Project Diary: My Mind is a Blank 5.11+
One warm November morning, my climbing partner and I were invited to an impromptu meetup organized by AMC BIPOC Climbers at College Rock, MA. Just a brief 45-minute drive from Boston, nestled in a sleepy part of Hopkinton (the starting point the marathon), College Rock is a dense, granite cliff standing about 30 feet tall with a singular 200-foot wall that hosts all the climbs. Despite its modest size, the crag offers stiff, technical, but excellent face climbing, making it an ideal spot for top rope climbing with friends.
Most of the day was spent climbing a variety of routes, socializing, and making great friends who I still climb with today. After all, our main goal for the day wasn’t really to climb but rather to connect with the community.
Despite this, I couldn’t help but be drawn to one particular climb on the wall. In the middle of the cliff, there is a seemingly empty section wall. While most of the crag offers textured rocks and cracks in the granite, there is one section that is strikingly blank.
Rising directly up this featureless section is a 5.11+ route aptly named “My Mind is a Blank,” the hardest route at the crag. Its challenge was irresistible. The easy day climbing with friends suddenly turned into a hard projecting session.
The route begins with a precise, technical sequence on crimps. Initially stiff, it becomes more manageable once you have the beta dialed in. Efficiency and accuracy are essential to set up for the next section. Next comes the low crux, the first intensely challenging part of the climb. Midway up, the small crimps and slots you were relying on vanish. You find yourself balanced on two minuscule foot chips that make your toes scream in agony, while your fingers grip two sideways-facing crimps barely large enough for half a finger pad. The holds then disappear entirely, leaving only a giant horizontal crack far above your head, stretching across the face. The only option is to launch yourself from these tiny holds and hope to catch the crack.
Reaching for the crack
I call the foothold the “Washington Hold” since it looks like Washington state. Fun fact: referring to holds based off their likeness to US states is very common (my current project has an Idaho Hold)
At 5’11” with a positive ape index, I should theoretically have an advantage for this move due to my height. However, this advantage is lessened given the technical nature of the beta. The holds are so small and awkwardly placed that absolute precision in technique is required to dyno to the crack. Any deviation from perfection means failure. If you don’t dyno exactly right, you won’t be able to extend your foot and reach the crack. Misposition yourself on the holds, and you’ll explode off of them instantly. Even if you manage to jump, if you don’t grab the crack in the perfect spot, you’ll never catch it. Every piece of microbeta must align perfectly for this move to succeed. If any aspect is off, recovery is impossible; your’e guaranteed to fall.
The tininess and blankness of the holds are clearer from the side.
Three of us got on the route and banged our heads against this move for a few hours. Surprisingly, I was able to stick it, but wasn’t able to figure out the rest of the climb. Still, leaving that day, I felt confident. If I could do that one move after just one session, the rest should go easily right? I made plans to return to get the send, and thus started my half-year long journey on my first ever outdoor project.
My first time catching the dyno.
The route home to New Jersey from Boston conveniently passes right by College Rock. On my way home for Thanksgiving, I couldn’t resist stopping for a quick session. Just a few weeks after my initial attempt, I was able to consistently get through the first half of the route and stick the dyno. From there, I figured out a mantle move to get through the crack and into the roof section.
I felt certain that I was close to sending the entire route. However, the beta for the roof continued to elude me. I spent a fair amount of time trying to piece it together, convinced that I was just one move away from finishing. Despite not completing the climb, I left satisfied, having gone one move further. I figured that next session I would definitely send (pattern emerging).
What I didn’t realize at the time was how much more this climb had in store for me. I was confident, but the route had other plans. This was just the beginning of a longer journey than I had anticipated.
Session three marked the point where this climb truly became a serious project. A random warm day in the middle of December provided what I knew would be my last opportunity to send the route this season. Reflecting on my successful session a few weeks prior and feeling consistent on the crux move, I was optimistic. I believed I needed only a bit more time to work out the roof section and complete the climb. Spirits were exceptionally high as the day began.
That was until I got completely crushed by the dyno move. Seemingly out of nowhere, I had lost the ability to even get close to sticking it. For nearly two hours, I hung on the rope, repeatedly attempting and failing the dyno, making no progress, and getting more and more frustrated.
I had a complete meltdown on the wall. I kicked and screamed and threw a tantrum. I couldn't comprehend why I was suddenly unable to do something I had managed before. The fact that the move was low percentage, or even simply just hard, was irrelevant. Today, I couldn’t do something I once could. To me, that felt like complete failure.
In moments like these, when pushing into the gray area between what you can and can’t do, a good partner is vital. As I spiraled, cursing myself, the wall, and questioning the life choices that led me to choose falling off a wall repeatedly as hobby, my partner was there for support. They were there to calm me down, provide support, and remind me that I was capable of doing this. And eventually, after many more tries, I was able to stick it.
Despite the frustration, I found a lot of value in going through this experience. Before, I was mostly climbing on instinct. Each time I got on the wall, I relied on feeling to decide my technique for a very technical move, and it just happened to work. This session, that feeling was probably just a bit off, which was enough to make such a hard move impossible. To work through it, I had to be much more intentional about the microbeta. I learned exactly where to place my toes and hands on the holds, how to shift my weight onto my left leg, how to pull on the holds, and where to grab. I discovered what worked and what didn’t. In the end, this made the move much more achievable and burned it into my muscle memory for the future.
Finally getting past the dyno was a big win that day, but it quickly became clear that the challenge was far from over. With the low crux below me, I turned my attention to the roof section, which I soon realized was a crux on its own. I had naively thought that once I nailed the dyno, the rest of the route would fall into place. Instead, I was met with a harsh reality check; the roof was every bit as difficult.
While the lower crux demanded explosive power combined with precision and perfect coordination, the upper crux was all about raw, flailing strength. The beta I worked out involved reaching for a solid jug at the lip of the roof. The jug itself was fantastic, but the reach to get there required a massive span that forced me to cut my feet from the wall and swing out wildly. Great, another low-percentage move.
Having two low-percentage moves in the same route really shook my confidence in whether I could send it. I had always thought that once I dialed the beta, I could just keep throwing myself at the dyno until I stuck it and then finish the route. But low-percentage moves compound. Even if I nailed the dyno, I was still gambling on whether I could hold onto the roof. If both moves are 50/50 chances, that gives me only a 25% chance of sending the route. And that's not even considering the rest of the climb, which, while not as hard, is still quite challenging.
At this point, I had finally gained a sufficient respect for this climb. Considering I had only climbed 5.10b outdoors before, jumping to 11+ at a somewhat sandbagged crag was never going to be easy. There are no shortcuts in climbing, and I was going to need to want this route bad enough and be willing to work for it. But the fall season had ended, which meant it was time for skiing and ice climbing.
Off-season for rock climbing is in season for ice climbing!
The route stayed at the top of my mind throughout the entire winter, and that manifested into my training. Gym days shifted from random climbing to training specifically for the project. I spent more time on crimps and hangboards to improve my grip on the tiny holds. I focused on getting more comfortable with dynos. I practiced cutting feet and doing weighted pull-ups to be strong enough to pull through the roof section. And when I wasn’t climbing, I spent a lot of time visualizing. I don’t know its pseudoscience or not, but I’m a firm believer that visualizing is incredibly important in dialing down the intricate choreography of technical climbing. I reviewed my beta videos, watched other people’s sends, and went full Ondra mode with beta-jutsu in my apartment.
Winter training arc
My two main off-the-wall training methods were hangboards for the small crimps and weighted pull-ups for the powerful upper crux.
Many people love flash or onsite attempts when it comes to climbing, but for me, projecting has always been the most exciting. Projecting can be incredibly addicting because it involves taking something that seems impossible at first and slowly but surely getting closer and closer until it finally feels within reach. It's about pushing beyond your preconceived limits, ignoring what you think you're capable of, and discovering what you can truly achieve when you obsess over a problem and give it everything you have. Each attempt reveals new microbeta and builds muscle memory, transforming what once seemed insurmountable into something attainable. The journey from impossibility to possibility is what makes projecting so compelling and rewarding.
After 3 months of training stuck indoors, we were graced with our first Spring like day on March 3rd. Well, it was raining, my fingers were freezing, I had to keep my shoes in my jacket to keep them warm, but the conditions were just good enough to warrant getting on the wall. Session four turned out to be a major breakthrough. Even after months away from the route, the beta came back to me quickly. After a few attempts, I managed a complete link-up to the roof feet-cutting move, leaving only the final section up the face of the wall. This section was (as every section before) much more difficult than I anticipated from the ground. The beta I figured out was to swing my right foot back into the crack on the main face of the wall where my hands originally were. From there, I torque my knee down to bring my right hip all the way up against the roof. This slight change is crucial for reaching a really awkward, oddly angled sloper that's a bit far away. Keeping the tension, I then bump my left hand to a small crimp. The next move demands a lot of flexibility to get my left foot up onto the jug on the lip of the roof, and the sequence is complete. Although this final section wasn't as low-percentage as the two main crux moves, it was still a tough finish. By the time I reached this point, I was inevitably tense and a bit pumped, making the end of the climb a real test of endurance and composure.
This was the first time I had completed every move on the route. At the time, I saw this as the most major win. And it was super important for me, but reflecting back now, I think I made a mental win that really helped me then and still helps me now.
This was the first time I had successfully completed every move on the route. At the time, I saw it as a major victory, and it truthfully was big for me. However, reflecting back now, I realize that the most important win was a mental one.
Before, I usually hyped myself up for climbs by getting stoked, trying really hard, and powering through tough moves. But this mindset doesn’t work well for technical climbing. I would fall into negative self-talk after failure, questioning why I was so bad at climbing, telling myself to buck up and try harder, and criticizing myself for being afraid or holding back. This mental state never helped; it only led to more frustration.
Before, I really tried to hype myself up for climbs. I would get stoked, try really hard, and power through hard moves. But this mindset doesn’t work well for technical climbing. And inevitably, as hyping myself up continuously failed, I fell into negative self-talk instead. Asking myself why I was so bad at climbing, that I needed to buck up and try harder, that I was afraid and holding back. It only fueled my frustration and turned every failure into a personal defeat.
During session four, for whatever reason, I decided to try something different. Before I climbed, I centered myself, feeling the texture of the rock on my fingertips and the cool dampness of the granite. I listened to the birds chirping, returning from winter, the drizzle of the rain, the clinking of metal carabiners against the rock. With my eyes closed, I steadied my breathing, visualizing each move, perfect down to the millimeter. I climbed with pure focus, devoid of emotion, dedicating every ounce of my concentration to executing each move with meticulous precision. When the surge of adrenaline hit after finally sticking the dyno, I returned to the sounds of the birds, the rustling of the trees, and the rough texture of the rock on my hands, grounding myself once more.
Unlocking this mental state was a novel experience for me, even beyond climbing. I had always been the grit-your-teeth and suffer-through-it type. Whenever I faced adversity or failure, my instinct was to toughen up and push harder, thinking that sheer willpower would get me through.
For the first time, I decided to take a different approach. I stepped back, lowered the intensity, and focused purely on precision. Instead of battling the climb with brute strength, I allowed myself to engage with the process, concentrating on the minute details and the fluidity of each movement. Suddenly, the climb felt like meditation through movement rather than an athletic feat.
Inaugural spring day at college rock starting of the 2024 climbing season.
I next returned a few weeks later on March 31st. The conditions were perfect; sunny and dry, but still cold enough to have good friction on rock. Surprisingly, the climb stayed in the back of my mind for most of the day. We had brought along a beginner climber who had never climbed outside before, and I spent most of my time setting up top ropes, teaching them how to belay, and hanging on static lines to take pictures. There's something incredibly rewarding about introducing someone to the joys of outdoor climbing for the first time.
When it finally came time for me to get on the project, it felt almost anticlimactic. I had already gone through a long process: perfecting the beta, training hard, getting shut down, learning to master the mental game, and pushing my physical limits on the rock. All that remained was to put everything together. I got onto the rock, felt the sun on my back, felt the dryness of the rock, the edges on my fingertips, and found my center. I controlled my energy, focusing 100% on my technique through the technical parts, and trying really fucking hard to pull through the roof section. And finally, after months of preparation, setbacks, small victories, and enduring the emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows, I finally completed my first outdoor project.
Looking back today, it wasn't just the physical challenge that captivated me. It was the sheer aesthetic of the climb—the elegance of a blank sheet of granite in the middle of the cliff that dares you to try. This route will always hold a special place in my heart, symbolizing persistence and the profound satisfaction of pushing beyond my personal limits.
I completed this route on top rope, which is the accepted style for this climb. There are no bolts anywhere on this cliff, and leading it on traditional gear (placing your own protection with cams, nuts, etc.) is considered quite dangerous, earning it an R rating. An R rating means a fall would result in serious injury, and for this route, it's due to the lack of protection after the roof. If you fall there (and I’ve fallen there many times), you will swing down and slam into the wall below.
The Mountain Project route description. It also mentions that “most sane folks toprope this route”
Despite this, I aspire to trad lead this climb in the future. I have grown a real love for this route and leading it would be the ultimate test of my mental fortitude. A climb like this demands extensive preparation; for me, falling on an R-rated climb is outside my accepted safety margins. I’ve already completed the steps to be physically ready for the climb, but will I be able to keep it together when the stakes are so high? So, I’m excited to return to College Rock in the future in the pursuit of perfection.
