The life of a bouldering legend
E-Book, Englisch, 190 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-912560-00-4
Verlag: Vertebrate Digital
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
Hailed the father of modern bouldering, John Gill is an awe-inspiring climber with enigmatic talent. His techniques have been likened to poetry and are almost 'spiritual' in nature. Famous for his dynamic approach to bouldering and his impressive physical accomplishments, such as the one-arm front lever, Gill is an inspiration to climbers around the world.
Written by Gill's friend and fellow climber, Pat Ament, John Gill: Master of Rock pays homage to this influence. Delving deeply into not only the fascinating life of Gill, but the very raw essence of what it means to boulder, this intimate biography is both intriguing and informative.
'Bouldering is the poetry of mountaineering … As with good poetry, good bouldering comes from within. It is derived from an inner eye, then refined.'
At its core, John Gill: Master of Rock illustrates the humbling relationship between Gill and those who admire him – as Ament details first-hand, Gill is never egotistical, nor elitist; instead he is approachable, passionate and refreshingly independent.
This staple climbing read is a real must-have for those with an interest in pioneers of the bouldering scene. The exploits and adventures contained within will appeal to devotees of the sport and to anyone seeking insight into the triumphs of a master.
Weitere Infos & Material
– CHAPTER 3 – A Profiled Position
Six-foot-two, 180 pounds, and able to do a one-arm, one-finger pull-up, Gill is attracted to the more immediately gratifying or perhaps frustrating type of climbing which requires the use of such strength. West of Fort Collins, Colorado, is a series of short sandstone cliffs covered with routes he has done. These stand as monuments to him and will prove challenging, if not outrageous, to future generations of climbers. In 1968, Gill and I were climbing in this area and tested our abilities. I watched him flow with exasperating ease up horrendous overhangs. The bouldering garden was illuminated by the finesse he employed while moving from hold to hold. My excruciating forays were comical, yet Gill was patient with me and helpful. He prodded me, and I was a sort of buffoon scratching a way upward. As I began a route of his, I was able to recall a letter I received in 1966. Royal Robbins had written the encouraging words, ‘Sounds as if your strength and gymnastic ability are formidable. You should soon step into Gill’s shoes as the boulder king of the U.S.’ In an awkward position, I lunged for what I thought was a hold. In the twinkling of an eye, I returned – with amazing speed – to where I had started. I sat on the ground. Unspeakable pain penetrated my tailbone, and I had a rush of adrenaline – if not shock. Step into Gill’s shoes? He picked me up. For the remainder of the day, I enjoyed the role of observer. The failure had a redeeming quality, for I had awakened, seemingly, out of a daze generated by my conventional rock-climber’s experience. Through the beauty of his creations, Gill expressed his mentality. There was substance to Gill’s climbing and to his quiet manner. With a refined outlook and carefully tempered hunger for perfection, he traversed, superbly balanced, into a profiled position. It was a sophisticated blend of insight and strength – muscle and technique in concert. A climbing world needs a John Gill to humble it … and to inspire it. In 1968, at Split Rocks, an area located approximately halfway between Boulder and Estes Park, Colorado, Gill and I climbed the better part of a day. Jagged granite blocks strewn throughout the forest tore the flesh of our fingertips and shredded our egos. A warm sun made the day pleasant, and we discovered every sort of technique, every sort of problem. I was a little afraid to try a few of the routes which Gill ascended with authority. When he spoke, it was as if his voice resonated in a deep cavity. Low and commanding, it was rarely heard except for a ‘ho ho’ in response to my whimpers. His silent nature was also a restless one, indicating the existence of a power which had been dormant too long. He approached a smooth, overhanging, fifteen-foot wall and, at first, gently drew breath. Then his eyes became fixed upon a high hold. While compressing his upper torso, as if to recoil, he began to hyperventilate. To follow was a perfectly calculated slow-motion leap. There was a subtle, although important, shuffling of his feet on tiny nubbins. One hand reached over the rounded summit, the other pulled laterally. It was quick, and he hurled himself to the top of the boulder. I squeezed the initial holds and sighed. I could grasp the holds but not the problem. After examining the fifteen-foot wall closely, it was, to me, the beauty and savoir-faire of Gill. To be a disciple of his would be, I felt, an honour. I followed him about the boulders religiously and hoped he would bestow in me some fibre or hidden knowledge of the art. He tried to dispel my romantic notions with realistic talk of strength and technique, insisting he had lots of weaknesses and that I was the real climber because I did longer routes and big-wall ascents. We rigged a top rope, and Gill belayed me on a delicate wall. Initially, I was uncertain as to how to start. The only foothold was roughly the size of a pencil eraser. If I dislocated my shoulders, I could reach, for the left hand, a slippery pinch-edge and, for the right, a sickeningly small, sharp, fingertip flake. There was little advantage in knowing that John had climbed the route and judged it to be moderate! In his presence I found that I could push myself farther than I’d planned. I got a hand on the bucket-hold at the top before my weight went on to the rope. On a later visit to Split Rocks, I made the delicate wall and repeated it a number of times because it seemed to bring Gill to me when he was not there. Upon discovering one of his tiny chalk arrows drawn on the rock near the bottom of certain deserving problems, a climber is able to intuit Gill’s capacity for choosing an aesthetic line. These routes tend to be delicate and accurate, full of interesting nuances of character, and united by a theme. I stood underneath one such route at Castle Rock, west of Boulder, Colorado, in 1969. Two small holds arrested the eye but were the only flaws in rounded, overhanging, bulging granite which arched out above a tiny, white arrow. I could tell I would have to search deep in order to see the solution to the moves. I wanted to see with Gill’s eye. I approached the holds, prepared to follow a primitive urging of the blood and to scrapple a way upward, but was unable to find a sequence which worked. I was forced to resort to an extravagance of form, my right heel hooked on a tiny edge above my head, my hands crossed on a finger-crack and left foot frictioning on lichen. Talus below made me reluctant to extend myself, yet unlikely contortions and hard pulls brought me to a ledge and the end of the route. I was able to improve by identifying with Gill. I later would learn John’s name for the route: Acrobat Overhang. In 1969, I was sitting alone in a deserted Camp 4, the bouldering area of Yosemite. Pine needles were in my shoes, and chalk I had been rubbing on my fingers was in my hair. The boulders had worn me out after a couple hours of my climbing them. A breeze blew through the lofty trees, and I gazed upward at surrounding walls of granite which rose thousands of feet. A waterfall roared in the distance. The Sierra scene, spring smells, sun, and the sky were telling me to look beyond the surface of nature and separate myself from trifles. I was homesick for Colorado, yet persuaded to remain in Yosemite by some spell. I began to reflect upon bouldering, its loneliness and frustration. In the hot afternoon, a drop of sweat in my palm became a crystalline image of John Gill. He was encouraging me to laugh at myself because I was too serious. In the little drop, I saw Gill caressing the underside of an overhang, climbing and clinging to it, then launching himself like an arrow upward toward some doubtful set of holds. I felt the intrigue of a man whose name was blowing softly through the forests of the Grand Tetons, the South Dakota Needles, Colorado, and many areas. I had visited Yosemite a number of times with increasing success on the boulders and realised that my new exertions were due, in part, to Gill. What I was doing on the boulders of Camp 4 was leaving a small mark, a few first ascents which would speak of what I had learned from someone whose skill was superior. I wanted to be one with rock instead of at war with it. In the texture of the rock, I perceived ideals and drew upon the laugh in the Gill tableau. An odyssey filled me with a desire to climb hard but with a meticulous feel. I was charged with the electricity of Gill’s touch. The reinforcement of his character transmitted to me from a distance. It became clear to me that so much of what Gill had taught the climbing world was only partly about climbing. I was drawn to contemplation, satisfied with lazily sitting, yet intoxicated to the point of elation with bouldering ideas and fantasies of the ridiculous. I wanted to nurture my perceptions, explore the boulders, know their value, and rise in the spirit of Gill above the wasteland of ego. In a momentary nostalgic feeling, a drop of sweat dissolved into callous. After I returned to Colorado, I bouldered several times with Gill. On Flagstaff Mountain and in Eldorado Canyon, he did many of my best problems with ease. We visited some granite along the Gem Lake Trail near Estes Park and pushed our limits at Split Rocks. At Fort Collins, Gill came out to the cliffs with me but did not attempt to climb, because he had suffered a strain in his elbow. The injury was a nightmare to him, for the extent and seriousness of it were unknown, and it was accompanied by extreme pain, prohibiting him from doing even the simplest problems. We hiked to a forest with granite boulders west of Horse Tooth Reservoir where routes awaited exploration, and I pioneered a red, bulging wall which Gill gave to me since it would have been his. I was in my best physical and mental shape ever, and Gill, although depressed about his elbow, was inspired. The frustrations of his injury seemed to diminish with just the thought of climbing. An evening on Flagstaff Mountain, overlooking the city of Boulder, Colorado, I climbed alone and was able to surpass some of my own goals on the coarse sandstone upon which I had worked for many years. I tested myself, moved as gracefully as possible, and felt complete composure. Gill’s example was becoming a strong influence in my climbing and had begun to play a significant role in my development. Flagstaff was full of light and fall. I thought about Gill’s injury and wondered if he was finished. In the...
