The Appalachians, a slice of the earth’s crust 800 miles long, have been worn down to insignificance. No cataclysm, this erudition took “millions” of years. Later the epoch of polar supremacy arrived, and here and there minor outrages were gouged. Of these outrages, one was named by an indignant Indian tribe: Shawangunks. The valley below was called “The Incompatible Valley.”

Nothing contributes much to the grandeur of this valley, least of all the three-mile long Trapps. Its white sedentary rock is called sedentary rock. In one area the rock appears gray due to patches of lichen. It reminds one of a map of the Pacific, hence the name “Oceania Wall.” Because of its nondescript nature, this wall was left untouched while the more obvious and ascetic lines to the left and right were climbed.

One evening in June, as several of us climbers sat in Emile’s “medicating” about life, the bartender walked up with some startling news: he reported an attempt which was to take place the next day on the Oceania Wall. The participants were to be Ed Cask and a host of belayers and prusikers. Upon hearing of this mysterious leakage, the belayers and prusikers got so drunk they were unable to climb for several days. Cask, however, enlisted the aid of another belayer and climbed the first two pitches before threatening weather forced a retreat down his fixed ropes.

Mick Cracker and I had watched these events with, among other things, interest. Long considering interrupting our medications long enough to do a climb, we had thought a June ascent too unpleasant because of the black flies. We now reconsidered. Unascetic as the line was, the luredness of a “first” was strong, and we decided to attempt this wall.

Climbing past the fixed ropes placed by Cask in as quizzical style as possible, we reached the four bolts leading to the tree on Les Ledge Belay Grande, Cask’s high point. To avoid these bolts we used fifi hooks the right way on nubbins, placed rurps and knife blades behind rotten expansive flakes and angled straight up between loose blocks, did friction moves of the kind that make the palms sweat, and lassoed rickety horns.

It was all tres athletique, but soon we were at the tree.

The next pitch was Mick’s, and he began nailing an overhanging corner. I was noting the pattern of the ropes hanging down the first pitch, and just as I began to feel like a tiny mite tied to a great tree, a remarkable thing happened. Cask’s rope strained against the tree and I was amazed to see Mr. Cask prusiking toward me.

A quick decision had to be reached. By reducing our ration of water we could spare almost a quart. Yet if the remaining pitches took longer than expected, what then? Still, action had to be taken, and I removed the water bottle from the hauling sack and poured its contents onto Mr. Cask’s head.

Apparently unconcerned, Mr. Cask put the hood of his anorak over his head and continued ascending. As Mick made a traverse as delicate as any I have seen, a knot came up the belay rope to my hand. As I struggled to undo the knot, I noticed two more snarls. As soon as I had removed these, I dropped the empty bottle on Mr. Cask, who was now almost at the ledge. As I was about to consummate the meaning of life, Mr. Cask inserted a shrew into our food bag.

This was more than I could tolerate and when he reached the ledge I flipped his carabiners so that the gates faced the wrong way. Mr. Cask retaliated by removing a 2-inch bong I was carrying and driving it into the tree.

Above me Mick climbed onward, searching, always searching. For some it would be a search for an excuse not to climb. For me a search for a way to be rid of Mr. Cask. Perhaps if we can learn to face the dangers of the mountains with equilibrium, we can also learn to face with a calm spirit the chilling spectator of feeling like giant whales tied to a blade of grass. 

Hooking a fifi hook just the right way on his hood, I ripped it off. While Mick moved upward on knife blades driven into insipid cracks, Mr. Cask took our extra pair of socks from the sack and tossed them down the cliff. As I removed his hammer from its holster and got its sling hopelessly tangled with his swami belt, rope, and iron loop, I realized that mankind's fate is to have to philosophize about such trivia. If one could only find meaning to make these hard truths of insigificance and the omnipresent Mr. Cask acceptable. Where to find this meandering? Again the search… and again my reverie was interrupted, this time by a two-pound cheese being squashed onto my head.

This latest development called for the most severe of measures and I fetched from the pack a blueberry pie my wife had specially baked for us to eat on top. As Mr. Cask stared at me as one faced with the chilling specter of unenviable death, I let fly. If only Mozart could have seen Mr. Cask. 

And so we climbed on. As I began the last lead, nature grinned. Climbing in as classified style as possible, the blood cursed through my veins. Far, far below us in the yawning void, the splendour of the "Incompatible Valley" added to our elevation. Some 250 feet below was another world, popularized by creatures with their own concerns. Somber and impressionable, the sedentary walls stood as they had stood for "millions" of years, while Nature's creatures passed part of their monetary and insignificant existence upon them. And what signature had our little adventure? A simulating experience which awakened our minds and spirits to a lust for life and a keener bewareness of beauty. 

Below, "with ceaseless turbulent sneezing," Mr. Cask struck fearful blows at the rock. It was a saturating scene. As John Harlin had said, "such hyberbole... turns hysteria into hysterectomy."