Rock Climbing in a Waterfall (Part 2)

It was springtime, and while I remember the base of the climb was free of snow, I found a section where the snow at the top of the mountain was running off and forming a small waterfall — directly on our route. My options turned from grippy granite to slippery steps; I stopped.

Although I felt like I was cruising, I was still a slow trad climber. I had to try multiple pieces each time I tried to place protection; I triple-checked all of those pieces, and I gave way too many tugs to make sure nothing would come out if I fell. It took precious time that we ultimately didn’t have.

Then there I was, staring at this water running down the crack directly into my path. After some deliberation, I decided to bring Jay up to me because we couldn’t determine whether I should keep moving through the soggy rock that was starting to steepen or turn around.

Once he reached the belay, he slightly scolded me for not placing more protection. I was on easy-enough terrain that felt solid, but I’ve learned that doesn’t mean I need to be sparse with my gear. 

We stared up at the crack I was meant to follow to the next recommended belay station and could only see water. The best way off the rock was down. We made the plan for Jay to downclimb and over-protect the route, and I would down-lead and follow him off the rock. But before we transitioned into our escape plan, I did the worst thing I could have in that moment, and I think I’ve ever done to any partner while multipitch climbing.

The snow-topped cirque in the distance.

Making a Big Mistake

I don’t know what my thought process was, considering this was years ago. Maybe I was trying to tidy up the anchor? Or move the rope into a more friendly position? Simply, I didn’t think through my actions.

While it’s haunted me since, it made me realize the severity of the situation. I knew how to climb, I knew how to belay, I (sort of) knew how to protect a route, but in that moment, I didn’t know how to keep my partner safe.

I unclipped Jay from the anchor, hundreds of feet up the side of a mountain. He might not have noticed my mistake had he been grabbing a snack, or taking a drink of water, or checking out the TOPO. I could have been the reason Jay fell off the rock that day he returned to Deep Lake Cirque for the first time after his accident. A slip or even a relaxation into his harness would have meant certain death.

For a brief moment, Jay was unintentionally soloing that big wall.

Only once I profusely apologized and put him on top rope to start downclimbing did I feel slightly better. But something about Jay’s demeanor made me feel more confident. He simply corrected my actions by saying in the most friendly way, “Hey, you just took me off. Please put me back on the anchor.”

And that was that. He never brought it up again. Either he has silently held resentment about it these last few years, or he accepted what happened and moved on. I haven’t asked him about it, but I like to think the latter.

We Downclimbed Off The Mountain

So we downclimbed 300 feet off the rock. We followed a slightly different path than the one we took up the route to follow broken crack systems we could see that would have gear placements. After a few hours of slowly moving down the big wall, we made it to the low-angled slab, and we packed up our gear and hiked off the rock.

We stumbled out of the talus field and found the packs we had hung in a tree near the blue, shining lake. After a quick stop to refuel, we mosied on back five or so miles to the car, getting lost at least one more time.

Jay and I continued to climb together regularly after that failed outing at Deep Lake Cirque. We even attempted another big wall in Wyoming, a 22-pitch 1,850-foot sport climbing route. But that’s a story for another time.