At a secluded crag near my house, there’s a climbing route called Malevolent Eye. It’s 32 feet high, with a three-foot overhang and a difficulty rating of 5.10-. It’s tricky enough to challenge a good climber, with several blade-thin holds and a balancy crux move.
A couple of decades ago, the prolific Connecticut climber Ken Nichols ascended Malevolent Eye 50 times in one day. His record stood unchallenged until earlier this year, when a mutual friend of ours – an undergrad at the University of Connecticut — climbed it 70 times in a day. When I heard, I told Nichols — in his early 70s and still climbing religiously — that I wanted to try to set a new record and possibly break 100.
Connecticut doesn’t boast the soaring cliffs of New Hampshire and Maine, so climbers here have to get creative to do long routes — especially when outdoors areas are closed because of a coronavirus pandemic. The American Alpine Club in March discouraged climbers from patroning remote locales such as Fayetteville in West Virginia so as to not spread the virus, while New York’s Mohonk Preserve altogether closed the notoriously congested Shawangunk ridge. But under controlled conditions at local crags where social distancing is the norm, climbing in small groups appeared to be in keeping with the Connecticut’s governor’s executive order that “individuals should limit outdoor recreational activities to non-contact and avoid activities where they come in close contact with other people.”
Nichols was skeptical of my goal for Malevolent Eye; I’d fallen repeatedly when first trying the route two years ago and since then had only managed 10 ascents in a day. Nevertheless, he volunteered to belay me for the effort, while of course maintaining a six-foot social distance.
So on a cool morning in early April, we hiked the half-mile into Husky Rock (so named because nearby UCONN’s mascot is a husky), tied an anchor around a tree at the top of the cliff, and hung a static rope. We were prepared to be there all day. Nichols was recovering from a shoulder injury and couldn’t climb himself, so he was my full-time belayer for the day.
I started climbing at 8 a.m., feeling infinitely far from 100. My plan was to do reps of 5, with a five-minute rest between sets. The climbing sequence went like this: Side pull with left hand, high crimp with right hand, step feet onto blade-thin edges, bump right hand to higher crimp, cross left hand over right hand to medium pocket, match hands, shuffle feet, bump hands up three feet to deep pocket, shuffle feet, move left hand up to sloper, high step right foot, bump right hand to the “malevolent eye” sloper and then to a deep pocket for a hand jam. Shake out. Reach high, reach high, reach high again, and mantle above the anchor.
I kept a tally with rows of stones, adding one after each ascent so I wouldn’t lose count of my total. The first three hours, I averaged 20 ascents per hour, falling for the first time as I was about to surpass Nichols’ record. I was promptly lowered back to the ground, as per Nichols’ rules of climbing I could only continue if I didn’t fall. By 11 a.m. I had finished 60 reps.
The temp was in the 60s with full sun. My fingers were pink and burning. My head felt foggy, in part from the climbing but also from sleep deprivation, having been kept awake the previous night by a crying baby. I laid on the ground and closed my eyes.
What was propelling me onward? It seems absurd to suggest I was climbing for the “glory,” as who cares how many times an obscure, short cliff in the boondocks of Connecticut has been top-roped? But there’s an arbitrariness to all athletic “achievements,” be it sprinting in a circle or running 26.2 miles, hitting a ball over a net or throwing one into a 10-foot-high hoop. And what I was doing was nothing compared to the monotonous pointlessness of the Sri Chinmoy Self-Transcendence 3,100 Mile Race, which consists of 5,649 laps around a city block in Queens, New York. Writing about that race for The New Yorker, the social psychologist Adam Alter noted that “people are fundamentally driven to set and achieve goals — even arbitrary ones.” Actions can be driven by motives that are extrinsic (money, accolades, etc.) or intrinsic (spiritual well-being, a sense of personal accomplishment, etc.). We are also motivated by the idea of meaningfulness, which “drives people to persevere through unpleasantness in the hope of grander rewards in the distant future,” according to Alter. People who run around a city block 5,649 times — or who endlessly climb Malevolent Eye — “are driven by something more secular than spirituality—they could be hungry for meaning, in general.”
At 11:30 a.m., a UCONN student appeared at the top of the cliff, saying he’d be joining us. I hopped up to reclaim my position on Malevolent Eye. I wrapped cloth tape around each of my fingers to forestall further skin burn as well as staunch several openly bleeding sores, but the tape pulled off quickly. My pace slowed to 10 ascents per hour — half the speed I’d been climbing the first few hours. After each climb, I’d return to the ground, take a swig of water, close my eyes for a minute, then do another ascent.
I fell for the second time on No. 70, my body subconsciously stumbling over the idea of setting a new record. When I reached No. 71, Nichols rewarded me with a Cadbury chocolate bar. I ate it with two ibuprofen.
Spurred on by chocolate and pain relievers, I hit No. 100 at 3 p.m. and triumphantly added a 100th stone to my pile. I figured I might as well try to do a few more reps, because my goal was never to stop at 100 — it was to climb as long as possible. It was a self-created “escalation trap,” as psychologists call it. According to a famous 1999 paper by George Loewenstein of Carnegie Mellon University about why mountaineers choose to climb mountains, “Fame, self-esteem, and the desire for mastery may bring people to the mountains, but other forces keep them at it when conditions get miserable. One such force is the almost obsessive human need to fulfill self-set goals.” In my case, the mere act of setting a goal to endlessly climb was compelling me onward.
At this point, Nichols had to leave to pick his wife up from work. I was out of water, having consumed three liters plus another half-liter of coffee. It made sense to stop. But Nichols promised to return in 90 minutes with more water and to continue belaying me. I recruited the UCONN student as my substitute belayer.
My new goal was to do 110 reps, which sounded like a nice round number. Once I got there, my goal became to hit 122, which was the personal single-day record for Nichols — and in all likelihood the all-time single-day ascent record in the Northeast, because who else in their right mind does stuff like this?
Just as I topped the cliff for No. 122, Nichols reappeared. It was as if the momentousness of my surpassing his record had conjured him back. Nichols took over the belay. I popped two more ibuprofen with fresh water.
My fingertips had gone numb. My hands were bleeding in three places. An oozing rash appeared near my wrist from repeatedly doing a hand jam. But I had also memorized the route so completely that I felt totally confident in ascending, save for one move toward the start. Before each ascent, I would tell myself two things: “It’s just one move,” and, “My fingers are pillows.” The recitations became my mantras.
Now my goal was 130. Then I thought it’d be significant to reach 140, which would double the previous record. Once I got to 140, I figured I might as well round up to 150.
Nichols was periodically breaking into chuckles, entertained by the ridiculousness of what was happening. As I approached 150, he suggested a few more. “If you climb it 157 times, you’ll have done more than 5,000 feet of climbing!” he said.
I was skeptical whether I could do any more. It was now 6 p.m. All I’d eaten that day were two pieces of toast, a chocolate bar, a Clif bar, an apple, and some Goldfish crackers. I was exhausted. I wanted to be done. I stared at the ground.
“You’re so close to 5,000 feet,” Nichols said. “Why not just do seven more?”
When I hit 157, I figured I might as well do another three to reach an even number. As I neared No. 160, Nichols moved the bar again.
“Steve, I am not kidding,” he said, scribbling some numbers on a piece of paper, “but I did the math and if you climb 165 times it would be exactly 5,280 feet — a vertical mile!”
As much as I was ready to be done, I was charmed by Nichols’ enthusiasm. He’d been belaying me all day, fueling me with chocolate, refilling my water, and giving constant encouragement — despite the fact that I was trying to break his old records.
“You just have to do 165!” Nichols said. “It’s too perfect. And then, I promise, I won’t egg you on anymore.”When I completed the 165th ascent, Nichols dubbed me a new inductee of the “Mile-High Club” — I don’t think he realized “mile-high club” is slang for people who have sex on airplanes. I’d climbed the equivalent of both The Nose of El Capitan and Half Dome in Yosemite in a day. We turned back-to-back and elbow-bumped (so as to not violate social-distancing rules). I arranged my 165th stone on the ground.
My belayer Ken Nichols poses beside the 165 rocks lined up to track my ascents of Malevolent Eye.
Climbing Malevolent Eye 165 times was absurd, a trivial repetition of human movement, which can be how life in general feels — perhaps especially amid self-quarantining and the pandemic. Hit the alarm clock, drink coffee, sign in for work, walk to the table for dinner, climb into bed, repeat. Life is a series of repetitions that feel like an endless loop.
But in the words of the philosopher Albert Camus, meaning comes from embracing the absurd. Cited frequently during this pandemic, Camus’ 1947 novel The Plague describes a town overtaken by a deadly virus and of its citizens’ efforts to make sense of meaningless suffering. This theme is also at the heart of his philosophical essay The Myth of Sisyphus. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was condemned by the gods to repeatedly roll a boulder up a hill. Camus argues that we are all Sisyphus. Such is life for every one of us. But when we embrace life and put our shoulder to the boulder, we create meaning. Meaning even comes from climbing Malevolent Eye 165 times, perhaps especially amid a pandemic.
“I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain!” Camus wrote. “One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
It was dusk as we coiled the ropes and walked back to our cars. I got home at 8 p.m. Jenna, my wife, shook her head with incredulity when I recounted my day. My hands were so red and raw they felt like they were burning when I ran them under water. That night I was on baby duty, and I winced in pain when my five-month-old grabbed my fingers. In the morning, I could hardly pick up a cup or type on a keyboard. My finger pads were sensitive to the touch. My hands hurt to clench. My right pinky finger had a “subungual hematoma” (bleeding under the nail). For days, I woke with burning fingers and needed to run my hands under cold water, apply lotion, and pop ibuprofen to ease the throbbing. And I was happy.
“Bravo!” Nichols emailed. “What a feat! Very Impressive! If you were not sore today, I would have written you off as an extraterrestrial.”
Brian Ludovici was the UCONN student who had climbed the route 70 times, and Pratham Shah was the UCONN student who helped to belay Steve.
This was SO inspirational!! Thank you for writing and posting.
( I set a goal of running 100 marathons in 20 years after having only started running at age 40). Still setting goals at age 60. I came here to read about winter traversing, since I’m moving toward a W48 goal.