walk to High Exposure. As we strode past "69" (5.3) and "Bunny" (5.4) it brought back wonderful memories of the previous year's climbs. The "Man Eating Tree" marks the halfway point to High Exposure, and is a place to stop, get a drink, and catch your breath.

T-Minus One Hour and Counting

We arrived at the base of the climb only to find a party midway through the second pitch. We dropped our packs, thus staking our claim to the route, and spent the next hour and a half in anxious conversation, awaiting the departure of the second from the High-E ledge onto the third and final pitch.

For the next few minutes, we performed the ritual that we have executed many times before. Mark methodically warmed up, donned his rack, and checked it one last time. He then took a minute or two to study the pitch. Then turns to me with a solemn look on his face. For a split second you can cut the tension with a knife. But before the tension turns into intimidation, I thrust my hand towards him clenching one end of the rope in my hand. I said the words I have said a hundred times before, "Be careful. This is the sharp end!" Mark replied, "Thank you. I'll try to not to cut myself". We both laughed. "I had to say it," I told him. "I know", he replied. Mark tied in. After one last sanity check of our setup, Mark turned and faced the climb. "On belay?" "Belay on." "Climbing." "Climb!" We're off.

Houston, We Have Lift Off

The majority of the first pitch was visibly wet, soaked from three days of continuous rain, and run-off from above. I watched Mark intently, as he placeed his first pro ten feet up. Another five feet and the second quick-draw clipped both pro and rope. Five feet later he clipped his third piece of pro. We both breathed a sigh of relief. After the sixth or seventh piece of pro, I have developed a bad case of "Belayer's Neck". Knowing that Mark was in no great danger, my mind began to wander in a downward direction. I noticed I was surrounded by hundreds of millipedes. There was one of these brown, three inch, arthropods, every square foot or so. Hay, get away from my rope bag! Get off my foot! These descendants from an era long since extinct were a tremendous source of entertainment. (I'm easily amused) I was ripped from my diversion by the unmistakable screams of my leader, "SLACK!!".

The rope was silent for quite some time. Sixty feet of rope lay coiled at my right. Eighty feet to the belay ledge. Not bad for a single pitch Connecticut climb, but there would be two more pitches after that. I certainly possessed the skill and attitude required for the climb, yet my mind was now filled with many questions. Would I be able to handle the isolation, the exposure, and the demands of the final pitch? These questions were pushed aside as I herd Mark yell, "MIKE SCHRECK, OFF BELAY!" "MARK CASHMAN, BELAY OFF", I bellowed[footnote 1]. I made the final my preparations as I watched the rope slither up the climb. Twenty feet, ten, five, "THAT'S ME", I yelled as I felt the tension of the rope at my harness. Mark and I exchanged signals, and I was off.

Roger Houston, We Are Go for Throttle Up, 104 Percent

What would have been a mellow pitch of 5.3 became a strenuous pitch of 5.6 due to the total lack of dry footholds. The first 30 feet were comprised of high steps, awkward stems, and painful mantling. Being the first few feet of the climb, there was pro every five feet or so. The rest stances were awkward and uncomfortable. Would the whole climb be like this? I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into. The next thing I knew I was confronted by a squeeze chimney. At 6'2", 215 lbs. I am not much for tight cramped spaces. Between the clothes and the butt bag I was carrying, I was substantially wider then usual. I removed the butt bag, and placed it on the ledge above me, and pulled myself through. Things mellowed out for the next 20 feet as the pro that Mark had placed, ascended gently up and to the left at about a 60 degree angle ending at a ledge.

I was greeted at the top of the ledge by a beautiful reflecting pool that had formed on the rock. It was actively fed by run-off from the top of the cliff, cascading down the Psychedelic wall about 30 feet to the left. My admiration turned to disdain as I realized that the only way around the water was a 15 foot upward sloping traverse, that I would have to do horizontally. This section was relentless. My arms screamed as they carried the brunt of my weight through this section. I removed the first piece of pro, and backed off for a rest. I traversed to the second piece, removed it, and found an awkward stance and "rested" again. I moved on to the third and final piece of pro, removed it and sprinted up the final fifteen feet to the belay ledge. I clipped in to the two huge cams, and was taken off belay. I shook Mark's hand; I had arrived.

The Chinese Water Torture - Shoe Box - Belay Ledge:

To call this place a belay ledge was very generous as it was the size of about two shoe boxes laid end to end with a third one on the opposing wall of the left-facing dihedral. It was early afternoon and the wind was picking up, bringing along with it the water that was cascading down the Psychedelic Wall. Every thirty to forty-five seconds we were hit with several drops of water, which immediately provoked the terror-stricken reaction "Oh my God, it can't be raining!". This was followed with thoughts of rappelling out, and then by the realization that it was a bright sunny day and it couldn't possibly be raining. This dripped on and on for over an hour. Even knowing where the water was coming from did not abate the shattering blow to my concentration every time I was hit by a droplet.

As I began to hand off the rack to Mark, we engaged in a matter-of-fact discussion of the potential dangers of his impending exit from the belay ledge. Mark would be leading directly above my head. A fall in the first few feet (which were visibly wet) would mean a direct hit on the belay anchor, and on me. We danced the "Awkward Ballet" as we exchanged positions across the shoe boxes, so that Mark would have a clear path off the ledge. All I can say is I'm glad we are very close friends. I braced myself, one foot on each wall of the dihedral and jammed my shoulder into the corner, we exchanged signals, and Mark departed.

Three, five, seven, ten feet up, everything seemed to be going great, when like a movie in slow motion, I see Mark's foot blow off a soaking wet ledge. My mind reacted like it was rounding a blind curve at thirty miles per hour to find a small child standing fifteen feet in front of you in the middle of the lane retrieving a small ball. The immediacy of the situation demands action. No time to think, no time to panic, the adrenaline pounding in your ears, you react; Mark caught his fall before it ever happened. This incident forever shattered the dream like euphoria of the climb. I began to fade into the harsh reality of my situation. The exposure, while breathtaking, was also extremely intimidating. The risk, once easily discarded, was now a personal reality. I had committed to this climb, and I would do whatever it took to complete it, but I was never quite the same.

The remainder of the pitch was a bizarre composition of tension, slack, leg cramps, rope problems, bees, pigeons, and of course, the Chinese Water Torture. Finally the long awaited cries of "Mike Schreck, On Belay" reached my waiting ears. I was outta there. The first few feet were straight up, stopping only momentarily to avoid the water trap that Mark had almost succumb to. The pitch traversed along this gently curved, upward sloping line. Things were quite mellow and there was time to take in the sights along the way. Then all of a sudden, things got barren. From a desperate stance fifteen feet right of his last pro and ten feet above a ledge, Mark had buried a #0 TCU in a lesion.

By the time I arrived this piece had taken root and had no intention of letting go. I fought with this TCU like a parent fights with a small child at bedtime. After fifteen minutes of kicking and screaming, I was hoarse and my feet hurt, but the TCU hadn't budged. I called a truce, down climbed to the ledge and rested. (You can stay up till the next commercial, then straight to bed!)

I returned to the ledge, resolved to remove this piece. The situation looked grim. The crack was long and thin with a single opening just wide enough to admit the TCU. The piece had bottomed out, and the fully compressed cams had engaged the top and bottom of the crack. I had only one choice, I started rocking that baby. Two minutes later I had come to the conclusion that High E was about to gain its first fifty dollar fixed piece. In total frustration I wedged my nut pick to the side of it and threw my weight into it. It moved about a sixteenth of an inch, but it was all I needed. Thirty seconds later I was on my way.

The remainder of the pitch was twenty five feet straight up to the GT ledge. I poked my head over the lip of the ledge to find Mark seated comfortably on a large block awaiting my arrival. This wasn't a belay ledge, it was a terrace! I stood up, and shook his hand. Two down, one to go.

Houston, Tranquillity Base Here. The Eagle has Landed.

As I gained my composure, the first thing that struck me was the size of the belay ledge. After spending an hour on the "Chinese Water Torture, Shoe Box, Belay Ledge", this was the Taj Mahal. By all accounts this section of the GT (Grand Traverse) Ledge was 20' x 12' and a roof to boot! The mood became relaxed and jovial. I had been carrying water and munchies in my butt bag. It had been an annoyance during most of the climb, but this was the payoff. It was time to chow down. As Mark and I relaxed, I was suddenly awestruck at the view. We had an unobstructed, 220 degree panorama of fall foliage in its prime. I took out the Kodak one-shot camera I had been carrying and snapped a few shots. We had been relaxing for the better part of an hour when we were joined by another party on the ledge. Mark let the leader know that we were in no hurry and that they should lead through.

The second party had come and gone. So had most of the afternoon. The sun was low on the horizon and it was becoming cold, and Mark was visibly shaking. Once again my butt bag would pay off. I unzipped it and removed a thick sweatshirt and handed it to Mark. At first he was the consummate gentleman, refusing the offer, stating that I had brought it and I should be the one to wear it. I countered with, "If I fall because I'm cold it's no big deal, if the leader falls, that's another story". "I see your point. Thanks.", "No problem". It was time for the third and final pitch.

Roger Houston, We Are Go for L.O.S. in: 3, 2, 1…

I was seated facing the panorama; Mark was facing the last pitch. We traded signals and he was off. He had advanced about 10 feet without a piece when I heard him exclaim "If you don't move, you're dead!" This caught my attention, to say the least. It turned out he was talking to a spider stuck in the only crack around. Mark and the spider quickly resolved their differences (no spiders were killed in the making of this epic adventure). I snapped a quick shot of Mark before he disappeared around the roof over my head. Within a few minutes he was at the final wall and out of communication range.

Again I was on my own, but I had the panorama to keep me company. I began to worry about the lateness of the day and the final wall ahead. I had heard the stories for years. Climber after climber would recant their personal horror stories about the move from under the roof to the face. I wondered how I would react to the move. My thoughts were pierced by an eerie sound as I paid out slack for Mark. It was as if someone was "bowing a stone fiddle". This happened every time I paid out slack for the next half hour. The noise brought to mind a line from the song "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by The Charlie Daniels Band, "When he [the devil] drew that bow across the strings, it made an evil hiss". After the hundredth "Evil Hiss", Mark began pulling hard on the rope taking up about fifteen feet of slack, then nothing. I knew he had topped out. Soon I would face the final wall for myself.

It's One Small Step for Man, and One Giant Leap

The remaining slack in the rope began ascending the final pitch. This was a sure sign that I would soon be on belay. Shortly thereafter came the muffled cry "Mike Schreck… On belay!" A quick sprint to the "spider pro" revealed a disoriented spider and the source of the mysterious "Evil Hiss". The rope had been dragging across an eighth inch thick, detached flake the size of a dinner plate. I ran the rope over it a few more times and wondered how many other seconds had heard the "Evil Hiss". Then the climb beckoned me forward.

The roof of the Taj Mahal was now a floor with a cramped 4 foot roof over it. I duckwalked the 15 feet or so to the edge of the roof. Directissima was below me and the final pitch above. I reached around and removed the "Volkswagen Cam" AKA "Car-Cam", and racked it. It was time for a "photo-op". I grabbed a hold in the roof and leaned over the edge. I had an unobstructed view, 200 feet straight down. I was absolutely terrified. The towering evergreens now looked like Dwarf Juniper Spruces. I tried desperately to snap the picture but the button would not budge. I realized that I hadn't advanced the film when I had taken the shot of Mark debating with the spider. I pulled hard on the roof hold and retreated. My breathing was heavy and erratic. I regained my composure, advanced the film, and went back for the shot. For a second time I stared into the abyss. Pressing the button yielded a reassuring click. It was the only reassurance I would have for the remainder of the climb.

Again I pulled hard on the roof hold and retreated, but this time composure did not follow. I found myself frightened to the point of belching. My body was reacting to the terror and it was manifesting itself by causing me to gasp for air and belch every time I exhaled. The belching only helped to fuel the terror. I had to climb this pitch and I could not even take a photograph of it. I was in trouble. I spent what seemed like an eternity trying to calm myself down. I packed the camera, took a drink of water and inched myself toward the ledge. I knew what was next, the crux move. (Author's Note: The picture I has worked so hard to attain did not come out when I had the film developed.)

Every climber who has ever faced High Exposure speaks in hushed tones about the crux move. I had listened to Mark and Eric talk about this move for 2 years. Now it was my turn: "I was in a crouched position, knees to the chest, heels digging into my butt. With my left hand I reached backwards over the same shoulder for a pocket in the roof. I twisted my right shoulder forward and stretched my right hand outward and up into a long crack on the face. My fingers searched the length of the crack, for the "Bomber Hold" that the "Tales of Climbers Past" speak of. Suddenly, at the very edge of my reach I felt the hold. I turned my head sideways and pushed with my feet, driving my face into the roof and my hand into this INCREDIBLE hold. "Now what?", I thought… "GO! GO! GO!" I pulled with both hands, rocked left, freeing up my right foot, which I stuck out into space. Next, in a move that can only be described as an extremely ungraceful "Plie' - Fouette'- Pirouette". I leaned back into space on my left hand, spun 180 degrees counter clockwise, let go with my left hand, then I rolled my head clockwise, pulled on my right hand, and popped up from underneath the roof. My right foot hit the wall and slid down onto a small ledge. The Car-CAM continued forward bounding off the wall and hit me in the knee. OUCH! No time for pain, I quickly matched hands in the crack and planted my left foot somewhere. It wasn't exactly the way I would have played it for "The Wild World of Sports" but I had made the crux move"

The final wall overhung slightly, but at the time, it felt as if I was climbing a 135 degree overhang. I paused for a moment, a little voice inside my head said "don't do it" but I didn't listen. I looked down between my legs towards the dwarf forest and was immediately swept with terror again, only this time there was no place to retreat to. Then came the belching. "What is with this belching?", I yelled. There I was in the middle of the final pitch, frozen with terror, thirsty, lactic … and belching. At this point my legs began to bounce like a needle in a sewing machine, and I really didn't know what to do. Then the little voice inside my head whispered "CLIMB!!!"

I checked my agenda and found that I didn't have anything better to do, so climb I did.

The line ran upward and to the left, then back to the right near the top. The holds were deep round-bottomed pockets, some dry, some wet. I sprinted from piton to piton, quickly locking off on one hand and racking the quick draws with the other. Since fixed pro in CT is rare, I wondered how old the pitons were and if they would hold a leader fall. I was sure the locals replaced them when needed but I wondered none the less. Apparently Mark did as well. After a string of pitons, he had placed a bomb-proof cam. I knew my leader well, and I took great comfort in that knowledge.

I continued to belch upward and to the right. Above me was the final piece of pro, a #10 nut slotted in a crack at the very top of the climb. As I reached the nut, my head popped over the top of the climb. I could see Mark, about 15 feet back sitting atop a boulder clipped to half a dozen cams! I was happy to see him, but more happy to see the cams. Mark welcomed me to the top, but, still breathing hard and belching, I wasn't there yet. I needed to pull the nut and top out with a mantle. Suddenly performance anxiety set it. "What if I fall on the final move?", I thought. "I don't want to have to go through THAT again, to be able to say I freed High-E." So I hung out, feet on the overhanging wall, arms and head over the top, until I felt rested and composed. It seems to me that I talked with Mark for 5 minutes like this. Then finally I pulled the nut, mantled the final move and staggered to the boulder and clipped in. I had done it; WE had done it.

We're on the Mains and Ready for Splashdown

It was a fifteen foot scramble from the belay ledge to the top, and I insisted on belaying Mark, so that I could have a belay. He quickly tied a sling around the tree and brought me up. Now it was time for a two pitch rappel. I balked. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and had no interest in rappelling. Mark agreed to walk out. We down climbed the Uberfall in the twilight of dusk, and back to our gear at the base of High-E. The walk back to the car was slow and leisurely. The moon shown through the trees and the slight breeze cast dancing shadows on the autumn path. It was a rite of passage, and an adventure I would never forget.

Footnotes

1. In a crowded climbing area, it is often safer to use both first and last names for critical communications, since one cannot guarantee either voice recognition, or the absence of someone else with the same name.