Clear and Apparent Concern (or, how could anything ever be difficult when you're on flat ground?)

A trip report from the Yosemite trip was briefly in high demand, but I was lazy and indifferent, and it didn't happen. But now I think I'll type it up (and will add pictures later - but don't get excited, I didn't take many and none are that good).

In April and May I went to the Valley for three weeks. After successfully soliciting a partner I met up with Jones. We both were keen to aid climb, and Jones had a decent bit of experience scattered across more than a decade, and I had none. Jones wanted a partner and I have a lousy sense of smell, so we were a natural pair.

The Prow

At first we dicked around and figured out what we were doing on boulders and the first 3 pitches of Dihedral Wall. Then we decided to put it to the test on our first wall, The Prow on Washington Column. We sent with two nights on the wall and one beautiful night on top, and almost everything worked out pretty well. Our only system that was a complete failure was our shit-system. I'll spare the gory details (in spite of the fact that they're hilarious), but I'll suffice to say that Jones' nickname is The Filth, and after a year of traveling in India and Africa not all is well with his guts. On the first morning he wiped out all of our supplies, and dirtied most of his clothes. Not everything worked out perfect for me, either, and it was a good thing that we had a lot of extra water, as we needed to clean off the ledge. However, I find that I could vacate my bowels exceptionally well while on the wall. Not totally because of anything specific to wall climbing, but because our close proximity whilst doing our duty caused Jones to retch and dry heave, and the resulting convulsions of gut-busting laughter were better than any enema or fad diet.

The climb was uneventful until the bitter end when Jones tried his best to have his haulbag murder him by threading a shoulder strap incorrectly. It busted off at the worst possible time, and nearly sent him cartwheeling down the whole North Dome Gully descent. We made it down amidst drizzle and bursts of spitting rain on the lower slabs, and by the time we got to The Caf it was a full fledged downpour.

Lurching Queers

We spent the next few days resting and congratulating ourselves. We set our sites higher. Though we averaged only 4 pitches per day, we thought that since we'd had the experience of this wall we'd certainly be faster on the next. Rita Mae argues otherwise, of course, since our systems stayed the same, but our confidence brimmed. We were most confident at roughly the mid-point between getting off the Prow and onto El Cap. We agreed that Lurking Fear was "so in the bag that we've practically already climbed it." and then decided we didn't need to do it at all since the whole thing was already done, except to prove to other people how easy it was for us.

We knew we had to get serious when Jones was well-rested enough to get himself a disorderly conduct charge in Camp 4. Way to stay under the radar, Filth.

I should give a nod to a guy named Gerke that we met in camp 4 before starting The Prow. Everything system we had was retarded, except the ones Gerke taught us. The whole time that we were lounging between routes he was up soloing Mescalito, including a day in a full-on snow storm. I got a wicked picture of him that I'll post later. We tended to ask ourselves on route, "WWGD?"

So after procrastination, we hiked loads to the base, planning to hike back up the next day and fix the first 4 pitches. We ended up hiking up late the next day and not climbing at all, due to a party in front of us.

Day 1: we fixed the first 4 pitches, and slept at the base.

Day 2: our biggest day. We jugged and hauled those 4 (fixed with three ropes) then did another 5 pitches to sleep on top of pitch 9. That was a short sentence I just wrote. But those 5 pitches took 3 hours each - combine that with the previous 3 and we had ourselves a 21 hour day. The last two leads of the day had fallen to me - well, I volunteered for them, since I'd recently ingested a caffeine pill and felt capable. The 2nd to last was a 10c (C1 for us) splitter offwidth, notable for the fact that it takes only #4 camalots for 80 feet. Since we had two, this means that I could be on only 1 at a time for the whole pitch, with no pro. Jones thought that it was a bold lead, but I had done it with no headlamp. By the time I got to the anchor, it was dark. Jones jugged on an anchor built by a blind guy. THAT was bold.

I led one more. A pitch that goes free at 10a (C1, again). By the time I got to the bivy - the appropriately-named Ledge of Despair - I had hit the wall. It was 1am, after 2 before we were in our bags.

A bit about Jones: I thoroughly enjoyed climbing with him. One of his best attributes is that in spite of being a non-smoker, he smokes a helluva lot. He chain-smoked the whole trip, in fact. And best yet? Hand rolled cigarettes. I have a tendency to be inefficient at times. You know, packing the whole bag and then realizing that I put the thing I need right away on the bottom. That kinda thing. Jed, for example, is a patient guy, but every once in a while he utters a complaint like, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??? JESUS TITTY-FUCKING CHRIST I COULDA FINISHED MY THESIS AND BUILT A FUCKING HOUSE IN THIS AMOUNT OF TIME!!!!" Jones, however, was much more amenable to the delays.

"hey, Jones, uh, sorry dude. Could you sit tight for a second while I deal with this?"

"yeah bro, no problem. I'm gonna smoke..." and the corners of his mouth would curl into a smile and his eyes soft-focus as his attention turns inward in anticipation of the nicotine hitting his nervous system. Smoking has a horrible reputation in our culture, and smokers are sub-human, but every once in a while I wonder if we're all actually really missing out on something.

Jones also has something of split-personality: his roots are thoroughly blue-collar, and he has that blue-collar work ethic, which he wears on his sleeve. But that is split by both a pinko upbringing and the firm belief that it is his moral imperative, as a citizen of this planet, to contribute as little as he can to our economic systems, which he sees as untenable in any form. He views any variety of financial ambition as a character flaw, and the verb he uses the most is undoubtedly "chillax", since he sees either "chill" or "relax" as insufficient by itself to adequately describe his intention to do fuck all.

So that night, we slept on the portaledge. We awoke in the morning utterly exhausted.

Day 3: by the time I had finished leading the first pitch of the day it was 1pm. In my defense, we had some delays.

In climbing films people refer to Alex Honnold as being some sort of a god. They say he's essentially fearless. This is bullshit. He looked decidedly scared, for example, when I gave him every reason to believe that I was going to fall on him.

He and Steve Su passed us during this pitch. They were climbing the route in a day, mixing free and aid, and seemed to be doing alright. Alex caught me right as I reached a spot that I couldn't figure out how to do. I bounce tested an RP and it blew, hitting me in the face, nearly breaking my glasses. I squealed, and Alex shrank in fright. He waited while I called for the cheater stick and clipped a high bolt. Then I was stuck, since I couldn't figure out how to unweight the damn cheater and the next moves were no easier. Finally Alex suggested (or maybe I offered) that he climb on by. In my defense, he referred to the spot that stymied me as "rather heinous" and yarded on my aider. The next move he handily freed, doing a boulder problem that could sit in my back-damn-yard for the rest of my life and I'd never be able to do it. I yarded up his aider and I was finally done with the pitch. Alex and Steve climbed on through. I didn't realize how much time had elapsed until Jones told me, with no inobvious amount of displeasure.

Behind Alex and Steve were two YOSAR guys, also climbing the route in a day (for fun, not work), but using mostly aid. We had met them at the base, since they had attempted two days before but had to abort less than a pitch up for reasons I won't bother with. Jones and I had a serious conference. It was late, we were tired, and we were clearly getting spanked by the route. We were too slow. And to make matter worse, the YOSAR guys brought us an updated weather forecast which could be summarized as "yer gonna get real wet and cold". The next pitch was described as "tricky" and the one after was no better. It was also completely horizontal, making hauling and jugging a bitch. But the topo said that they could be rapped in one pitch.

Jones and I conferenced.

"Pretty fuckin' gay." I said miserably (this was a now un-funny reference to a funny conversation we'd had on the ground, and not typical tasteless homophobia.)

"Pretty fuckin' gay." Jones agreed miserably.

We nicely asked a favor of the YOSAR guys as they passed.

"Better today than tomorrow, right?" we said as we clipped our tag line to Jake's haul loop, knowing full well that our dumb asses could turn into a rescue case if we didn't get to the top of the 14th pitch that day, as we'd planned. We jugged and hauled the next two pitches as one, and it saved us hours.

The day stretched into night. Jones led the last pitch to the top of 14. It wandered ruthlessly and went through trees and grotty, flaring chimneys that were described by muffled shouts from above as the "worst possible fucking aid feature". Pulling into the belay contained the usual nightmare - an unprotected 5.4 mantle with rope drag that threatened to rip off his ass cheeks. I'd had the same on a pitch on The Prow, and I knew his misery. It was time for sleep. We nearly had a serious disagreement over how much of the ledge was each person's share, and it was the only major drama of the whole trip. We were too tired for fighting, though, and either of us coulda slept hanging upside down by our toe nails.

Day 4: my first words were "that's rain." and Jones' were "fuck."

With the fire of instant fear in our hearts, we got up unusually quickly. Rain on the coming pitches was seriously bad news, as we were basically climbing a drainage.

Flash back a few days to the base, when we first met the YOSAR guys. Jones and I were so full of shit and ourselves that we hadn't looked at the weather forecast. They told us that there was a 20% chance of rain for a few days out, and that it was a larger pattern, not just one day. I had my first real taste of humility in terms of the route we were facing. Jones was imagining a brief spatter of rain one afternoon. I imagined the sort of weather we'd been having: long days of wet and cold misery, snow included. 5.4 unprotected mantles on wet slabs. "We'll aid that shit" Jones would retort. He had tunnel-vision and was blind to any possibility besides climbing the biggest rock in the valley. "You CAN'T aid it, that's the point" I would retort.

Throughout the trip we disagreed on many points. I was wrong just as often as I was right. But I was so APPALLINGLY right on this one count that there is no way I was going to leave it out of the blog.

"You fucking called this one, bro" Jones admitted between shivers, after leading the second pitch of the day, a flowing corner that ostensibly goes at 10b. I was wearing my puffy jacket and was tolerably comfortable, but I couldn't find my rain jacket in the haulbag (dumbass maneuver) and I knew that comfort wouldn't last as I got wetter.

As an interesting side note, while I belayed that pitch I got to watch a peregrine falcon ride up on the thermals and then blast back down the wall at top speed, obviously having a very nice time. Quite a sight, as they move extraordinarily fast.

The last pitch of the day, to a sheltered ledge (Thanksgiving Ledge), on top of pitch 17, was my lead. As I toiled my way up the 11d offwidth (C1, obviously) in the rain, I began to sing a song I had made up:

"heeeey ay... I wanna go to the buffet

I don't want to be on beeeelay,

I want to eat some bacon,

and see my girlfriend.

I wanna sit on a toilet,

and shit in private"

Actually it was better than that, but I forgot most of the lyrics now. The last pitch didn't give up without a pain-in-the-ass fight. Then, at the very top, just before the ledge, was the unprotected 5.7 boulder problem - complete with rope drag. There was no way I could do it. I belayed and hauled. Jones was fully miserable when he got to my belay, and asked expectantly after the ledge. I delivered the bad news "no man, that's the ledge up there. Its 5.7 getting to it."

Jones didn't hesitate, and climbed the 5.7 like it was 5.6. I've never witnessed a faster transformation of mood than when he got to the ledge and realized that it was indeed sheltered and dry. It was early afternoon, and we were done for the day. We ate. We slept. We watched the snow fall in the valley. We were two easy pitches from the top, and it was a great sense of relief. We slept all afternoon, and then all night.

Day 5: The next morning it wasn't raining. Jones led a C1 (10a) pitch, then I led a 5.3, topping out the route. We hooted. We hollered. But the writing was on the wall that we weren't done. For example, the anchors for that pitch were about 15 feet from the nearest good spot to unpack the bags - frigging a fixed line to get the pigs over there was a nuisance. Then the "4th class slabs" that I had poopooed at the base were actually fully hard (5th class) and a very dangerous place to fall (the only rain of the day came while Jones was leading something treacherous). We had the pigs to deal with (they were still mind-numbingly heavy, even less food and water) and when it wasn't loose gravel or a death slab it was manzanita-bashing bullshit. It was afternoon before we truly got on top.

Then we got lost. There are all sorts of factors, but describing them would be boring. It included Jones wanting to do the much longer descent that is only walking (Yosemite Falls Trail), and me initially agreeing but deciding that I'd rather do the shorter one with raps and downclimbs (east ledges). My haulbag, it turned out, was way heavier than his (but smaller and easier to carry - this is crucial later. I don't know how much it weighed, but an unscientific comparison to a 50-pound bag of rice put its weight at about 3 times that) . Lots of people get lost up there, apparently, so don't think we're too stupid. Finally, trudging through the woods in old snow, busting in ankle deep on every step and occasionally all the way in, I lost it:

"THIS IS NOT A FUCKING TRAIL!! WE'RE FOLLOWING ONE SET OF FUCKING FOOTPRINTS! WE'RE FOLLOWING SOMEONE ELSE THAT WAS FUCKING LOST, TOO!!!!"

We eventually decided that the only certain thing we could do was find the rim of El Cap, and then the top of the Nose. Then we'd know where we were for sure, finally. It turned out we had walked several miles too far. Along the way we walked over the true summit of El Cap. We saw a famous tree that we both recognized. It was turning into a extraordinarily beautiful evening in one of the prettiest places I've ever been. Jones relented to the idea of going down the east ledges. Then we saw Cedar Wright and his partner Nick (they were the first people we'd seen since the YOSAR boys). They told us, definitively, where to go, and agreed with us that we had one more bivy. We admitted that we left our last food on the ledge for the next party (since we didn't need it) and they cheerfully gave us each a can of Chef Boyardee. For whatever reason I'd assumed that Cedar must be some sort of an attitude-ridden Valley Dickhead, but I fell in love with the man. What a couple of sweeties!

We began the uneventful evening walk down to the top of the east ledges. At one point, stepping over a lichen-greased stream running over a slab, Jones slipped. At first, my reaction was to laugh. It was funny, there he was water-sliding off El Cap! Hilarious! Realizing in short order that it definitely, definitely was NOT funny, I became quite afraid. I was watching him die, I realized.

"Grab something!" I shouted, feeling about as useless as tits on a bull. It probably occurred to him to try that without me suggesting it.

Jones rocketed about 60 feet down the slab, gaining speed frightfully, before launching off a 10-foot drop. I couldn't see the bottom, but I could see logs piled up. Jones shouted in pain. I ditched my haul bag and busted down the manzanita on the side of the slab to see if he was okay. He was sitting in a puddle and groaning and miserable. "My ankle, my ass" were the complaints. It wasn't broken, we decided. It could be moved. He was gonna be okay, I decided. I immediately started laughing. Jones didn't see the humor, but I think was a bit relieved by the differences in our attitudes toward the situation.

After some conferencing we decided to continue to our camp spot at the top of the east ledges, but I would shuttle his haulbag down. Jones' stoke was blown.

Day 6: We went down the east ledges. We had a tiny amount of breakfast, and that was the end of the food. Jones was NOT feeling brave, still all-too aware of his near-death experience the day before, and the descent is scary. But that motherfucker, ever the trooper, carried his own haulbag down (though mine was quite a bit heavier, his was way, WAY harder to carry. It was roughly double the size, and any movement gets it going and it takes your body with it. Downclimbing in it is scary and dangerous.) But after a few hours we got down to the car.

I dropped my haulbag on the ground and kicked it.

We entered the store and shredded ice cream cones and started immediately demolishing them. We ate pizza and 5,000 calorie salads. We were so, so, so happy to be back on flat ground.

The next day I bolted. Susie was back from Africa, and I wanted nothing more to do with Yosemite. I lost weight. Lots of it. I don't know how much because I didn't weigh myself before or after, but it was immediately obvious when I looked in the mirror. Jones, it turned out, had broken three ribs in his tumble, in addition to spraining his ankle.

About a week after the wall I was stoked to go back. But I need to get faster.

Why were we so slow? Lots of reasons. We led slow, me especially. Cam hooks would help with this. So would a bit more mileage and complete sets of familiar gear (I have camalots, but Jones has some-other-fucking-things-that-he-found-somewhere and they don't go in anywhere quickly). We hauled slow, due to leg-hauling on a 3:1. We could never make body-hauling on a 1:1 work, but a few people have committed to showing me how to do it so it does. We didn't free climb anything. I wasn't in free shape at all, and neither of us was used to mixing it up. This is clearly something to practice by climbing shorter walls much faster. I move slow in general. This might be a permanent condition. But we'll get better. You'll see.