The Fly, Realization, Apollo Reed, Have Guns will Travel, Left Arete, Right Arete, Harry Butthole Pussy Potter. These are route names, some are good, some are creative, some are shitty. Spend time pouring through any guide book and route/problem names will fly off of in a frenzied manner, most with no pattern or reason to them. Climb at the Obed and one can tick off “Pet Cemetery
Route names are a funny gem of the climbing community, paying homage to our favorite classic rock songs, “Highway to Hell”, describing the first ascent, “Fuzzy Undercling” or evoking mythological beasts, “Halcyon.” The list goes on, but the only consistency to route names is that the first ascensionist gets to name it. I learned this first hand sitting in the crowds of the Hound Ears competition before it was the Triple Crown, when a classic hard man was awarded a cash prize for nailing an FA. As he stumbled up on the stage with a bottle of Jaeger in his hand to collect his winnings, he was asked, “what are you gonna name it?” “Jaegermeister” he replied looking at his bottle and to the crowd as if this was the most obvious answer ever. Now when a person climbs this problem and marks it on their score sheet, they write down Jaegermeister. To think how easily the name could have been; chocolate milk, bud light, PBR or four loko. Watching this old crusher assign a name to a climb inspired me to secure an FA and name a route something epic and classic. Something that would bring my family honor and cause people to sing me praises. It took me eight years to bag an FA and when I finally had the chance to immortalize my self, my family or my friends, I instead settled upon “Five du Monde.” The problem was a v5, it sat on the Fin du Monde boulder at Stack Rock, AR and my first attempt of naming it “moss mouth” was shot down by the guide book writer.
As a route setter, naming routes at the gym is the bane of my existence, no one really refers to the climbs by the name instead they are the red route on rope 7, or the 12d in the back. All the creativity of “horcruxed” is lost after the route comes down in a month. Still I strain my brain, scratch out the name in sharpie and giggle when I tape it to the wall. If you are not a route setter, nor do you get paid by Five-Ten to travel the world and put up FA’s the chances that you will get to name a rock climb are pretty small. There are two ways to bag an FA, climb v15 or find some place so fucking remote that no one has climbed the moderates. I chose the latter, this is my story of my first and only FA. Stack Rock, AR is the most remote climbing location I have ever been to. It sits in the Ozarks, which are pretty remote by themselves, but to get to Stack Rock the directions are as follows, drive from the small city of Little Rock, to the small barely a city of Harrison, drive fifteen miles outside of that through winding mountain roads, until you get to a dirt road, drive fourteen more miles down the dirt road and you are at the parking lot. Walk a mile from there and you will be at Stack Rock. I found myself out there with Daniel and Cole. Daniel is the Arkansas Arkansas
We made the two(ish) hour drive to Harrison from Little Rock Hollywood slasher film. We parked at the pull off, grabbed our pads and set off. The beauty of the day was the absence of cell phone service, any noise of civilization, and a boulder field to ourselves. The frightening part was the absence of cell phone service, any noise of civilization and the suffocating feeling that hill people could descend on us at any moment and I’d have to maim Cole and Daniel in order to save myself in the impending foot race to safety.
The first half of the day was spent walking around the woods looking at all of the lines to be climbed, inspecting the few that had been climbed and clearing away moss from some that could be “projects of the future.” The area was spread out but each boulder had 3-5 climbs on it. The rock was southern sandstone with grey hues mixed with orange swirls and rust iron veins. The biggest find of the morning was the “warm up” boulder. It was basically a 20 by 20 boulder where every six inches was the biggest jug you’ve ever grabbed in your life. From there we went to the the Fin du Monde boulder and flailed on the “v8 project.” On the left side there was a tree that had fallen during a winter storm and it opened up a new line. This new line was yet to be cleaned, climbed or named. The race was one to bag the FA and name the climb.
We stacked the pads and set to the task of cleaning the problem. Cleaning a problem is the worst experience ever. It involves scraping moss formed over thousands of years from it’s happy home. The moss ends up in your mouth, hair, eyes, and teeth. It is not pleasant. To get a better reach on the holds I climbed a tree nearby. This tree was about six inches around and began swaying from my weight with one foot still on the ground. I managed to get about three or four feet up on this wobbely little bastard and could scrape at upper holds when the tree swayed with in reach. Cole and Daniel remained on the ground scrubbing feet and the starting holds. There was a beautiful seem on the left hand side of the arête and that looked like it would provide a beautiful lay back to the mantle. I asked for a stick to clean the cobwebs and other goop out of the crack. Cole was walking around looking for a way to clean the top out and Daniel went looking for another long stick to clean upper holds. Still swaying on the tree I jammed a tiny stick into the seam. “crack.” “FFFFFFFFucck, ROOOOOOck” I shrieked as the seam completely separated from the boulder sending a tv size portion of rock to the ground. Picture a forty inch flat screen tv and that was the size of rock that came crashing to the ground exactly where Cole and Daniel had been maybe 15 seconds prior. I stood swearing on the tree staring at the rock laying on the crash pads and the now new problem in front us. I jammed the stick around, not trusting that the rock was sturdy. With no new pops or cracks we queued up for the FA. I went first and came crashing to the ground after a foot broke. Daniel tried next and slapped to a dirty “hold” that was really just dirt. Cole tried some silly beta and failed as well. I got back on and tried again. Grabbing dirty jugs to dirty crimps, to a lay back and then a mossy top out, I successfully pressed out the climb. In so doing, I ended up with a huge chunk of moss in my mouth. I coughed and smiled, I had an FA, I was going to name a problem! I said, “moss mouth” because that was what stuck out to me, the moss in my mouth. I was vetoed. Apparently, Moss Mouth is not a good climbing name, so I settled on Five du Monde, as previously explained. I have yet to bag another FA nor have I had the pleasure of naming a route other than on plastic. But if you read the soon to be released Arkansas Bouldering Guide, there in shiny letters will be “Five du Monde” FA: Nicholas Hall.
That’s how easy it is to bag an FA. Drive thirty miles outside of any civilization in one of the most remote areas of the country. Hike for a while, break off spare holds in an attempt to injure your FA competitors and then climb a dirty choss pile to the top! Then with moss in your mouth and glory in your eyes you can say whatever dumb name you want and people will have to adhere to it! Although don’t use the title, “Nicholas Hall the greatest man ever alive, who’s sexual prowess and understanding of fine wines will be told about for generations” because that is what I’m going to name my next FA.
