|Jared, on the Sawtooth Ridge|
While unpacking boxes at my new apartment in Portland, I came across a CD with "Yosemite for Willie" written in marker across it. I popped it into my laptop and soon memories of climbing glorious white granite came flooding back to me in picture after picture. I purred like a cat. Ahhhhh, Yosemite. That beloved land I know so well. I have been fortunate to spend a great deal of time in that amazing park over the years. I began climbing young, at age 10 in Chicago, and was soon petitioning hard for my parents to take me on trips out west. Yosemite was the mecca and I read and gazed at all I could, drooling over the unfathomable images, dreaming of the day I'd be there. By age 14 my coercion had finally worked and my mom, sister, aunt and I headed to the golden state for a two-week trip. I stayed in Camp 4 alone and put notes on the bulletin board looking for partners while the others stayed in tent cabins in Curry Village. Needless to say I met many weird and wonderful people and it was a thrilling and awe-inspiring introduction. The love was consummated, so to speak. For four more summers after that initial trip, for two to three weeks each, I managed to return to Yosemite from the Midwest, suffering through the tedium of high school while my mind dreamed only of climbing those gleaming faces of rock (well...and girls, of course.)
After college in Colorado, and copious amounts of climbing there, I moved to California and continued my love affair with Yosemite, exploring more and more of the vast park. The pictures I found on the CD during the move to Portland were from the summer following college graduation (summer 2004) and the one after that. I had gotten the alpine climbing bug so Tuolumne Meadows and the High Sierra was my focus then, no longer down in the Valley.
I realized while looking at the photos that some of them that I wanted to share were of objectives that weren't reached, climbed that we hadn't completed. We had bailed, wimped-out, or otherwise, somehow making the decision to go down. I realized though that it was all ok. We still had lots of fun and I was still uninjured and alive, able to happily think back and enjoy the memories. I had learned so many lessons, about weather, land, and rocks, about decision making and getting down safely, about levels and limits of risk, and about how far I wanted and was willing to push. And of course, we had plenty of successes too. But most importantly, the times were good, real and raw, and the experiences soul-filling, all with Jared Vazales, one of my best friends. 'Nuff said.
When we were actually down in the Valley, during the summer after graduating, we climbed the Royal Arches Route one day for a quick way to get up high. I had climbed the route many times before, that ascent being during that first summer at age 14, en route to North Dome and the airy and breathtaking Crest Jewel (10 pitches, 5.10a.) The climbing on Royal Arches is easy and you can string many of the pitches together so it's a very fast way to get a thousand feet of air under your heels. We cruised it in under three hours, rappelled down, and then probably drank beer and swam in the river. Here's a few photos from that climb and one of Camp 4 living:
|The first pitch of the Royal Arches Route, you gotta go behind that thing!|
|The first of many rappels off Royal Arches|
|Good 'ol Camp 4|
The second bunch of photos on the disc was from when Jared and I attempted the Cathedral Traverse in Tuolumne Meadows. This was one of the bailouts, and for no good reason really, besides depression issues I think. The weather was perfect, all the climbing well within our abilities, and we had plenty of daylight, etc, etc. I had recently broken up with a long term girlfriend and I was having a hard time with the change, even though I'd wanted it. It was the first time that my emotions prevented me from enjoying the outdoors, for normally they are the #1 remedy. Hmmm...well...ups and downs, strikes and gutters, man.
We started with a couple pitches of moderate rock up the wonderful Unicorn Peak (10,823 ft.), then danced along the ridge spine, over snow, scree, boulders, past the small peak they call Al Tuskey and on up to the aptly named Cockscomb (11,065 ft.) We did steep, overhanging moves to gain its spiny summit, thankfully roped, feeling the air beneath us. The Yosemite high country is a true playground, a jungle gym of domes and spires, of rich forest over rolling and immaculately sculpted land, all teeming with beauty and pure, striking sublimity. Combined with the good weather, it is truly heavenly. From the Cockscomb Jared lead the traverse over the awesomely exposed Echo Crest (the high point of the route at 11,120 ft.), reveling in our position. By the time we reached the group of Echo Peaks my melancholy set in and we (I) got lazy bagging all their (nine) summits. The mellow 5.6 route up Cathedral Peak would have been an easy end to the traverse after that but the motivation just wasn't there. But again, all good, and Jared got to see a bear on the descent. Well, there's always next time...
|Ascending toward Unicorn Peak|
|Couple of badasses just chillin'|
|Fun climbing and some good exposure on the Echo Crest|
|The bear, Good day kind sir!|
Jared and I had our eyes on the Direct West Pillar (8 pitches, 5.10b) on Eichorn Pinnacle (10,700 ft.). Twice we hiked up and gave it a go, neither time making the top. The first time we wanted to follow the regular West Pillar but couldn't figure out exactly where it cut right after pitch 2. I launched up the vertical 5.9 double cracks of the direct route and belayed atop a tiny 4" stance, anchored to the great pinnacle with metal wedges jammed in the cracks in the bullet-proof rock. Jared followed as the sky filled with dark clouds, the daily midday threat of thunderstorms. We rappelled down, a few times, to reach the safety of the ground and gain cover from the electric sky. The second time was the same deal. I was up in the steep corner of the 5.10b crux, the pitch above the 5.9 double cracks, scared with the height and the position. I forged upward and then down climbed, up and down, up and down, trying to get up the nerve to just fire it, threat of fall or not. Luckily the sky clouded densely again and I didn't have to; we quickly built a rappel anchor and headed down, alternately nervously eyeing the darkening sky and the two tiny metal stoppers wedged in the crack. It sucks to bail, and it burns the ego but, as the guidebook says, "this is a terrifying place to be in an electrical storm, so plan your day accordingly and keep a watchful eye on cloud buildup." I'm not too sore we didn't make it.
|Hmmm....those clouds are a bit sketch|
|F this! I'm out|
|Weary and defeated, pointing up at Eichorn Pinnacle|
The last and grandest adventure that I came across in the photos was of Jared and my attempt on the Sawtooth Ridge, on the northeast boundary of Yosemite National Park. We carried small(ish) overnight packs with sleeping, cooking, and, of course, climbing gear. We tried to be minimal but they still felt pretty damn heavy and we surely had way too much. We parked at Twin Lakes, by Bridgeport on the eastern side of the Sierras, and set off bushwhacking 3,000 ft. up Blacksmith Creek. We were still learning the mountain craft and toughening our bodies and minds; that trip was a great teacher. The hike was exhausting but we finally gained the ridge above Glacier Lake and began to have real fun. Our plan was to spend the night and begin the traverse proper in the morning, so we began to hunt for a suitable perch to sleep. We found and settled into an elegant ~5'x10' platform at 10,000 ft., an extravagantly airy little suite with million dollar views to the east and across at the exceptionally jagged ridge line named the Cleaver. We lounged in the late sun, watched the light and clouds move over to the eastern side of the Sierras, saw the shadows play on the toothy ridges. We cooked and ate, talked and laughed, loving where we were as we relaxed into our sleeping bags on our sleeping pads, the cold of the night descending upon us. We rested well with the open air all around.
|Above Blacksmith Lake on the bushwhack up|
|Loving our position, with the Cleaver Ridge beyond|
|Looking down on our glorious perch|
The next morning we set to work. We packed up and descended to the snowy gully below, leading us back up to the saddle between Blacksmith and Cleaver Peak. The snow was hard as it was early still and we slid around a bit sans crampons, forced to ascend precariously, hugging the rocky edge of the steepening chute. From the saddle we roped up and simul-climbed the moderate terrain to the top of Cleaver. We relished the summit although the view southeast along the spine of the great ridge, our intended route, was downright nauseating. The next section--the Sawblade--looked horrifying and after that it didn't look much better. The motivation and confidence began to waver. Could we do it? Well, yes...but do we really really want to? Hmmm...not sure anymore. Hey, I never claimed to be the toughest guy around.
But on we went. The exposure was truly dizzying. Unfathomable distances to pure granitic chaos all around, like Nature screaming in stone while dancing around an open fire. Open air that makes your stomach hurt, vertigo. Rawer than raw, jagged to the utmost. Like a child smashing on a drum set, transformed into mountainscape. I remember a distinct feeling of wanting to flee, to wail like a terrified child and run and hide from these grotesque and looming pinnacles; so beautiful and sublime, but plainly inhospitable.
|On the descent off the Sawtooth Ridge|
|Not feeling too bad about bailing|
The clearest memory, because I was the most scared, was of leading up a vertical wall to regain to crest proper. My pack weighed heavily and my approach shoes skated on the crumbly granite. The gear I had put in to catch me if I fell was dubious at best and a fall would have been guaranteed injury. I began to panic as my hands desperately searched for purchase, sweating as the imminent approached; I went with the only option and charged upward in a last ditch effort. Pure being then, no thought, only action. No fear, no life and no death, no "me" or "I", no concepts of "risk" or "danger." No other option.
I made the mad dash and reached some more solid ground as the rope ran out. There was little place to stop and make an anchor, only a short chimney system behind a boulder wedged within and no suitable place for gear. I worked my body into the crevasse and turned so that my shoulders tightly spanned the width of it, that would have to do. Ok, Jared, the anchor's set, on belay!
Up and down, terrifying rappel after terrifying rappel, vertical, loose, and uncertain ascent after vertical, loose, and uncertain ascent. We reached a notch and prepared to find the route up the other side. Nothing looked possible, probable, safe, or fun. Well....hmmm. Ok, let's bail. A few sketchy rappels later and we were on the snow and heading down to Horse Creek and the trail back to Twin Lakes. Tension flowed from us as we fled, relaxing into our defeat.
My ego was slightly sore for a time but, as usually happens, perspective kicks in and you realize it's all good. There's always next time.
Hope you've enjoyed the photos!
Enjoy this music video!