Yosemite Valley
September 2021
Climbers of the Allied Expeditionary Force:
“You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you … ”
– Warren Harding, addressing Royal Robbins and the Camp4 Rejects before the inaugural invasion of El Kappey-Tan, June 1944.
“Yo jtizzle!” What ya been up to? Valleys getting cooler, better see your butt up here soon”. Paul texted, one fine summer evening. And so the seed was planted, for butt-based activities in the Valley of My Dreams. His peculiarly worded invitation would prove more prophetic than I could ever know.
The summer had flown by as per usual and I hadn’t really got out much due to early onset malaise. Symptoms manifest like the following: repeating previously completed tasks in the lab, reading sad books such as East of Eden, consuming a largely microwave-prepared diet, and excessive peak-bagging a.k.a. walking uphill as long as geographically possible. The root cause was obvious enough – a dearth of homies. I missed my friends. Cam moved to Bishop and assimilated seamlessly into the “scene of crushers” likely using “social skills” something which I have searched most my life to find, unsuccessfully. Paul moved to Yosemite to work for the park service. Mo was lost to speed hiking extreme distances. Perhaps most dreadfully of all, Eric quit his job and lit out for the Northwest and beyond circumventing the broader part of North America, taking to crags and mountains like a human hurricane. I was left a human pile of debris in his wake.
Not that there weren’t any bright spots to be found, little treasures that take on greater significance when all else is lost in the storm.
‘Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
Come in, she said I’ll give ya shelter from the storm
Coco and I shared a couple fine days at Idyllwild, climbing some of the forgotten obscurities in the Northwest Recess. She oft made tasty pies which I happily gobbled up. Russell and I made a fine day out at Le Dent which turned out be damn good “burl” training. A few of the usual “local suspects” always seemed to be around to throw down at Woodson, ready to endure the greatest gobies per vertical feet index of any crag known to climber-kind. Three years deep now and Climbing at Woodson feels like going home. My happy place 4 sure. Perhaps subtly so, even without my consciously being aware of it, each boulder top roped clinked another ratchet back arming the metaphysical trebuchet of my stoke to climb SOMETHING, ANYTHING big before season’s end. I texted Danny to see if he was game to climb Keeler Needle. He had opened my eyes to the joys of climbing light and fast in the high country, blazed on caffeine and linking mad pitches with a giant 80-meter rope on Mt Russell. We had noted Keeler to be the undisputed king line in the region. However in response to my official enquiry, he made aspersions to being out of state and I resigned myself to counting a mid-August PowerPoint TM Zoom TM presentation delivered to my project sponsors the big highlight of the summer.
But there was a nugget of hope, that is, Paul’s text (which in all likelihood I read while watching a bad movie and eating TastyBites TM) stirring me to action … and now we’re back to where we started … I pointed my high-mileage Honda toward the Valley with Nirvana and The Doors playing the whole way. Such old timey hits as “Territorial Pissings” and “Roadhouse Blues” put me in the calm headspace needed for the big send.
Yeah, keep your eyes on the road, your hand upon the wheel
Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel
Yeah, we’re goin’ to the VALLEY
We’re gonna have a real Good time
The climb of choice was a little number called the Steck – Salathe on the Sentinel. With most of the pitches clocking in at 5.8 or less on the topo it promised to be the perfect warm up climb to do sleep-deprived the day after rolling late into Paul’s place at the portal. I had skimmed a few horror show trip reports but chalked them up to the mad ramblings of ill-prepared gumbies likely trying out their first multi pitch in Yosemite. How hard could it be ?
We rolled into the valley predawn. A background soundtrack of rollicking indie rock was not to be heard, and furthermore no one was free soloing El Cap at all – absolutely crushing my conception of the Valley molded around such Hollywood classics as “Valley Uprising” “Dawn Wall” and “Free Solo” – total hogwash, what a rip off. Paul had done his due diligence and scouted the approach the day before. Word came in that the ramp was sandier than anticipated. We traversed most of the distance at exciting class one with a few class four bush grabs. Check them twigs before you pull too hard. I led the first pitch and absorbed the first glancing blows of the battle. A few cams were grabbed. Paul called up encouragingly, “You’re just not warmed up yet man!” I awkwardly led a short way into the 2nd pitch and stopped short at a funky move when the rope pinched in the crack below. Paul expertly took over and reached the base of the Wilson Overhang. I used lanky limbs and it was super effective – chimney position – feet on far out rail, back to rock, hand jams far in the crack, got er clean. Feels good and a hand crack dispatched this pitch satisfyingly. On the next pitch Paul got stuck in a pinch point and swung over to a flake on the right. I optimistically thrutched up to it and proceeded to get stuck in a similar manner, sinking onto the rope and sheepishly going up the flake as well. More fist crack awaited above – this time I employed CamGrabbers5000 and got into a nice rhythm jugging the pitch in good time. Paul got off route to the right into some “chossNANZA” but was able to reach the top of the Flying Buttress. Hey this wasn’t going too bad at all! I did a beauty pitch following the rappel off the Buttress, just lots of variety, a few steep fisty jams (reminiscent of Crack 6 in jtree) and sporty moves – only one point of aid here, now that’s style! Paul lucked out once again and got the face climbing pitch. He was in such a happy mood he neglected to clip a fat bolt and ran it out to the base of the main butt crack of Sentinel. It was starting to seem like I was getting all the shitty pitches … but I was happy to wallow in the nastiness.
In the retrospective evaluation of any natural disaster it is always possible to identify the critical event which sets things flying off the rails. With the sinking of Titanic, it was an arrogance derived from a newly technological age sailing literally right into the face of nature’s most destructive element, water. At Chernobyl, it was a grid operator in Kiev disallowing the plant operators to continue lowering the power output which led to Xenon poisoning the reactor core, invalidating something the Ruskis inexplicably classified a “safety test”. In the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, it was a failure of the drillers to properly grout around the production casing which allowed oil to escape the casing and rise uncontrolled through the wellbore annulus.
Now am I comparing the final fate of our ascent to these generational disasters? No. To do so would be insensitive and the actions of two climbers don’t amount to much compared to the great tragedies of our futile existence. But it was close.
I squirmed up into the horribly narrowing bombay slot and sat on a nice chicken wing of the left arm. However, the protection bolt I spied was at my back and it was the left arm which had the best chance to reach up and clip it. I inched a hair’s breadth higher and released the chicken wing, draw in hand, to clip the bolt. But what is this? I was just as far away from the bolt as prior. I repeated the process. Again, the same result. Let’s try it a few more times. No. “The crack is cursed by some bilious enchantment!” I raged, breaking the golden rule of wide climbing – thou shalt not thrash. Now slapping deliriously at the bolt I somehow got it clipped and shouted that most reviled command, the domain of sport climbers, “TAKE!!! FOR GOD’S SAKES TAKE!!!” It was suddenly all a bit much. I rested and attempted to recover my composure. Again, No. I flipped around to face the other way and found a second bolt above – now on the opposite face and once again on my wrong side. More hangdogging ensued. Somehow I made it into the sweet hang at the base of the Narrows. Peering out at the Valley through this tunnel was so rad. No water left, no problem. A recreation of the thirst endured on Steck and Salathe’s first ascent seemed only right and proper. Up comes Paul, “Your lead, bud!” He went right up in the Narrows with nary a grunt – a coincidence I think not, since both of us were experienced connoisseurs of the Big Grunt at Woodson which not only measures similar in size as the Narrows, but requires a similar type of arm barring to gain entrance.
If you can Bullseye Womp Rats, you can blow the Death Star to Hell
If you can get inside Big Grunt, you can squeeze the Narrows chamber to the Heart of Sentinel
Paul slowed down near the top of this pitch. He telephoned down through the chasm that I better belay him better than usual due to some dicey face climbing with poor protection. He made it just fine owing to an adequate supply of gumption. Now it was my turn to follow the pitch! What a treat! I went as high as possible bridging the divide with my feet on the opposite wall. Then the fateful moment came to release the feet. I held on tight with underhanded arm bars and lost no progress. Next I opted to kick my right leg up high and knee barred the outside side of the crack. This Sidewinder TM position allowed me to hold progress with the right leg while shimmying the arm bars up. A fortuitous development but a short-lived one. Upon grabbing the face holds up high I noticed my forearms cramping and contracting uncontrollably. “Maybe 1.5 L water wasn’t enough after all” … I should have listened to my friend Mo’s advice and brought a mustard packet to counteract this neurological-driven nightmare.
I was convinced the worst was now behind us. WRONG AGAIN. The next pitch was my lead and it featured a lot more chimney. The final 25 feet was unprotected to a hysterical belay on top of a large chockstone. By this point I couldn’t trust my muscles to respond as they were commanded, and instead of quickly chimneying directly up to the chockstone, I tunneled to the back and found piles of sand. I nested three cams in the sand and prayed to the Gods of Valhalla while traversing over to the chockstone through horrendous rope drag. This took some time but my faith was rewarded. My cramped hands automatically clamped onto the rope and belaying through the drag was no problem at all. I told Paul I was out of gas and he would need to take us to the top. Being Paul, one of the most reliable and awesome partners OF ALL TIME, he stepped to the challenge and got er done. There was a really nice set of twin or quadruple cracks (not sure of the correct multiple here as I was seeing double) on one of these pitches. Now up the final easy ramp to the top and a dramatic look over my shoulder – here now the Eternal Sun of the Autumn Equinox, dipping magnanimously, lugubriously even, in the sense that something consequential was about to be witnessed… and then lost, on the shoulder of El Cap.
A great sense of accomplishment overcame us! We really climbed it! The air seemed very still, and the Valley not to care much about our presence here on top of this grand spire. And pointy it was. Gazing downward with the last rays of light revealed something of a conundrum – an abundance of manzanitas and cliffy looking gullies. I offered up my usual anti-bivy mantra, “We’ll be fine. Just take it slow, as long as we keep moving we won’t bivy. It’s science.”
After a cursory look underneath a few boulders for a nonexistent magical cache of water (my extreme thirst now leading to brain fever and an ever-so-slight detachment from reality), we began the fateful descent. First we found a nice trail through the manzanitas, “These rock climbers are so soft, whining about what to do and what not to do in the dark. Who are they to talk, we’re extreme alpinists!” “Gonna be a cakewalk dude!” But soon enough began to find our paltry headlamps, even powered to max brightness, disappearing forebodingly deeper and deeper into inky blackness. For all we knew, the blackness could hold easy sand or a slicken sided waterfall chasm – yet walking to the edge to make the distinction elicited “vague feelings of unease”. What to say about all this … two tired climbers stumbling through the night? In many ways the descent from Sentinel in all its vagaries mirrored those of life – try to control everything around you and watch it all slip through your grasp… better to breathe deeply, take a look around, and accept the twists and turns, some delightful, some scary, some backwards, on your way home.
After some hours we came to an angry little mountain stream. It seemed too good to be true especially given we had resigned ourselves to not finding any water prior to reaching the van. (I thought I had seen some trickling down a rock wall but after giving an exploratory lick it turned out the mirage of brain fever again.) “Salvation!” “This gonna be the best water I ever drank!” And verily it was. I took my shoes off and ate the first bites of food since breakfast. Quite simply, I had been too thirsty all day to consume any food at all. We lay down on a rock and gazed at the stars. In some ways this moment felt more tender even than the summit. We had achieved a rare feat indeed – here comes the perfect words to describe it – we were now “casually epic-ing”. An outcome obtained only with the most awesome, calm, confident of partners, the rarefied few. As it happened, a few more difficulties awaited us and many consultations to wordy descent descriptions were made on the beta pages of guidebooks and climbing forums (a nice perk of having cell service). With slippery slabs behind and jungley-ness below we began to feel the trail was close at hand. The air was thick with moisture and the anticipation of “total victory”. Paul spotted his pack, “Woohoo!” and just a few more steps down to the van. The descent had taken something like 7 or 8 hours, but we kept it safe – making no move harder than class three, although some of these maneuvers necessitated scraping through leaves and dirt (thanks Paul for digging), and no rappels (thank the Gods).
In case you were following along, we just reached the end of the classical three act narrative of the hero’s journey. Take for example, Star Wars. In the opening of the first movie, Luke decides to join the rebels after everything he knows is razed to the ground. In the middle of the middle movie, he decides to confront Vader. In the end of the last movie, he proclaims his faith in the force and saves his father. The multi-layered symmetry here is unquestionably satisfying, a narrative construction of the highest form. So are you expecting a few words of wisdom to wrap this little story up neatly? THINK AGAIN, we are on a vision quest.
The following day Paul and I awoke tired but less achy than expected. Paul had been harboring a few injuries derived from cranking too hard on the fingertips and noted the restorative healing powers of the Steck-Salathe. “I feel really good!” “Makes one of us,” I replied. “OOF” We fixed up some steaks and salad for breakfast to celebrate. Then I raced off to Sacramento to attend my friend’s wedding. I had third wheeled this couple to great success on many fun missions to Granite Arch gym back in the day. Dreams of ladies flocking to my side upon hearing of our success on Sentinel remained unrealized. Nonetheless it was a good time but my heart had never left the Valley and its siren song was calling me back. I left the festivities before things got too sloppy. I’m too old for all that anyway.
One more day driving back and battling the dreaded “car-thritis” and lining up a partner for tomorrow. Paul put me in touch with a mysterious Greek named Reuben reputed to be a man of the earth and a good partner. I met him by the new? Camp4 where he had just returned from the lodge coffee with smokes in hand. My imagination immediately leapt to an old tale I had read, “Zorba the Greek” in which Zorba teaches a bookish narrator about the sinewy side of life. We walked over to Serenity Crack to have a look at the pin scars. “Looks a little scary, no gear for a while,” I said. Reuben proceeded to boulder the first moves to show me how it’s done. “Let’s have a look at Super Slide, it will make a good warmup,” I conceded. Well Super Slide already had two parties on it. The fates had decided. We walked back to Serenity Crack and found it going into sun. I started climbing as quickly as possible before it warmed up too much, but more importantly, before any ugly falls could creep into my waking visions. It turned out to be a breeze. “This would never happen at Woodson,” I thought to myself, “where climbers are civilized. We the Enlightened bang out and crowbar our cracks down to 5.12 or 5.11+ at the worst. Not like these Valley Neanderthals nailing all the way down to 5.8!”
Overall the Serenity Crack breezed by effortlessly. I am compelled to downgrade the third pitch crux from 5.10d to 5.8b, a provocative downgrade yes, but one that I am prepared to justify scientifically. Having just climbed Steck’s route, who proclaimed it a product of a newly technological age, I will invoke this same concept as it were in justifying the downgrade. The difficulty of climbing moves is inextricably linked to the tools employed to make them. It is no harder physically or mentally to climb a smooth unprotected chimney with or without fancy cams and precise sticky shoes. Therefore the pitches on the Steck-Salathe were graded 5.7-5.9 then and they remain the same today. However, these implements make climbing a slabby finger crack orders of magnitude easier. I submit that the only way to climb Serenity Crack as it was meant to be, at 5.10d, is to don hiking boots and hang out mid crux to place a few nuts. There I defined retro-grading neat and clear. Answer solved – you’re welcome.
Reuben hung in wonderfully through the great many jams. He had not crack climbed much but was loving the chance to do so this climb. He would later unveil plans to construct crack machines of the highest-grade marble, like those monuments of Antiquity dotting his homeland. “I see pictures of famous Serenity Crack and this is why I come to Yosemite,” he said. “I am learning so much every day!” I felt honored to climb it with him. One comical episode found us trying to communicate how to remove a pink tricam. I knew it may present a challenge for Reuben to clean but the placement was so perfect I couldn’t resist. “You need to grab the cam, I mean the silver part … uhhhh … the metal thing, ???, rotate it, ??? twist ??? Use both hands!” But all I could see was Rueben yanking the thing every which way but out, LOL! I’m sure some lucky party grabbed it by now may they forever be graced with the good fortunes of the holy pink tricam.
We enjoyed a smoke break before embarking on Sons of Yesterday. A beauty pitch of finger locks past a bush to some delicate stemmy face climbing led to an absolute marathon of hand jams. It was balmy on the south-facing wall but the climbing so good and delightful. We relaxed on top of the slab marking the end of the route with a gentle breeze blowing. It felt the same to me as that by the Mediterranean seaside Reuben described. “I would love to go there,” I said … “Yes you can visit!” Reuben replied. Greek coffee, with the ice, drinking it slow by the water … and ruminating like some ancient philosopher … ahhhh … that’s the life for me!
I attempted to follow this new rappel route I read about and only made it to the first station before failing to find the next one. We ended up rappelling the climbing route, which would have been a disaster were it not for Reuben’s smart decision to bring the 80-meter rope. “Not the first time it saves me,” he said. Yes Reuben you are one smart Greek! Paul awaited us at the base with some cold Gatorades in hand. Delicious! Another fine sunset and we all parted ways. Reuben was to leave the Valley on YARTS on a surprisingly dedicated mission to buy a banjo. He would sleep on the streets of Merced and as far south as Bakersfield before locating one. He really was just like Zorba…
With Paul working and Reuben gone, the following day I was left to my own devices. The weight of emails and parking lots was pretty well washed off by now and I bobbed up to the surface floating resonantly with the rhythms of the Valley. I hiked up the Cathedrals gully and botched the approach to Higher Cathedral Rock, straying too close to Middle Cathedral and tumbling upwards into a fern gully. No matter to bungle the approach on recon day, this was just a simple matter of eliminating the wrong way to go ahead of time. While sleeping in the ferns I received word that Paul’s friend Mike was looking to lead Moby Dick. I had fond memories climbing this my first pitch on El Cap last fall and I moseyed on down to join the crew. However Mike smoked too much and instead craved a trek up Indian Canyon. Fair enough. We did some exploring through the leaf piles Goonies-style and while Mike and Paul tooled around at their hot new crag (I was skeptical as to its quality) I began posting on mountain project for partners the following day. Reuben was still on the hunt for his banjo at this time, and furthermore his fingers needed to heal from Serenity Crack.
I messaged back and forth with AJ and we spontaneously realized we each were jonesing to try the laser splitter Mr. Natural on the Apron. PERFECT! Plans were made to meet after lunch. To pass a few hours in the morning, I hiked up to Nevada Falls on the JMT. Workers were fixing the rails on the Falls Trail below Vernal and I hoped no tourist disasters had precipitated the need for such repairs. The river was rather subdued yet the setting serene as ever. I laid down to read Howl’s Moving Castle in the Half Dome Reading Room. Very nice. If anyone does a FA in the Cathedrals you gotta call it Howl’s Moving Cathedral. Those high rocks do seem to move around depending on the vantage point!
AJ and I hiked up to Mr. Natural and found a party of five hanging at the base. D’OH! Looks like a long wait. However they were fine friendly folks and the instant they mentioned we could go first, “YEAH I’M VIBING LET’S DO IT” . AJ and I sorted our Franken-rack which included some wide pieces for Apron Jam, and a selection of Metolius TCUs, BD C3s, a couple Aliens, one orange Mastercam, and even a 0.4 BD C4 camalute rounded out the je ne sais quoi (as the French say) for the beautiful splitter above. With this magnificent rack in hand, our gear-placing CPUs were in serious danger of overheating although the shady conditions prevailing at our perfectly timed arrival would help some. I began to caterpillar up Apron Jam, preferring the jam technique on lead rather than a pumpy lieback. The going was slow and the crack seemed to continually change size negating the chance to settle into a singular technique and stick to it. I had 2 x #4 C4s and 1 x #5 C4s but overeagerly left them behind once I gained a satisfying hand jam. To my dismay the crack opened again to #4 size shortly afterward. I opted to nest small cams on both sides of a flimsy flake – reasoning that the flake could bridge the divide and allow the cams to exert equal and opposite pressure on it while holding a fall. I decided not to endorse this impromptu maneuver with a proper whip and instead grabbed the cams and quickly liebacked into a happy little hole. I recall waving down to the now-riveted audience at the base. This pitch seemed to drag on and on; I was working for it! With no slings left (you can never bring too many slings, TRUST ME on this) I was forced to build a belay on a pair of bolts mid-slab.
AJ romped up and being the Wyoming mountain man that he is, confidently led a stretch of choss up to a rope which we initially assumed to be stuck in a flake or something. Turned out it had been deliberately fixed to swing across a dicey slab to the bolted anchor off to the right, marking the start of Mr. Natural! A little French free, and a pendulum swing – now this is big wall climbing! In short time we both reached the ledge. I offered AJ the lead, “You got the best chance to on sight, man. I’m worked from that damn Apron Jam!” He next did something I did not expect – he not only offered me the lead but encouraged me wholeheartedly to try it. My heart was warmed. He said something like, “I could tell in the parking lot you really want this one, you’re psyched, you gotta do it!” I shook my arms out and geared up! Time to send!!
The opening of the pitch featured a long run without gear, albeit up some nice roomy ledges, but which perked my senses for sure. A few bouldery slab moves past a piton led to the first tasty finger lock of the outing. “Ooooh yeah …. Ooh yeah that’s the stuff” I found myself whispering flirtatiously to the sultry crack. Things were becoming quite passionate. This crack freely offered that defining quality of any classic pitch, that is, a sense that you can not possibly fall off and to do so would be rude, an affront to its grandeur. I made a few nice little runs between the pods feeling way better than usual above the gear. Lock, lock, lock, maybe a little high step, lock some more …. pointer pinky pointer pinky …… ahhhh ……. so nice ….. The crack appeared to thin near the top and the foot pods to disappear. “Watch me AJ! I’m going for it!” Alien in hand, it placed perfectly off the pinky lock. Up to a final rest and a slab exit. “Don’t blow it now ol’ jtizzle ….” The slab exit was no problem. Easier than top roping Vector back home! I was left to bask in the post send bliss a sublime painting of Half Dome and the Column silhouetted over my shoulder. AJ arrived similarly psyched on the pitch. We were hoping he could lead it too so we could climb it again but wanted to be amenable to the other party now making their way up the 4th class approach option. (Not the first time one of my leads looked shaky enough to scare a party off from attempting a climb.) AJ and I rappelled back down to the ground. For reasons still unknown they decided not to attempt Mr. Natural despite our encouragement. They said they were “in a weird headspace.” I could relate even though on this trip I had been trying to live up to something I heard Hazel Findlay say in an interview, to “Just try!” Go ground up and see how it goes! The beautiful thing about climbing is that everyone’s bar is quite different but we can all get the same rush out of a good classic pitch of climbing … whether it’s the Enduro Corner on Astroman or Mr. Natural or the Jamcrack by Sunnyside. The important thing is to try! All that said, we enjoyed another splitter afternoon and settled into casual crag jokes and the usual light banter. The moment AJ made a Lord of the Rings reference of his own accord I knew we would be friends for sure. He nearly sent a very difficult slab pitch, Green Dragon, on top rope. Quite an impressive effort. I was unable to stick my toes on the small edges. But the hour drew late and I had one more big climb planned with Paul before departing the Valley. Time to reconvene at the homestead and get some rest …
It occurs to me now that my whole trip had gotten jumbled up like a Quentin Tarantino film. The hard climbs made before the good, the naps mingled between the hot and ugly. We had “Cruel Tutelage of John Salathe” “The Sentinel Situation” “Lonely Grave of the Little Pink Tricam” “Greek Banjo Hunt” “Blood-Splattered Hands” and now “Dead Tree Chimney” our final chapter in this poorly told saga.
Prior to reaching the dead tree chimney pitch, our climb of Northeast Buttress, Higher Cathedral Rock went remarkably well. It seems Paul and I had learnt a thing or two after all, wasted as we were on the Steck-Salathe. Paul linked the first two pitches with ~60 feet of simul climbing, a prudent option given the easy terrain off the deck. I led up a squeezy thing and then pulled a mini roof on gold C4 hand jams. Then Paul linked again a fun lieback into a wonderfully exposed traverse to the main corner system defining the climb. The movement from here turned top tier. I danced up steep finger cracks to a hanging belay stance. “Prepare for the most efficient hanging belay changeover of your life,” I somewhat arrogantly announced to Paul as he approached the perch. I had butterfly coiled the rope over my left foot, and when Paul approached my position, I raised my foot to move the rope off the holds he needed to ascend. Then when he gained my level, I lowered my foot back down to keep it out of the way. I had conveniently placed all the gear on the short pitch below so no changeover of the rack was required. Boom, within milliseconds Paul was racing up the incredible cocooned corner announcing yet more endless hand jams! Some ominous scraping sounds could be heard travelling down the corner and I began to wonder about what unseen difficulties awaited up there. Paul interrupted my daydreaming, “Off belay!” The corner climbed even better than it looked. Some really awesome gymnastic contorting to pull another roof on its right side. By this point I assumed the roof either had jugs or hand jams and my overconfidence was duly rewarded. Now I could see the source of the scraping sounds – a chimney! Instead of nausea the sight of it induced … could it be … a happy sort of feeling bugs must be during their wondrous metamorphosis? I shoulder-shimmied straight in and pulled down on some perfect finger locks in the back. No problem! Until, I shimmied too vigorously and my black totem slipped off my gear loop plummeting all the way down the steep face! Pray 4 me in these trying times. Ye booty hunters rejoice, for a black totem now resides somewhere at the base of this climb ready to be born again. I took my first and only real lead fall of the trip right off the next belay – a powerful stemming sequence to exit the small belay hole. Paul got a sweet crotch shot of the action. Usually you have to pay good money for that. I twisted around a little differently and sent it next try. A little more chimney led to a short traverse pitch to a bush. “Maybe you can lead this one,” I told Paul, “I’m kinda tired.” “Sure thing JTizz,” and off he went on some discontinuous finger cracks. Little did I know I had once again inadvertently hosed myself into leading a horrendous wide pitch. I looked up at the thing wanting to do my part and get us to the top. “OK sure, I see some wide off the belay, but then all I gotta do is pull that roof and we’re golden. I think it’s safe to assume it goes on hand jams. See you at the top!”
So began the epic hour and a half lead of the final pitch. My memory is pretty foggy and I’ll spare you the gratuitous innuendo. Suffice to say that, while I thought myself ready to emerge a vibrant Yosemite butterfly, the final pitch squished me back down to barely-conscious-amorphous goo. (Scientific side note: I’ve read that somehow butterflies can remember things that happened to them while they were caterpillars, a true Twilight Zone-grade mystery given that they really do turn to goo inside their cocoons.) I yanked all over a #4 cam attempting to surmount a STUPID bulge without any holds. Then I had to grab a cam over the hand jams roof – it was #1 C4 jams, what gives?? Thin hands madness! I slowly scoot scooted up another squeeze but had to exit on some face moves to a tree. I reasoned all would be well if I could just reach the tree even though I didn’t have any pro in the squeeze below. I carefully made the moves but to my horror the tree felt ready to depart the cliff at any second! It was rotted at least halfway through its trunk. “This changes everything!” I moaned plaintively down to Paul, “All my calculations gone wrong!!” I was truly convinced the tree was about to blow. So I went back to the wide crack and placed a #3 C4 up high. Then I traversed back to the God-forsaken tree and slung a small chockstone in yet another wide crack on its left side. For those of you visual savants out there, yes the rope now formed a rope drag system of the highest perfection. But I did have to admire my handiwork as I yanked rope through the system so I could traverse back to the #3 cam – now, even if the tree exploded while I stepped over it, I would be protected by the slung chockstone above. This was starting to feel like a Sylvester Stallone picture; maybe Hollywood does have a hold in the Valley after all. I finally unclipped the #3 cam and can only imagine what Paul thought I was doing as a bunch of rope fell back to the belay. “Reel me in Paul, I’m headed for the top!” I heel-toed and chicken-winged up the final stretch of wide. It was done. I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps I had made it all a bit more dramatic than it needed to be. Or maybe it was just Yosemite letting me know who’s boss. Paul came on up and tried out some stacks. I enjoyed watching his experimentations from above.
Despite the last pitch the Northeast Buttress was a very fine climb. I would love to climb it again. Even the descent was welcoming, consisting almost entirely of class one walking with sweet vistas of Bridalveil Creek to the west. We never did find that black totem, although I didn’t waste too much time looking around for it. I wanted to catch up with Trinity before day’s end as I realized she was still living in the Valley. She had recently sent the Fish Crack (makes sense since she graduated the Woodson School of Fingerlock Climbing) and had plans to climb the Nose in a few weeks. Awesome! We made some plans to meet back up in the winter time and do some climbin down river — let’s just hope I’m recovered by then! Good to have friends in special places…
I’ve kept you all quite long enough by now… is anyone still reading this drivel? You were warned this was to be a vision quest from the outset…
so where does that leave us?
A vision quest entails going out and getting lost, trying hard, listening from on high and hopefully finding some kind of peace and your rightful place in the world. I hope you can see the parallels to this in my story. Of course climbing is a silly thing to do but I know it’s made me much more prepared to take on difficult challenges in my work and studies. Even just being handed a broken piece of equipment lacking documentation, I’ll jump right into it and start pulling the loose threads back together one by one, just like stringing together pitches on a long route. It continues to light some of the dark corners of my rather unreliable, easily disoriented mind; to put it simply there have been extended periods when I’ve been none too psyched to be here … in the most literal sense of that phrase … that kind of darkness can’t survive moon light streaming over Sentinel, and even less so a high five from your partner after a climb well made. I’m a few days down from this humble little quest and uncertain about what the future holds as ever. What I do know, is that Reuben found his banjo and I would give quite a lot to hear him play it and sing songs echoing in the boulders. I will be listening closely, for these songs and the sounds of all the monkeys sending the steep in Yosemite this fall season!
Everybody do like a monkey
If you want to go on and be funky
No need to talk like a hero
Take a walk count down to zero
No sense defending your honor
Just go on and kiss him if you want to
Everything before is gone or, going somewhere