Moby Grape, Cannon Cliff, NH

Between the frogs and the traffic, I was getting no sleep. Rob, Iain, and I were crashed next to Profile Lake, just a little too close to I-93. Just when the frogs would quiet down momentarily, a new pack of rebel bikers would roar by on their Harleys (it was rebel biker weekend in New Hampshire), and the frogs would once again erupt into a chorus of chirping. Luckily, I wasn't battling the bugs like Iain was. He kept complaining that they were munching on his forehead, even though he had used a lot of Off to ward them off.

I wanted to get an early start on Moby Grape, so my lack of sleep was annoying. The sun finally brightened the sky and the birds started singing, and I was awake. It was 4:40. I decided to try to doze off again, but thought I heard the muffled sound of a car door slamming. What kind of climbers could be here at this time of day, I wondered. The nagging feeling that somebody else was going to beat us to the start of the climb pushed me out of the sack. I walked down to the car park and sure enough, there was a new car there, and the climbers had already left! I began packing up my sleeping bag while Rob and Iain gradually regained consciousness. Rob was obviously none too happy about being disturbed so early, but he grudgingly got up anyway.

Another party of two was at the parking lot racking up. Where were they headed? Moby Grape, of course. Beaten in spite of our ridiculously early start. After a quick breakfast, we signed in at the red box and hit the trail, five minutes before six. We figured the other guys would be up at least a pitch ahead of us, since they had a 45 minute head start. But no! When we arrived at the base half an hour later, they were still sitting on their duffs getting ready to climb. Oh well. We sat around and fought black flies to kill time, then drank the first of our three liters of water for the day.

We let them get halfway up the second pitch before Iain took the first lead, having won this honor fairly by a rock/paper/scissors tournament. He climbed steadily up the spectacular jam crack, and arrived at a poor stance at the top. We were climbing on double nines, and Rob and I both tied in and simul-climbed while Iain belayed from above. This proved to be almost as fast as climbing in a party of two, and we actually were faster than the party of two in front of us, who slowed us down all day long.

Reppy's Crack was really cool, and I began to truly realize the fun of a good hand crack. These were perfect jams -- totally secure and relatively painless. At the belay, we switched the ropes around and Rob took over the lead, a disappointing easy scramble to a stance less than a hundred feet above. As it turns out, we were off route slightly at this point, and missed the finish to Reppy's. I led next what appeared to be another easy and unchallenging pitch, but turned out to be quite interesting, finishing with a ten foot chimney to a spacious ledge. Pitch four was the crux pitch, and ascended the Triangular Roof -- an awkward venture on secure hand jams. I attempted to do it as gracefully as possible even though I was wearing the unweildy pack at the time. Pitch five was Rob's, and he led around a corner on blocks with some nice laybacking, up to a series of ledges approaching the OUTRAGEOUS Finger of Fate.

I was psyched to get this next pitch. The Finger of Fate was indeed, outrageous, as the guidebook had declared, a nearly-detached pinnacle about 20 feet high jutting out of the side of the cliff. I traversed up and right on wild formations until I was directly underneath the thing. I clipped a fixed pin, then stepped up and put in my #4 Camalot. I stopped to ponder the problem, then tentatively entered the chimney-like formation behind the finger. This was really awkward, and I couldn't seem to get comfortable. I turned this way and that, twisting my body in odd contortions, searching for hidden handholds but not feeling at all secure. Finally I decided that the key to success was going to be a foothold deep within the finger. The problem was getting my foot onto the hold, but I finally managed to do so, wriggling and squirming until finally I clasped the fingertip. Ahh, it was a jug. I clowned around for the camera briefly, hanging by one arm from the outrageous Finger of Fate, then mantled to the top and slung a dubious sling around the tip. I reached a huge grassy ledge and set up a belay.

For Iain's next lead, he traversed forty feet to the left end of the ledge, made unprotected boulder moves over a hump (well done!) and wandered aimlessly until he ran out of rope. With a bit of shouted directions, he found the correct belay at last. Pitch seven went up a huge chimney, which nobody in their right mind would actually use because of the layback crack right next to it, then made "spectacular" exit moves onto clean slabs and crack climbing above. A good pitch, but I found that I was unable to make the spectacular exit moves out of the chimney with the pack on, and had to haul it over this obstacle.

Finally, pitch nine. I was the lucky one chosen to "wander up slabs and cracks on clean granite to the top." Well, I really enjoyed this pitch because there were infinite variations, and it was an opportunity to make a quality finish to a great climb. There were a lot of easier, zigzagging lines, but I chose a fairly direct finish, surmounting an overhang on double cracks and a final steep section before reaching the top.
Iain and Rob soon joined me, and we paused to take off our shoes and enjoy the view before down-scrambling past New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountains to the steep trail off the north side of the mountain. Hot, grimy, sunburned and bug-bitten, we threw our gear in the car and jumped in the lake. Refreshed and considerably cooler, we headed south again.