Confessions of a Sandstone Crimp

Let's get one thing straight: I'm not a jug. I've never been a jug. I'm a crimp, a crisp, positive half-pad edge, the kind people call "bomber" in their Mountain Project ticks right before giving the route one star because the approach was "kinda long." I've been part of this wall since the Jurassic. I watched dinosaurs walk past. I survived the flash floods. I survived a guy in jorts who brought one cam and a dream to a sport route. I held on through all of it.

And then there was you.

It rained. You saw it rain. You posted about it raining.

Monday night, half an inch fell on my face. I drank every drop, because that's what sandstone does. I'm basically a very old sponge with a great tan. The water soaked into my cement, softened my clay and turned the glue holding my grains together into wet cardboard. On the outside I looked fine. Dry, even. Inside, I was oatmeal.

Tuesday, 7 a.m., here you come: double espresso, fresh tape gloves, crusher energy on a gumby résumé, announcing to your belayer, "It's totally dry, bro. Look at it."

You looked at me. You didn't dig in the dirt. You never dig in the dirt.

The pop heard 'round the canyon

You skipped the warm-up (bold), chalked up like a sacrifice was about to happen (accurate), and cranked on me like I owed you rent. At roughly half my usual strength I had all the structural integrity of a granola bar in a hot car. Pop. Now I'm in the dirt next to your crash pad, and you're yelling "TAKE!" in the voice of someone already drafting a Mountain Project comment about "loose rock on this route."

Loose rock. On this route. Buddy, I was attached.

I don't grow back, buddy

Here's the beta nobody gave you: holds are not a subscription service. The move I used to be is now a blank, sandy smear. The route went from a casual 10b to a desperate 10d. The guidebook is wrong forever. The crusher who wanted the onsight next spring? Sandbagged. The kid trying their first lead? Sandbagged. Your own redpoint, when you inevitably come back to "finish your project"? Oh, extremely sandbagged. And all for a send attempt that didn't even go. You weren't even close. I was there. I was the crux.

My demands

I'm a reasonable hold. I'm asking for very little:

Give me 48 hours. Three or four days in winter, when the sun's phoning it in. Dig an inch into the dirt. If it's damp, I'm damp. It's not complicated; it's literally dirt. Check the shady side. My cousins on the north faces stay soggy for days and they are not taking visitors. Go clip some limestone. Limestone can take it. Limestone was raised in the ocean. Limestone has no feelings and frankly no personality either.

Or, and I cannot stress how easy this is, check Can You Send. It counts the rain so your brain doesn't have to. It's free. It's on your phone. You opened Instagram nine times on the approach.

Crimp:

a small edge you pull on with your fingertips. Me. Formerly.

Spray:

bragging, or beta nobody asked for. See: this entire op-ed.

Sandbagged:

harder than its grade says. Now true of my route, thanks to you.

Choss:

loose, crumbly rock. What I become when you pull on me wet.

Gumby:

a beginner who doesn't know the rules yet. No shame, unless you've been told. You've been told.

So next time it rains, do me a solid. Go to the gym. Hangboard. Re-watch The Dawn Wall and cry a little. Reorganize your rack by color. Let me dry out, and I'll be right here when you get back: positive, crisp and ready to watch you fall off the move after me.

Not respectfully, and still a little damp,
A crimp, formerly of the third bolt
Currently: on the ground, next to ChuckaKahn's latest contribution