The Life of a Hand Jammie

“Closer to the skin is better,” my friend Nick teased on more than one occasion as I strapped on my rubber Ocun hand jammies (protective and grip enhancing crack climbing gloves) for another perfect Indian Creek splitter. Each time I would laugh, roll my eyes, and insist that I agreed, but needed to protect the healing gobis on the backs of my hands from earlier that season. I would stop wearing them soon, just not today.

Hand jammies have always been on the casual end of controversy in the crack climbing world, and even my own have been the source of personal drama from the moment I bought them. It was in Squamish in the spring of 2018, a year and a half ago, and I was still relatively new to both the area and to trad climbing itself. I bought myself a pair of jammies, planning to climb the ultra classic 5.11- #2 splitter on High Plains Drifter the following day. I whipped all over that pitch, partially because I didn’t know how to hand jam, but in my mind at the time it was mostly because the jammies were too small and they made me pumped out of my mind. I tried to take them back to Climb On! (the local gear store) only to be told that they had a no-returns policy on climbing gear. In frustration, I rudely snapped at the sales associate and stormed out of the shop. I regretted my childish behavior immediately and almost turned around and apologized, but I was still too worked up, or maybe just too proud, and so I drove away instead.

That fall I found myself not only back in Squamish, but frequently in the company of a large number of the staff from Climb On! The more we became friends, the more I couldn’t stop wondering if any of them remembered me from my shameful visit in the spring. I brought it up one night to my friend Cody, only to have my worst fears confirmed– it had been him, and my actions had not been forgotten, although until that moment my identity had. Now the cards were all on the table as I revealed myself to be the kind of person who is rude to people working in customer service. We laughed it off in the end, and have since traveled the world together as the closest of friends.

I returned to Squamish this past spring, a year after my jammies first found their way onto my trad rack. I had improved a lot since the previous season, and decided it was time for a rematch with High Plains Drifter. The first time I approached it via Borderline, a classic multipitch established by one of my closest friends from Seattle, Eric. It had been a bit of a micro epic, as we ran out of food and water halfway through the day, and took ages to find the manky fixed line hidden in the trees that leads to the base of the crack. This time I rappelled into High Plains instead, because I was already on top of the chief having sent North Star earlier that day (an experience chronicled in another post here). This time the 5.11- hand crack didn’t feel all that hard compared to my first attempt the previous spring, but I still wore those jammies.

As I got better at trad climbing over the summer and into the fall, I started using my jammies while crack climbing less and less. They seemed necessary in fewer and fewer situations, though still useful from time to time. Instead, somehow, I started using them more and more whilst sport climbing, because I started finding hand jams on routes that I would have missed back when I only clipped bolts. During my fall season in the limestone caves of Horne Lake, I found a crucial hand jam on every sport route I climbed. The rock was so sharp it would have been an exercise in masochism not to wear some kind of protection, but even using a properly fitting pair of jammies (that ironically belonged to Cody, the friend I had first tried to return my pair to) added enough extra pump that I mastered the art of putting them on right before the crux mid climb.

My Horne Lake season ended abruptly with a knee injury that caused me to shift my focus back to trad, since I thought it would be less strenuous on my meniscus as it healed. I headed to Indian Creek, not knowing what I would want to climb, how long I would stay, or if I would even be psyched. I had been pretty burned out on plugging gear by the end of the summer, and truth be told I had been struggling to really feel much of anything about anything at all since the distressing events surrounding my car getting stolen in August (separate post about it here).

Luckily the desert medicine kicked in almost immediately, and within the first 24 hours my grey world was finally on fire again with the bright red sand of desert crack climbing. It took a few weeks to feel strong again, as I transitioned from limestone cave climbing and taking time off for my knee (neither of which really prepare you for Creek season), but I was so psyched on every moment nonetheless, from group stretching and erotic planking in the morning, to easy warm up pitches, mileage pitches and project pitches, to wax box burning and naked dancing the long nights away.

The day after Halloween I stumbled my way up to Broken Tooth with friends Matt and Justin, so hungover that it wasn’t until I was at the crag before I realized I still had my sleep mask around my neck. With every pitch I felt a bit better, eventually feeling well enough to rack up for a 5.12- called Unbelievable. I put my jammies on, despite the teasing of the seasoned Creek vets that I was climbing with, and started up the pitch. I climbed about 15 feet up, placed a #2 and attempted to continue up, only to discover that my jammie had somehow become clipped to the cam, trapping me in place. The more I struggled to free myself the more comically fucked the situation became, as I got the rope wrapped around my wrist and started to laugh so hard I could barely hold on (not wanting to take and blow my onsight). That was what I got for wearing jammies.

I can never keep myself away from wanting to try hard for long, and soon after that I was throwing myself at projects left and right. Most hard cracks in the Creek are fingers or off fingers, so hand jammies are rarely necessary by the time you hit the 5.13 range, but I continued to don them whenever I ventured up a crack that looked like my hand might fit inside, and I continued to get teased for wearing them by more experienced climbers.

After watching two friends send the Optimator, the overhanging .75 and .5s crack namesake of its crag, I felt inspired to give it a try despite knowing it would be a very challenging size in which I had little previous experience. After a tradition of body shots following sends of the difficult climb, my friends hedged bets about what they would do if I flashed it, including promises of several handles of liquor of my choice. The one condition was that it didn’t count if I wore hand jammies. Also if I wore them I could only take 12d for it, they joked.

I definitely did not flash the Optimator, not even close though I sure gave ‘er the beans. I returned several days later, and after a bit of deliberation, decided I cared more about sending than what anyone thought. Jammies don’t make the cruxy bits any easier, in fact they probably make it slightly harder because the restriction of circulation increases pump, but they would enable me to rest much longer in several places where otherwise sharp rock would limit the amount of time I could tolerate the hand jam rests. I like to think that the better I get at crack climbing the less I wear my good old jammies, but they were sure nice that day.

Creek season ended abruptly, and together my jammies and I raced bad weather all the way to Red Rocks. I hadn’t been ready to leave Bear’s Ears for the winter yet and continued to pine after the Utah desert, so I made a Vegas tick list of the most splitter cracks, or single crack that would be in season after so much rain and cold. I set my sights on Desert Gold, hoping to tick it off as my 100th route of 5.13 or harder, and ventured out with my good friend Drew.

After aiding up the crack to figure out the sequence at first, I launched up it for a redpoint attempt. I successfully scrapped my way through the crux, and went to throw for a tight hand jam just below the roof, only to discover that my jammie had torn, and now hung loosely from my hand like a flag blowing in the wind. Every time I tried to shove my hand into the crack, the fabric caught and prevented me from sticking the move. I quickly pumped out and fell, cursing my luck. I taped it back together and fired the route next go for a proud number 100, only to have my jammie rip again when I degloved back on the ground. After so many adventures together, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a sign that I should finally retire them.

Psyche! Time to go buy a pair that fits properly! 😉

It’s called the Big Show for good reason. I so vividly remember the first time I laid eyes on it: a freshman in college visiting Canada for the first time and a gym climber who could count on one hand the number of times I’d touched real rock. It was the most impressive and intimidating natural wall I had ever seen; a perfectly flat piece of granite tilted at a fourty-five degree overhanging angle with a slab mirroring it below like a right angle tilted on its side. People must travel from all over the world to climb on this wall, I thought. When I looked in the guidebook and saw that the easiest route up it was 5.13c I was disappointed, but not surprised. Of course there was no way such a steep wall could boast routes within my ability. I was gym strong but lacked experience and more importantly perspective. Climbing any 5.13 route seemed like a pipe dream, let alone on something like this.

That summer I made my way to Tensleep, Wyoming where I crossed paths with a climber named Urs who was similar in age but about quadruple my ability. He was dispatching 5.14 left and right while I was barely breaking into the 12s, so naturally I was a little starstruck. Our interaction was brief, but I told him I lived in Washington, and he expressed an interest in visiting Squamish. Wanting to seem like a cultured local to this total crusher, I immediately told him he should get on the Big Show. It was far too hard for me, but this guy might stand a fighting chance.

Over time in the years that followed, my climbing ability slowly started catching up to my dreams. Once I had ticked off a few routes that were theoretically as difficult as the easier paths up the Big Show, I decided to take a crack at Freewill, the 5.13c that’s as close as it gets to an entry level route for the wall. Since the angle is so steep I just assumed it must always be in the shade, and thus a premium option for a hot summer day. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was thus that my first attempt at climbing on the Big Show was a sweaty disaster, in which I couldn’t keep my feet on anything, grabbed every single permadraw and freed none of the 5.13 moves. It was such a humbling struggle that after just one attempt I wrote off the dream of mine to climb on that wall as just too big.

In Mexico over the past winter I happened to reconnect with Urs, the kid I had met in Tensleep all those years ago. He wasn’t a kid anymore, but in all his travels he never had made it up to Squamish. Already making my own plans to return, I invited him to join me in the northern swamps of British Colombia I had grown so fond of. We had a different objective in mind for our partnership, but much like me he became enamored at first glance at the sea of chains, carabiners, and permadraws hanging from the Big Show. I had come a long way since we first met, no longer quite so dramatically outranked, but so had he. Luckily there’s enough hard routes there to keep anyone busy for at least a little while, so we started making regular pilgrimages to Cheakamus Canyon to feel the lactic acid exploding out of our forearms on the Show. He dispatched the easier routes up there quickly, and his psyche and incredible ability inspired me to step outside my comfort zone and try them myself. Even if I couldn’t do them, I was sure to get stronger trying. I had finally found the courage to give the dream a real try.

Not wanting to pay the skin toll of falling out of Freewill’s crux fingerlocks, I quested up a different route, Division Bell, with no small amount of trepidation. Had anything changed since the last time I’d thought this was a good idea? Apparently it had, because within the first two days I had done all the moves, broken a key foothold, and then done all the moves a different way. Not long after that I managed to one-hang it. Then one-hang it again. Then again, and again, and again… always in the same spot. No matter how perfectly I executed the moves, I would always leave the rest, do three moves, and then feel all the reserves of strength I had instantly evaporate from my body. What had initially seemed like quick progression turned to doubt. Did I still not have what it took? Would I ever? I had heard stories of friends one-hanging routes on the big show for years on end, or taking upwards of fifty tries to send their projects, and I feared the same fate for myself.

—

The more I climbed on the Big Show, the more my perspective of it began to change. Its sheer size and angle intimidated me less and less, and it began to inspire me more and more. Not only is the climbing gymnastic, dynamic, and straight up fun, but the wall holds a certain aura and history that has been a meaningful calling in the projects I choose lately. It’s home to Canada’s first 5.14, Pulse, and has served as a proving grounds where some of Squamish’s best climbers cut their teeth. There is another side to its reputation that isn’t as obvious that also added to my drive to climb there.

When it rains in Squamish (as it is known to do) there aren’t a whole lot of things that stay dry. The Big Show is certainly one of them until it starts seeping, but there are also a number of routes at the neighboring walls that are sheltered enough to provide options in more moderate terrain. That, plus the fact that the Circus boasts some of the higher quality sport climbs in the area, makes for a high flow of traffic through the canyon on the busier days. It makes for an interesting scene, with few people actually climbing on the Big Show, but many spectators excited to watch the sports action. Of the climbers actually working routes alongside me so many meters off the ground, none of them were women. When my good friend Tanager had been projecting Freewill last fall she also had been the only female up there with all the guys. I also received many comments from spectators that they had never seen a girl climbing up there before. Division Bell itself has only been sent by four or five women. Discussions with local friends further informed me of what was accepted as common truth: the Big Show was a boys club.

Knowing that others have or have not walked the path that lies before you can have an interesting effect on the psyche. For many it would cause intimidation, for others excitement at being a trailblazer, while for some there might be no effect at all. For me it added a fierce motivation. I had fought so hard to conquer my doubts and insecurities about being up there on the Big Show, that perhaps adding my story to its history might ease someone else’s battle, even if only just a little bit. The idea that the Big Show had a reputation of being a boy’s club didn’t sit very well with me, and I couldn’t help but hope that maybe I could help change that.

—

As the weeks went by climbing on the Big Show I felt not only myself getting stronger, but my friendship with Urs growing at the same time. The first time that I one-hung Division Bell was the same day that he did the same on Pulse, his project at the time. He sent many days before me, but when he clipped the chains he said it didn’t really count until it was a team send and I was able to celebrate my victory too. We had already shared many team sends such as Southern Lights and the Great Arch, but we had also shared plenty a beer, swim in the river, or lazy morning parking lot vortex over the course of our time climbing together. I had drawn drive and inspiration to climb on the Big Show from many places, but that random kid crusher I had sprayed about it to in Wyoming all those years ago was probably the most important piece of the puzzle. When I clipped the chains on Division Bell and then unclipped them for the most satisfying victory whipper of my life, Urs at the belay was yanked up to the first bolt with the force of the fall. It wasn’t me completing our story on that wall together, but the beginning of the next chapter because there’s a lot more routes up there, and in the words of Todd Skinner, we must always “Keep dreamin’, stay hungry, and remember that there is no finish line.”  

On the eve of the summer solstice I redpointed a climb called North Star that sits on the highest point of the Strawamus Chief in Squamish. While there were few actual stars to be seen with the moon almost full and the days so long, North Star itself couldn’t have been brighter that day and those that followed. It hadn’t been a particularly long term project for me, taking only three tries to send, but it was one of my proudest and favorite ticks in months for a very different reason.

              The way we approach climbing as a community puts a heavy focus on comparison. Grades are formed by consensus, which means not only comparing climbs to others of similar difficulty, but also constantly demands that we as people measure ourselves against others in order to describe the pitches we climb. It’s inherently there whether we like it or not, but I also consider it to be a personal weakness I’ve been working on for the better part of the last decade of my own climbing career.

              I have always found myself highly motivated and validated by the process of setting and accomplishing goals, but as a highly competitive person I often struggle when those goals are shared by my partners. Years ago, before I realized what it meant to use competitiveness for healthy growth, it nearly destroyed friendships and my own passion for climbing when I stagnated through a plateau while my friends went on a sending spree. The extent to which I was comparing myself to others reached a toxic level, and to this day remains the reason I lost psyche on bouldering. I reflect on that time in my life frequently, because it was not only a low point in my climbing, but in my ability to be a good partner and friend. It started me on a long journey of growth, as I’ve fought to learn from it ever since.

              Over the winter I found myself back in El Salto, one of my favorite places on planet earth. The limestone in Mexico is world class, yet I was there as much for the community as the projects I wanted to send. I’ve had more fun meeting and getting to know other climbers there than anywhere else I’ve been, and this year was no different. I was living in a house with a dozen people give or take a few, many friends I had both known for a while and some I had just met.

              The dynamic of that particular house was an environment of people psyched on projects, myself included. For all that we had in common as a bunch of climbers jazzed on working routes at their limits, I surprisingly found myself feeling somewhat isolated because while we all had aspirations, everyone had someone to share theirs with except me. The climbs I was trying I was trying alone, whereas everyone around me was working their projects with a partner. I felt a loneliness with which I had been previously unfamiliar, and I envied the shared experience I saw around me.

              It was for that reason that a few months later I found myself asking one of my best friends Tanager that if I came and met her in Smith Rock if she would want to project To Bolt or Not To Be with me. I wanted to seek out not only a hard project, but more importantly a person to work it with. Not just any person either, another woman, and someone who would push me outside my comfort zone in healthy ways.

              She eagerly agreed, and we dove into the process of breaking down the climb. She had climbed on the route a few times before, and while our height differences made some of our beta different, she walked me through the moves and I started piecing them together. As the days turned into weeks, Tanager pulled ahead of me, making longer links and falling on fewer moves than me. I immediately began to feel the familiar stirrings of competitiveness, wanting to stay on the same level or to be the one in the lead. As I struggled to work through those feelings I often entertained the idea that it would be so much easier to work the route by myself so I wouldn’t have to deal with this battle with competitiveness and the effect it had on my motivation. It was in those moments that I had to remind myself that I had chosen this path as an alternate to the loneliness of working a route solo; this was what I wanted, and I needed to tackle the challenge head on instead of shying away.

              I told Tanager that I was struggling with these feelings of comparing myself and my climbing to her, and that I was trying to work through them to be supportive of her climbing. She already knew of course; I wear that sort of emotion on my sleeve, but opening the discussion allowed us to work on it together. She was gracious and patient in dealing with my frequent grumpiness and struggles, and over the rest of the time we worked the route before it got too hot, it allowed us to dramatically deepen our friendship.

One of the thoughts that crossed my mind many times while working To Bolt with Tanager was wondering what it would feel like if only one of us were to finish the season successful. Could I be happy for her if she succeeded and I did not? Would the victory feel empty if it was only me clipping the chains? I made a goal to be at peace with whatever outcome the season brought. It was almost a secret relief when it got too hot to keep working the route, because I never had to face the music and deal with those inevitable emotions, but after I cleaned our draws off the route by myself in a post Cinco De Mayo hungover stupor on my last day in Oregon, I told Tanager that we would both be there to put them back up in the fall. We were in it together now.

..

              After I left Smith the next stop was a brief stint in Index, some work in Seattle, and finally working my way north to Squamish. Along the way people would ask me about my recent exploits, and I was proud to be able to say that while my time in Smith this year was challenging, it was equal parts rewarding because of what Tanager and I had gone through together. With day after day after day of perfect weather back in the Northern Swamps of the Pacific Northwest my season in Squamish kicked off to a fine start. I bagged a few challenging multipitches, and saw success on Eurasian Eyes, the most beautiful climb I have climbed in months, or maybe ever.

I had wanted to try North Star since last fall just based on descriptions from those who had tried it, so when I was asked to join on the quest by my friend Jared I immediately agreed. He had tried it a number of times before, and together we worked through the beta and gave a few attempts. It suited my style well, with flexibility defining the technical crux where the climber must exit a dihedral while balanced precariously above small cams and bad foot smears. The true crux however, is perhaps overcoming the nerves and jitters that come with projecting something so far off the beaten path both physically and mentally. Not only is the exposure at the top of the chief dizzying, but it’s not the kind of climb you can just casually ask someone to belay you on. It’s a mission that must be shared.

After the first day I knew we were both capable of doing the climb as soon as the next attempt, but it would be just as easy for the stars not to align, with conditions changing or mental fortitude not withholding. We returned a week later after a heavy thunderstorm, not even knowing if the route would be dry but hoping for the best. It was more than a little alpine on top of the chief that day, with high winds making my fingers go numb as I warmed up by rope soloing the crux. We commiserated that it felt harder than before for both of us, but energy was high nonetheless as we rappelled in and pulled the rope. The only way out now was to climb the route.

On my first try of the day I found myself feeling significantly less pumped than before, reaching the final rest before the crux and barely needing it at all. The three inch long tick mark Jared had put on the finish jug stared me down as I felt a rare calm pass over me. In that moment I somehow knew that if ever there was a perfect chance, it was right here, right now. When I clipped the chains I was treated to an excitement that was more than just my own as we celebrated the success together.  

Watching Jared’s next attempt I could tell that he had found the same flow that I just had. On moves that before had looked desperate, now looked like dancing, and I was sure that this was his moment too. When he latched the final hold it was hard to say who was cheering louder. We sat together on top of the Chief, but I felt on top of the world. I asked Jared if he had felt any added pressure to send because I already had. He answered that it had not added any stress, only motivation. Motivation that had clearly driven him to succeed.

..

Polaris, the actual North Star, used to serve as a guiding light for travelers back in the days where people spent more time stargazing than looking at Google Maps for directions or worrying about the nuances involved in rock climbing. That day North Star felt like a guide for me too, as I looked at who I had been, who I was now, and who I want to become. It made me think back to my experience at Smith Rock and the shared projects I’d been exploring over the past several months. On To Bolt I had wanted success for Tanager, but if I’d had to choose only one of us to send I would have probably picked myself. That was who I had been, even very recently. This time however, it felt different. If I had to choose between just me sending that day, or both of us slogging over an hour straight uphill for the rest of summer, if it meant we could eventually grab that finish jug back to back on the same day like we did, I would have been willing to do that heinous hike as many times as it took. That is who I am now, which is a big step forward in my desire to better support others. Collective success on climbs of that difficulty is so rare in climbing, that when the stars do align is a powerful thing. Knowing that the drive to make it happen came from inspiration and not competitiveness in my partner showed me the kind of person I want to be as well.

In this life that I’ve dedicated to climbing, I mostly measure myself based on the things I accomplish. I send some hard routes that I’m proud of from time to time, but the most meaningful ones are always when I know I came out of the process a better person than who I was going in. That incredible day on North Star made me feel like the best version of myself that I had ever been before in my mental relationship with climbing and myself.

Tanager is here with me in Squamish too, and days before she made a passing comment that she only moves forward in life, never back. Now I can’t help but look forward in my own journey, to a time when we can return to To Bolt together and perhaps one day share our own magic double send day. At the very least I hope to be the one that belays her when she clips the chains, regardless of when I do it myself.  

When I was in high school, my mom decided that my sister Lindsey and I might like to throw a pool party for our friends one weekend, so she reserved the neighborhood pool and told us to rally the troops. It was a great idea in theory, except for the fact that when it came time to actually invite people, neither Lindsey nor I had any luck whatsoever. The day of the party the only guest that showed up was one that Mom invited, and it was our grandmother. Don’t get me wrong, we had a great time swimming with Grandma, but it was still a sobering display of our lack of popularity.

I had a great childhood even in my most angsty and awkward of teenage years, but I was certainly never one of the cool kids; not even close. It wasn’t that I had a problem making friends, I was just surrounded by people with whom I had absolutely nothing in common for the first 17 years of my life.

Fast forward a decade or so to present day. After a few weeks in Indian Creek, I had settled into a comfortable groove. One evening I found myself milling around Creek Pasture, making dinner and waiting for the rest of my fellow dirtbags to return from their day of climbing. It had been a memorable one already, with a large group rallying to support a birthday challenge where my friend Andy wanted to rack up 30 pitches for his 30th at the Pistol Whipped crag. I had taken a terrifying fall on some small gear on the Montana Weed Connection which all ripped out, leaving me just a few feet off the ground when moments before I had been halfway up the short pitch (the video of the whip can be found here). I sent the thing two tries later, making it my second 5.13 on gear of the season/year.

A large sprinter belonging to my fellow Washingtonian Lucas that had been parked next to me for several weeks pulled up in camp, and the door slid open, but none of the crew inside seemed to be getting out. I asked what they were doing and they told me to get in the van; they were going to go climb the South Six Shooter, an iconic desert tower, by the light of the full moon.

My initial thought was that I’d already had a crazy day, it was a long approach, and it was pretty cold outside. No thanks. More people started getting into the van however, and pretty soon I was reconsidering. Maybe this was the kind of adventure I’d regret not participating in. My mind was finally made up when someone said to me to just get in, “these seem like your kind of people.” I probably got less than an hour of sleep that night, but it was one of the most unforgettable things I’ve done in a long time. That night we all laughed until tears streamed down our faces for hours on end, a happiness made real because it was shared with good friends.

When I was a kid throwing failed pool parties, climbing was like a secret identity that set me apart from everyone else, a private world in which I was my true self and my classmates did not exist. Out here in the desert, or at any climbing crag across the world, it is simply the air we breathe; the thing that makes me a part of something bigger and connects me to others.

A few nights later, two friends spent the day bolting a new climb at the Cliffs of Insanity. By 10:00 pm, they still had not returned to camp, and everyone was starting to worry. The cliffs have a pretty long approach, the night was cold, and my legs ached at the thought of going looking for them as we discussed all the things that could have gone wrong. By 10:30, a few people agreed to go check the parking lot for their car. When it was found to still be there, they returned and went campfire to campfire, gathering volunteers with EMT/WFR training and proper supplies to go find our friends. Just in time before leaving and much to our relief, the pair rolled back into camp with big grins and tales of their adventurous day.

While I was relieved my friends were okay, the more dominant emotion I felt that night was pride. So many people were willing to rally for the search party, many of whom barely knew the missing climbers. I think a big part of what makes Indian Creek so special is the community that forms there. It’s the single most important and meaningful thing about climbing in my opinion, far more than the accomplishments, sends, failures, etc. Whether rallying to spontaneously climb a tower by moonlight, or to organize a search party, the best thing about the desert is that it’s full of these kind of people. From those I’ve known for years, to those I traded belays with for the first time, these past few Creek weeks were made truly special mainly because of the people I am so proud to call my community.

What’s more, I bet if I threw a pool party, at least a few of these wonderful dirtbags might actually show up.