Running Man

Unknown climber on Running Man

I climbed Running Man on the way back from a weeklong trip to Joshua Tree during which I ticked a good sampling of its many fine classics. Running Man, located in Red Rock Canyon, NV, was one of two must-do routes on my pre-trip tick list (the other was Solid Gold in Joshua Tree).

Running Man is a sport route, one hardly worthy of a “trip report”. Even calling it a “route” is overkill. It is a single pitch of bolted sandstone that follows a thin vertical seam to a chained anchor.

The larger-than-life image of Running Man I carried with me for nearly three years conjured something considerably more dramatic than this banal description, however. For Running Man I had reserved a high place, alongside other climbs I’d heard so many war stories about and would probably never climb.

I first learned of the existence of Running Man while hiking past it in the spring of 2005. I overheard two veterans of it musing aloud: “Should we give Running Man a go?” The response was not even given time for consideration: “No way, not today”. No big deal, save for the fact that “today” was the last day of a trip that would not be repeated for at least another year.

So the seed was planted: Running Man was a climb too hard for either of my buddies—a couple of veteran climbers I respect both for their strength and their guts—to consider climbing this year.

While in Red Rock the following spring I hiked alone to the base of Running Man just to look at it. Arriving there I identified its dominant feature immediately: an unmistakable seam splitting the huge square face of a beautiful red sandstone wall. The first third of the seam goes up less than vertical rock. The next third is dead vertical and the final third slightly overhanging. The line looked daunting. I stood there for some time admiring the plain beauty of it.

Two years and many climbs later I was in Red Rock again, begging Todd, my partner for the preceding week in Joshua Tree, to belay me on Running Man. It was a selfish request because Todd was suffering from tendonitis and would likely not be able to follow the route. In exchange I enticed him with Frictiony Face, Panty Waist, a five-star bolted slab on the way to Running Man that would not aggravate his elbows. He promises me it was a fair deal.

I racked up with 12 quickdraws, 4 alpine draws, about a dozen small nuts, a half-dozen small cams, and a single oval carabiner to lower-off should I fail to reach the chains. The additional gear was from beta given me by previous ascensionists who mentioned the climb can be supplemented with small gear in spots where it is run out.

My mood was surprisingly calm. I had just come off a stellar week of climbing gear routes in Joshua Tree, and I reasoned the worst that could happen here was a clean whipper on a steep bolted face—the best kind of fall.

I started up to the first bolt, which is about 20 feet off the deck. The climbing to the first bolt is not easy, and I strained from an insecure stance to reach it. Once I clipped it I breathed a bit of a sigh and began studying the next couple of moves, which looked harder than they should considering I was still on the first, less-than-vertical third of the route (later I would learn that the moves just after the first bolt comprise the technical crux of the route). The next good hands appeared in the form of a horizontal handrail—thickness indiscernible from my perspective—about two feet out of my reach. There were no good feet, just very steep slab. Using fingertip edges the thickness of three or four fingernails, and blind-faith smearing, I poised myself for a dynamic move to the handrail. I deadpointed and stuck the thing, but it wasn’t as good as I’d hoped. Just out of reach was a super positive flake. I quickly pulled up, locked off with my left hand, and nabbed the chalky flake with my right. Whew! A few more feet of easy climbing and I was clipping the second bolt. I lamented to Todd that I didn’t think things were going to get any easier. But I was safely off the ground now and I could really just focus on climbing.

The remainder of the route is reachy, crimpy, ever-steepening and, at times, run-out. Each and every move from here on elicited from my esophagus a plaintive groan—the noise I produce when making uncertain or desperate moves above gear. Between the third and fourth bolt, between which the distance is maybe 12 feet, I placed a very small brass nut, thoroughly shook out each arm, and continued up. I advanced in strenuous bursts, pausing for a minute or more between sequences to relax and shake out. The more the climbing steepened the less effective my rests became, but I made the bloody most of them, shaking out each arm in turn. I recalled some beta: “The clock will be ticking…” This recollection made me consider climbing faster, but by now I was more than two thirds of the way up and I was still getting reasonably good rests. It was about at this moment that I resolved to send this damned thing by whatever means. I shared the thought with Todd: “I’m going to send this f*cking thing!” By the time I reached and clipped the penultimate bolt I was sure my determination had paid off. I looked up to see one more hard move, followed by about 10 feet of easy terrain to the chains. Not quite home free, but close, I unleashed a loud and triumphant holler, and instantly chastised myself for the possible jinx. Fully aware of the power of the jinx I paused a long moment to fully gather myself. Then I carefully negotiated a final crux, was rewarded with big hands, and pulled up to the chains. I rattled them in triumph and anchored in.

I had conquered the beast known as Running Man and felt better about it than anything I had accomplished the preceding week in Joshua Tree, or perhaps any other climb for that matter. More than that I felt I had earned something—three years to ruminate, anticipate and, then, shatter a ceiling of low expectations.