Final Reckoning ("because it's there")

(Dusted off on the occasion of the 25^th Anniversary of the End of The Wall in Berlin* - fictionally reprinted , with permission, from Climbs You Never Read About, Vol. III, No. 69, Summer 1994. Offered – and declined – for publication in Climbing Magazine, Oct. 1994. *"Park Service" refers here to the Allied Forces in West Berlin, the "Saxon bears" are a reference then of course, to the East German border guards.)

FINAL RECKONING:

Scaling the Berlin Wall's West Face
a profile in audacious feats of shenanigans,
by Sam “Mountain Goat“ Inayat-Chisti

Created by glacial movements of a former age, and spanning some ninety-nine kilometers, the sheer magnitude of this "climber's nemesis" intimidated villagers and travelers alike, with its forboding presence and relentless atmosphere of impregnability. Its monotonously endless ridge, resembling the Alaskan Pipeline and rising some several meters above the communities overshadowed by its awesome challenge, was not, properly speaking, the highest point in Berlin, as that status was claimed by Teufelsberg (or Devil's Mountain), which was no less formed as a result of the same not-quite-Ice-yet-still-rather-Cold Era. No, the altitude was merely the lesser of grave considerations for anyone contemplating conquest of this beast, whose formidable lateral expanse was actually more dizzying to the mind than was its height. It could hardly be said there were any notable climbing routes in the aea – unless you counted the canyonesque – and off-limits - "Social Highrises" east of the Great Wall; it could hardly be said there was any climbing. Hardly any mountains. Okay, so none. Hence the Great Colossal Challenge of: Der Wall.

While some 130 lives had been claimed in attempts to take the east face of this smooth, solid mass just since summer's end, 1961 (no previous attempt had been necessary, hence none on record), no one had ever seriously considered the equally perplexing west face. So it was, until Crilley, Bohning, Prof. Müssen and I locked in on it that fateful evening in early November, 1989. And another thing: I've pretty much run out of hyperdescriptive adjectives, so now that I've captured the reader's attention this far, if indeed at all, I'm thinking of taking a short break from words of the fifty- and seventy-five-cent caliber, if that's okay with everyone.

As I've mentioned, bodies had abundantly dropped on the east side over the years, some quite recently in the time frame of our story, although the last such fatal attempt had gotten the guy a hundred foot drop from his ingeniously but, as fate would have it, inadequately constructed balloon into the west. Those who had successfully negotiated the east face over nearly three decades actually had never negotiated the behemoth itself, but circumvented its bulk via "the hiker's route" or by tunneling – the last clever ruse which worked being to simply spring over a couple subway tracks, a daunting matter which took him 15 years of planning. These didn't count as climbs of course. We were going to scale the sucker right where she stood, as she stood.

 

I should mention that the Park Service had always restricted any and all such notions on the west face since those early fatalities in 1961. In fact, the only way one could go near the east face was to take a frequently trafficked "hiker's route" specially provided by the Park Service, which always looked out for your interests, and always included a nice, glitzy tourist guide to show you all the interesting areas where you could or could not go. Well, that was a lot of fun, I can tell you. But there is truth in the regularly confirmed sightings of Saxon bears on the east slope in those days – and that they did not have a sense of humor but could be really quite nasty. Hence the west slope Park Service would become a mainstay, much to the general satisfaction of the villagers here.

Crilley and Bohning, both inexperienced and under the influence, banged on my door the night of November 9^th, 1989, shouting incoherently that the restrictions were dropped and we could now execute our long-shelved plan to climb the daunting west face of the Berlin Wall. Dr. Bartee, my roommate, was on important out-of-town business, and would be so darkly disappointed (also under the influence on occasion) that we would carry forth our shared plan in his absence, that he refused even to send me a postcard from where he was staying, or cover the drinks when he returned. Bad attitude, considering what this would mean for Climbing history, but such are academics, they're a touchy breed. I told the boys to settle down, we'd deal with it the next evening, and to inform Prof. Müssen immediately.

Night-climbing was preferred to broad daylight, as our schedules were too locked in to our own respectively routine duties with the Park Service. Moreover, a daytime ascent would have been insane, out of the question really, as the maneuver would require stealth and discretion. Only one person I ever knew of came close to what we were about to do, and that really was in broad daylight – but then he really was a bit touched and void of discretion. John Runnings, a bearded American octogenarian of indeterminate age but of very determined chutzpah, was a sporadically encountered feature at - and on - the west face, when from time to time he tried to breach the Park Service restrictions and actually taunt those bears, but was always hindered and repulsed in his attempts (which once included mooning the bears) by imposing forces well beyond his control.

We decided on the 10^th, and met outside our compound, taking the most direct and least treacherous route there we knew: the S-Bahn subway to Anhalter Bahnhof, beyond which point one had to strike out on foot, a grueling but not unpleasant ten minute walk. I noticed on the way there, that none of us had thought of carrying any direct-aid equipment. I myself was wearing Park-issue all-purpose shoes and my worthy companions, minus Dr. Bartee, were stepping out in sneakers. What about: webbing? hex-nuts? some Quadcams maybe, with chrome vanadium axles, stainless steel cables, and silver soldered joints to ensure both high strength and low weight, available in nine sizes? What about a simple carabiner? What about, maybe a a purlon rope?! After we'd stopped and seriously reflected on this, Crilley merely said, "Ehh, so what? We got 'Jimmy.'" And he was right. "Jimmy" would suffice, yes "Jimmy" would have to do.

And off we trod, outwardly sober and carefree, yet each of us holding his own secret anxious yearnings toward --- actually nothing in particular. The sobriety gradually wore off, and this had more to do with "Jimmy" than with the bounding confidence in our climbing skills. I should mention here, that the elixir we carried in Crilley's flask was not, strictly speaking, "Jimmy" Beam but his equally potent cousin "Jackie" Daniels, yet since the flask normally contained the former the name stuck. I had no care for either "cousin," but just to be a right bastard I offered to be the carrier of the flask, and proceded to whittle "Jimmy" down about a third by the time we were embarking from Anhalter. I regaled the group with Climbing anecdotes, bolstering their spirits (as I'd now had some "Jimmy" in me) and with the laborious tale of my roughly perimeter-length Walk along the entire west face, in October of '88 (little knowing my way then, around and through the villages, and into the lurking shadows of the formidable Spandauer Forest). I had used that occasion to look the west face over, up and down, checking for any vulnerabilities in its near-perfect 90-degree stretch of slab, any cracks, crevices, handholds, couloirs, chimneys,a dihedral or two – and found the entire thing instead: a monotonously endless ridge, with a forboding presence and relentless atmosphere of impregnability and despair.

But on this evening despair was the furthest thing from our minds, because we'd brought along "Jimmy." We thought about what lay ahead, and the promise of what would no doubt follow: throngs of weeping, ecstatic villagers greeting us as they feted us with wine and song and garlands and kisses, for having accomplished the hitherto impossible – thus winning their admiration and gratitude.

Well. Interestingly, and speaking of throngs, it did not strike us as odd – but should have – that quite a number of people seemed to be headed in the exact same direction as we were. And a few of them looked more prepared for a direct-aid ascent of something than we appeared, but then, it was already decided on free-climbing it, entirely without aid but for "Jimmy." Our breathing measured, and our pacing swift and sure, we filed toward the looming edifice with wild thoughts of fame and glory. Ignoring the crowd alongside us, we rounded the last curve. Imagine our chagrin to see thousands of people we didn't even know, already scaling our Wall, and even sitting on the summit – not only sitting, dangling their feet, but standing around, teetering, dancing, making whoopie, passing around the Bubbly, which anyway interested me a lot more than just "Jimmy"! And what was more, these were supposed to be our throngs of happy villagers who should have been down below, jubilantly preparing the parade float for our return, tired, safe and alive, from our conquest!

"Well, gents," I sighed, "let's do what we came here to do." And forgetting all matters of climbing etiquette or any climbing discipline, we set to with no semblance of order. I jumped and lunged at hands reaching down to grab me; I was on-belay, and half swinging out and half scrambling with my feet, badly scuffing the toes of my Park-issue patent leather low-quarters, I foisted myself up, up onto the summit slabs. I looked out . . . and could see . . . from this great height: nothing. Nothing but heads, heads and more heads, a sea of heads and much spurting Bubbly. Then I turned and saw the Northern Lights as they illuminated the renowned Brandigate, that stone edifice which beckoned me now as it had since '88. Another climb for another time – as fate would have it, New Years. I turned to Crilley. "Where're the others?" I asked. "Dunno," he shrugged, "they went on. ...Where's 'Jimmy, have ye got 'Jimmy'?" I paused to look at him significantly, then replied with the full weight of all that this had meant to us, all the months of agoniznig and planning and keeping faith: “Crill, I gave 'im to you five minutes ago. Look down, you're holding 'im.“

Crilley sheepishly acknowledged his lack of attention to climber's integrity, then jerked his head to the left, gazing off into the distance, focusing his razor-sharp vision which had earned him the name he had long accepted from his comrades: "John Crilley," or "the Crillmeister." We were a daring and original group of pathfinders, we were. "Look!" he was shouting now, grabbing me by the sleeve and causing me to spill Bubbly. "Isn't that Peter Jennings?" he pointed. And the next thing I knew, I had completely lost sight of the last of the three companions I'd ventured out with just earlier that same evening. Vaguely reminded of the Japanese plum wine I'd once foolishly brought with me on a summer ascent of the east face of Longs Peak in the Rocky Mountians back in '70, I now began the slow and painful descent from that west face of the Berliner Wall, and staggered home, full of pride and wonder, sorrow and loss. "Jimmy" and Bubbly.  All in all a poor mix.

You don't want to hear the rest.







Dr. Bartee however did want to hear the full monty, and got it.  Still would not cover for drinks but the postcard arrived later after all.

Exactly 25 years later to the day:  I'm still here.