Mechanic's Delight

The miniature is Mechanic's Delight. Barry Bates said only four words to me about his first free ascent—"a very hard mantle." With Jim Crooks one late afternoon, I search out the overhanging start and find the embedded rock on which Barry must have done his mantle. It is a downsloping snout the size of my palm, with no decent footing below and no decent holds above. After attempting it once, I immediately give up. I mutter something about Barry being too strong, and how I'll have to find a trick. The plan unravels itself slowly. I pull up on the snout, make a flurry of foot changes, one extremely hard right-hand pull, then fall off. The rock is so much more complex than granite, first requiring extensive searching for a hold, then testing it, then comparing options. Jim and I stand at the bottom talking over the foot-and-hand options and risks, like stockbrokers comparing companies. "If you do this, you'll have no margin for error; if you do that, you'll have no reserves left by the time...."

A few minutes later I'm trying the identical foot maneuver and right-hand pull, our labored calculus having arrived at the same place as my initial intuition. This time I make the move correctly, reach far left to clip into an ancient bolt, then pull left, stepping on a tiny knob which shakes as I test it with a foot tap. More calculus—how much weight do I dare put there? Get the hands doing the main job ... gently now ... gently. Soon I'm back on the main line of bolts and discover sharp flakes, excellent if I pull and step straight down on them.

On top, I wave to our friend Tom Gerughty, on the nearby trail. He takes our picture. I like the clean, quick snap of his Hasselblad. Now Jim and I are forever interlocked with this lovely miniature. Later, Tom snaps another of us on Freedom Dome. I am content to be positioned in time on the perfection of these bumpy rocks, thrust up like whales' snouts to heaven, bursting from ancient and mysterious origins.