The Lost TCPros
a tale of serendipity and $190 climbing shoes.
The relationship a climber has with her Gear, with a capital G, can be a tenuous one.
If you hang on dearly to your recreational hobbies like they are the last frayed thread to “your true self” like I do, you likely treat your Gear (with a capital G) with a special reverence bordering on spiritual. The cyclist who coos over her newly tuned fixie like a barren woman with her miracle newborn. The skier who, before a trip, checking powder levels between fits of energy, lovingly lays out his quiver of skis. Judge us if you want, we can’t help it.
But unlike trail runners, skiers, surfers, and mountain bikers, we climbers share our Gear. The first climber on the sharp end will load her harness with a jingling chorus of cams, quickdraws, slings, carabiners, and those same items will end up on her partner’s harness 30 minutes later. Only the most enneagram-1 of us will separate gear at the end of day on the wall. More likely, when with sore shoulders and wrecked fingers we are packing for the long flight or car ride home, the accusatory questions begin. “Have you seen my Black Diamond positrons?” or, “I'm missing two lockers, I'm pretty sure they were on your anchor.” The pricetag of pieces lost can range up to the triple digits, so a team that was once united in the glory of a send, become two snarling dogs, bickering over a bone.
97° Fahrenheit
When we attempted to climb Timewave Zero (Potrero Chico, Mexico, 23 pitches, 5.12a) together, Kendra and I shared our Gear, as we always did. We checked the weather, and despite the weather conditions (91F High) and new friends around us advising against it, we figured we’d be fine… as we always did. I tossed and turned that night, tuned too closely to every passing hour before my alarm finally rang at 2am. Through the dark, we hiked and arrived to the base of the mountain, racked up with a combination of our Gear and climbed, illuminating the lines and crevices of the wall before us with headlamps.
Once the sun rose, it was 8am and bullets of sweat were already trickling down my back. Fuck, we’re screwed, I thought. We climbed pitch 8 to 12 with swollen feet and cramped, dehydrated muscles in what we would later find was 97°F. Finally, under the shade of a tree at bivvy ledge half way through, with the salt of sweat and tears in our eyes, we changed into our rappel shoes and threw our Gear into our bags. Sun-burnt, resigned, but still a team, we conceded defeat.
Where the hell are my shoes
I am the worst kind of gearhead - a possessive worshiper of my Gear while simultaneously irresponsible when it comes to rescuing it from a messy pile of metal. When our feet hit the sacred pebbles of earth after that fateful Timewave Monday, I only thought of dinner and beer.
So it was an unpleasant surprise when, a couple days later at 6:30am, as a group racking up for a long day, I asked Kendra “Hey, you have my Gear right?” she answered vaguely,
“Nope, I don’t.”
”I’m missing slings, biners, draws and my climbing shoes.”
“Which shoes?” asked Jess, who, despite having moved to California from Illinois in the pursuit of the mountains years ago, still retained her mid-western helpfulness, even on early mornings.
“My TCPros.”
Like most people, I wear my TCPros for long, extended days on the wall because they’re comfortable but provide enough edging for more technical moves. Also, even with a deal, they’re expensive. The last time I had them on my feet was for Timewave, and they were nowhere to be found. Kendra had to have them, right?
“Oh, here’s some of your stuff” - she unearthed the precious Gear - minus my shoes - that I had been looking for.
Neither Kendra and I have been blessed with morning-people sunniness, nor mid-western courtesy, so it was not a good time to pick a fight of I told you so. I checked my suitcase tucked underneath my tent fly, but minus random bobbles and a guidebook, it was empty. Checked my climbing pack, empty. I turned my tent over, no TCPros. What the hell.
I resigned to a day with my Katakis, promising myself I’ll find them later. A friend we made named Jo, trad climber doubling as a medical student at NYU, used shock cord that would tie around my ankles and extend to my shoes. This way, I could take them off in the middle of a long climb, dangling them from my knobby ankles. Inspired. Leave it to a medical student to use one body part to save another.
Maybe a dog took them
We spent the day leisurely moving up Estrellita, a popular twelve-pitch 5.10+ route with occasional jungle morass and loose rock, ending with a scenic palm tree summit. Back at basecamp, we assessed the iconic line again. Kendra had now developed a heavy, persistent cough, so giving Timewave another go was out of the question for her. However, Jess was game, antsy even, and though I looked warily at my Katakis with its shock cord elastic, I knew I couldn’t leave Mexico without attempting it again.
As everyone settled in with the flush of day well-spent and margaritas, I push away the tinge of envy and begin to sort our Gear for yet another 2am wake up. I asked the front desk and cafe if anyone had seen my shoes, checked the lost and found, but no dice. The Gear code of honor keeps theft in climber communities at bay, but the dogs at La Posada Campground were known for being mischievous. Unable to muster up the energy to be pissed at an imaginary dog who stole my TCPros, I surrendered to another long day of foot binding.
Legend Has It
2am. I’m never waking up at 2am again in my life, I vow to myself, heaving my pack onto my shoulder. Jess and I walk in the canyon, the night air feels thick and silent. As we scramble up the approach, loose rocks rumble beneath our feet while a dog barks in the distance. Walking in a single file along the base of the wall, I press my fingertips against the rock. It’s round, fresh and cold, like an apple from the refrigerator. Two minutes later we see a flash of headlamps coming from the approach, two friendly fellows from Colorado - Dave and Jack. Making conversation with them, Jess and I continue to rack up.
“Should I bring my approach shoes?” Jess asked.
”Honestly I wouldn’t, if I had more comfortable shoes.” I replied, wistfully.
”What size are you again?”
”Size 6.”
Listening in, Jack offered, “Legend has it, there’s a pair of size 6 TCPros at the bivvy ledge at pitch 12.”
We freeze. Holy shit. That’s where my stupid shoes are. I had left my shoes up at the bivvy ledge on Monday. The jolt of realization shocked me.
“OH MY GOD THOSE ARE MINE!”
”Those are yours?” They asked incredulously. “Like you were just here? And you’re climbing it again?” After I explained my previous bail, Dave and Jack disclosed that someone at their campsite had found my shoes while climbing Timewave on Wednesday. “What are you going to climb this in then?” My Katakis. They winced saying, well shit, you must have high pain tolerance.
Yes. If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough, right?
My shoes weren’t at the bivvy ledge. Whoever found them must’ve brought them down, but we were in such high spirits to make it to the ledge in three hours that I was unfazed. While Katakis are somewhat aggressive, I found their “all-mountain” reputation to live up to the hype. The best multi-pitch are the uneventful ones, and aside from the occasional cold belay or whipper, the climb was delightfully dull. Perfect climbs and perfect rappels, before the sunset we were taking pulls from a flask of mezcal on the ground. My feet were wrecked, but as Jess and I exclaimed with a hug, we did it.
Upon returning to camp, it appeared that Jack had spoken truth. Someone had posted on the Potrero Chico Facebook thread for the missing TCPros.
Roman > Potrero Chico Rock Climbing March 6 at 6:31 AM . FOUND a pair of TC’s forgotten at the bivy ledge of timewave. I figured you wouldn’t want to re-climb the first half just to retrieve them (or even could, without wearing em)
Yes, I thought savagely, one would think -
so I brought em down with me. Let me know the size if they're yours!
One comment suggested an auction at Homeros’ after 24 hrs. One girl asked if they were size 35.5 - “back off my shoes, bitch” I thought. Finally, Jeff, who arrived with Jo the medical student that we had met a few days prior, seemed to have put the pieces together. He commented “Hey Roman! I know the owner of those shoes. She’s staying at La Posada”. I felt like Cinderella, whose size 6 feet would be the only ones in all of Potrero Chico to slip magically into the fated TCPros, long sought after by my Prince Charming. I visited Prince Charming, who turned out to be a soft-spoken dude in brown overalls named Roman, staying with his girlfriend at a chalet. We congratulated each other on finishing the route and he waved away my offer for a beer in exchange of the shoes.
I wonder whether there is a natural law for whether a gearhead deserves her Gear. We have disdainfully eyed people who have bought surfboards, climbing shoes, baselayers, bikes, racks that dwarfed their skill level, knowing their Gear would never be used to its potential. We have winced at gear misused and mistreated, compromising its fidelity and shelf life. But does it matter so long as the owner loves their gear, that it brings them joy? Or is there an unwritten charter amongst mountaineers that through skill and knowledge, we must earn the right to own this object, this precious key to the outdoors?
If there is any such code, by any standard, I was proven undeserving of my TCPros. But despite my best efforts lose them on the side of a cliff, my TCPros and me were reunited once again. In such cases, even if the Gearhead doesn’t deserve her Gear, it can faithfully find a way back to her somehow, trekking twelve vertical pitches and a canyon on the back of another climber, making her - making me - even less deserving.
