I’ve been remiss in posting my writing lately, despite the fact that I’ve been writing up a storm these past couple of months. Within the next month or so I hope to publish a new book summing up many of my most memorable mountain adventures over the years, from raging storms, close calls and tenuous wildlife encounters, to inspiring moments beneath the stars and sublime wonders across North America and beyond. Most of the stories I’ve never published. It’s been a joy recalling and reliving decades of good fun and discovery, oftentimes solo, sometimes with friends.
For now, here’s a snippet I just wrote up remembering a climb in Yosemite National Park about 20 years ago. I’ll post a few more teasers and further details on the book as I get closer to publication. And on a totally opposite trajectory, I’ll have a new piece inspired by the upcoming Artemis II launch to the Moon ready to post in the next day or two.
Yosemite: A Duffer Grunts Up a Big Wall
I don’t think I was even 20 yet when I first drove a car into Yosemite Valley, wowed by the massive granite walls in all directions. From El Capitan to Half Dome, and from towering pillars to roaring waterfalls, the scene was more than spectacular. I hiked to several of the falls like a good tourist, and strolled around the valley with an ice cream and a kink in my neck, before driving up to Glacier Point for the gazillion-dollar view there. I knew I’d be back.
Perhaps a decade later, I fulfilled that pledge and made it a point to hike up the cables at Half Dome. I was new to rock climbing by then and given the considerable exposure, I almost wanted a rope for the steep trek up the cables. I lunched and gazed on the summit, but didn’t linger since this was meant as a 16-mile round-trip day hike with nearly 5,000 feet of elevation gain.
On the way down, I passed a family of four heading up, including two young girls carrying backpacks and tethered to mom and dad. They were doing fine, but I had to wonder how it’s possible there aren’t more fatal accidents here—typically one occurs every few years. At the same time, I’m glad this kind of experience is available to those who can adventure responsibly, which in this instance also means avoiding the place if there’s any risk of wet or icy weather. Back in the valley and looking up, I felt an itch to climb Half Dome’s famed Northwest Face. Although I think it would have been well within my ability, it was a fleeting fancy never realized.
Years later, in October, Keith and I visited a friend who was working at Yosemite. Our goal was to climb the Royal Arches route above the village. It’s the only multi-pitch, big wall route I’d ever done, even if it’s also known as a “duffer route.” Fourteen pitches of fun with all sorts of moderate rock-climbing challenges: cracks, dihedrals, a pendulum to a finger-sized ledge, a cool granite flake you could hug with both hands, an unprotected nubbin face, and finally a steep slab to traverse at the top that would prove to be, for me at least, the scariest part of the climb—notwithstanding the football-sized rock, i.e., missile, that whizzed past us on the lower face.
I nearly embarrassed myself at the first obstacle, an awkward leaning chimney at ground level. In fact, the first ten feet of the route would prove to be the most challenging part of the climb. I couldn’t seem to get into it correctly. It’s a popular route and I was holding up others who were standing around on that cold autumn morning waiting and muttering for the duffer to figure it out. Finally, I did and we were on our way.
The next dozen pitches or so went smoothly and the fun factor grew rapidly as the day warmed and the view became fully awesome-ized. I’d been hesitant about swinging like a pendulum across a smooth rock face, but the task proved easier than expected. At the final pitch, the steep slab, Keith set me up with a belay. I had just begun to lead out when he hollered at me to stop—and something about a snake. Huh? Whatever it was, it was urgent. I scrambled back to see what was up. A colorful banded snake had suddenly appeared next to Keith’s leg and nearly crawled up on his lap before slithering off. We had to look it up later. It turned out to be a harmless king snake, but it had us both going for a moment.
Before I could step back onto the slab, a solo German tourist sauntered by unroped as if he was out for a picnic. He pointed across the slab inquiring if that was the route. We nodded. He proceeded to strut across, utterly fearless. I guess that’s a thing for a certain subset of immortal Yosemite climbers.
At around 100 feet across, the slab was rated just 5.4, or moderately easy in climber-speak, but exposed with 1,400 feet of vertical air below one’s booties. Scattered pine needles offered an added thrill. I was happy to be across and standing on a comfortable ledge looking back at Keith. As I belayed him over, he took a short slip near the end but quickly recovered and all was well.
We’d burned up the day, and with evening approaching, decided to rope ourselves in to a tree and just lounge there on the brink. Our ledge abutted a steep band of forest where the cliff reclined to a more moderate slope. It was unlikely we’d find anywhere better in the woods so we stayed put on our ledge. Being a mile above sea level in October, we were in for a coldish night. It helped that an energetic and entertaining ringtail flittered through the tree branches, welcoming us to the dark forest.
Overall, ‘twas not a bad day for a couple of middling mountain duffers. By morning we were off to find the trail quite a distance above that would lead us to Yosemite Falls and a gorgeous hike down.
A few years after that experience, Kris and I made a trip to Yosemite and had some interesting bear encounters both on the trail and in the valley, including being bluff-charged by a sow with a cub. You can read about that wee bit o’ fun here.