Bolting for Tomorrow

Some dreams die hard. Take Ethiopian rock, for example: It shimmers with the promise of high quality. Ribbons of ruddy sandstone arc high and cleave into precise cracks, and convex buttresses offer singular summits. But I’ll be the first person to tell you that, despite its appearance, Ethiopian stone is mostly rubbish—and I’ll be the last to listen.

Last September, I made my second climbing trip to Ethiopia. The first time, I’d gone with four of my favorite climbing partners and a quintuple set of cams. This time, I arrived with James Mills, a journalist with whom I’d never climbed, and 38 bolts.

I am not a bolter. I am a trad climber who clips other people’s bolts when they’re convenient. But before we get into an ethical debate, I’ll tell you this: I don’t really have anything against bolts. What I’ve always been against is how much blasted time it takes to bolt. Before heading to Ethiopia with 40 pounds of bolting gear and a borrowed Bosch Annihilator, I’d usually been the one waiting for the bolter to finish up the job. During the time it’s taken to drill a bolt, I’ve done entire belay-yoga sessions in Corsica, removed a summer of calluses from my hands on top of Lumpy Ridge, and twisted in the wind to the point of puking on a hanging belay at Washington’s Goat Wall.

But I didn’t tell James all this before we went to Ethiopia. I just told him I had a plan. I also had a job: I was a co-leader for Imagine Ethiopia 2010, an expedition combining community stewardship and adventure. Adventure, as it were, needed a toprope area.

Within 48 hours of landing in Addis Ababa, James and I were at the Gheralta Massif in northern Ethiopia. I spied a line, racked up, and began climbing, leaving a pile of bolting gear with James at the belay, with instructions to send it up when I asked. Eight feet later, I asked for the gear.

Two things might be helpful to know at this point: One, I am a bit of a wuss when it comes to running it out above the ground; and two, the rock in Ethiopia is truly horrible. I’d already seen a perfectly good-looking hold turn into an airborne encyclopedia in those first eight feet. I wanted protection. I wanted it now.

Up came the Bosch, the 12.5-inchlong, half-inch-diameter bit, blow tube, hammer, wrenches, hangers, and a half dozen 5 ¾-inch Rawl 5-piece bolts. (To his credit, James never suggested I just step down two moves so he could hand up this gear from the ground.) I held my stance on a sloping ledge, readied the drill, zeroed in on the highest spot I could reach, drew back—drew way back to accommodate the monster bit—and drilled.

It’s not normal for people to powerdrill on lead with a 12.5-inch bit. I never would have tried if I were on granite. But I had a theory—one formed from a dozen interviews with some of the most experienced bolters of choss alive. The moment I depressed the trigger, I knew they were right: Bigger is better when bolting dried mud. The rock was like butter—warm, whipped butter—and the bolts would have to be long to be any good. As the bit broke through the rock, I had to try to not drill deeper—the rock seemed to suck in the steel. Within moments, I’d placed my first Ethiopian bolt. Ninety minutes and 80 feet later, I’d established a new climb: a glorious 5.5 with an optional 5.7+ finish. I was not in Ethiopia to do a star-spangled 5.15 first ascent. First, I would have to be able to climb 5.15, but that’s another matter entirely. I was in the Horn of Africa to create a toprope area—a few good 5.5s, maybe up to a 5.9—and I was on my way.