Mon capitan…
I am a chickenshit. It’s probably strange to start any writing on El Cap like this, but it is so true. I cannot be cavalier about even minor falls. Even a 10 footer looks massive on the bulging golden granite wall when you are way off the deck. Plus, I constantly worry about hitting something-ledges, corners, anything. Often, irrational thoughts about falling cause me to slow WAY down, tinkering with the protection until I get something solid in. I really am chicken shit.
These stories are strictly from my viewpoint, and represent only a micro reality of what was going on in terms of the "true" reality of what was happening at the time. I can only surmise as to the actual goings on behind and during some of the instances presented. As some say, "life goes on."
I am writing this introduction from the Ahwanee hotel, a 4 star deluxe hotel smack in the middle of Yosemite Valley. Many years ago, circa 1992, tourists gawked as I stumbled in front of the dining room with a huge haulbag on, giving them something to talk in hushed tones about. I had just come down from a solo of a grade V and was pretty skanky looking. I was a good topic for dinner, too, after going without water for a 90 degree, 2% humidity day, I felt insane and dehydrated. I gulped from an abandoned cup on a table outside, in front of the dining room. It was a busy summer night at the Ahwanee, and my stained, smelly t-shirt was rather incongruous among the suits and ties of the rest of the gathering. I limped off into the darkness, my beast of burden strapped across my back. It is a moment that draws great reflection in my mind, how, after many hours without drink, the water glass with lemon in it was everything I wanted and needed, despite another random person’s possible germs.
I slept in the front seat of my car, it being the first place I got to that I could call "home."
It’s sunny now, and I am down in the Valley to perhaps write another chapter in the book…
5/5/1998
jim arnold
After my first trip up El Cap, I read in famous climber/writer John Long’s Big Wall book that roped soloing is twice the work and 100 times as dangerous as going with a partner. I wish this book had been published before I went up the Zodiac without a clue or a qualified partner.
Zodiac seemed like a good first foray onto the massive chunk of vertical real estate that is "the captain." First done in 1972 by Charlie Porter, roped solo, this route climbs sculpted corners and steep terrain on the far Southeast face of El Cap. One bonus: it was "only" 16 ropelengths long-this compared to 34 on the tallest routes, so I felt that I could deal with the endurance factor.
Porter put up the Zodiac solo. This always lurked in the back of my mind-Charlie up there, alone, on the first solo first ascent of an El Cap route. Bold. I was two years old at the time. I had some chivalrous notion that it was "cheating" to climb the route with a partner- Charlie had done it alone in ’72, have some respect for my man! Plus, being the iconoclast that I am, I felt like I should pay my respects to one of the greatest, unheralded climbers of the last generation by going it alone.
I borrowed begged or bought all the gear I needed for El Cap in ’92, running up the size of my climbing rack and my credit card bills. I trained by aid-soloing many of the local chossy cracks, driving pins where no one cared, climbing bolt ladders and in general, hauling loads around pointlessly. El Cap pioneer Warren Harding called wall climbing nothing more than "vertical freight hauling." He was right.
I started out with about 200 lbs worth of stuff for the wall-8 gallons of water made 64 pounds of dead weight to start the massive vertical freight haul. Canned foods, applesauces, pudding, portaledges, and other sundries weighed in the rest. I was carrying way too much. But you want to be racked to the hilt before you journey up the BiG StonE, so there I was, a sherpa for myself, slaving for some desired goal or glory. What was it? The summit? The experience? Years later, I still don’t know and couldn’t tell you why I still perform this exacting self abuse. Perhaps it’s the nice views…
Rock climbing is unique in that you can meet your idols at any time, just kicking around the same crags you might be on. If you were a hoops fan and wanted to meet Michael Jordan, it would take some ridiculous effort (like winning a Gatorade contest..) and that’s all you would do-meet him. In rock climbing, the stars will often pull out a ubiquitous power bar and chat with you-on a variety of topics, too.
Rick Lovelace is one of those guys. Rick has big balls. I guess they must be metaphorically and physically big, because, while I was slaving on my solo ascent, he started sleeping with the girl I had been hanging out with and later, they became boyfriend/girlfriend. I was okay with it, she wasn’t that attractive to me, anyway, I kept telling myself, but it was an odd scene, Lovelace fixing ropes on an A5 (read: the hardest and most dangerous rating on El Cap), me staggering back down after my epic, learning that Rick had snapped up L., and being in the adrenalized afterglow that only El Cap has ever given me. I was a shy guy then, sexually. Later, L. confessed to a liking of anal sex, which at the tender age of 22, I still wasn’t ready to give or take. Some things change and some don’t. At least L. was honest and told me what was going on.
Lovelace, upon finding out that my first El Cap route was solo, complimented me on the effort. He had speed-soloed the same route in 18 hours, gotten worked in a storm, and barely made the top before the skies opened up.
"Good job. That’s epic you’d never done the Captain…I can’t believe you soloed your first route! I did the big stone with partners bunches of times before going alone." Rick commented.
"Thanks Rick. Without guys like you though, I’d never even try stuff-I mean, you sent the thing in 18 hours, and it took me 4 days…it’s you that inspires me to push myself…what are you working on now?"
"Soloing "The Tempest"…dude, I took a 60 footer, I was trying to topstep to get a rivet when my fifi twisted out. Fully inverted! It was steep though, didn’t hit anything. But it sure slowed me down yesterday."
I was scared of the micro-fall, and here Lovelace was, ripping off a bunch of pieces on the looong whipper. I wished him good luck, and asked him about his necklace, a blue crescent moon, which was his talisman. He packed up and set off for his adventure. L. stayed in the Valley to be even more entertained by a man of a climber.
As for me, I left before I was rested enough and nearly drove off the road from complete exhaustion. I’ve known others who have. Doug Englekirk flipped his Isuzu Trooper on a curve after a 25 hour speed solo of The Nose. He had driven over from Mammoth after work and had been on the go for about 2 days when he crashed, metaphorically and then physically. He woke up and the car was still in the ditch. I was relieved to camp outside the Park limits, legally, and slept for at least 12 hours.
The physical effects from this 96 hour odyssey included hands that were wrapped in a claw shape-and tooks weeks of ibuprofen and stretching to normalize. Everything had been a struggle, from the first hook move to the last jumar.
I vow never to climb El Cap again, but know I haven’t done the highest route on the cliff. It will stick in my craw until the next October.
CHP 2
Le Euro Nose
Jon Fox. A buddy from Berkeley. A 74’ Lincoln Mark IV Continental with no speedometer. 10/29/94. Around 10 pm, we leave the East Bay, Valley bound. Fox and I are headed to do the Nose, perhaps the finest route on the Captain. It’s a route versed in history, from Warren Harding’s pioneering effort in 1958, to Lynn Hill’s first free ascent that fall, at a stiff grade of 5.13c. I don’t think any man will ever do the second free ascent. To free climb is to use the hands and feet only-without grabbing gear or falling on ropes to help your progress. Nearly every climb on El Cap is an "aid" climb, whereby you get to nail pitons in the rock, grab them, pull up on ropes, fixed gear-in other words, climbing by hook or by crook.
I take over driving around midnight while Fox grabs some Z’s. I am really wondering if I am going 40 or 70, my exhaustion from work seeping into the reality of no speedometer. The lines seem to be moving, but who knows? Jon’s 74 Mark IV Continental I christen the "Ghetto Cruiser." Later, I inheirit the grey luxury mobile and it serves me well in Oakland.
I wake Fox after a while to take over helm. We stop for water at the entrance to the Valley. 1:30 a.m. Our mission won’t be complete for the night for a while…there’s 15 miles of curvy roads and then a short hike up to the base of El Cap, where we will sleep on a flat sandy bench beneath the Nose route.
We roll up to El Cap meadow, pack our haulbags, and hike. It’s a 10 minute hike at 2 in the morning. We arrive to find 4 other climbers nestled cozily in sleeping bags in "our" spot. That’s messed up. Not only will we contend for space, but there will be a clusterfuck in the morning. I tell Fox that we should camp 100’ away, get up earlier than them and pass them on the climb before they’ve left the ground.
4:17 am. "Pop." "Ping." These are the sounds on the outside of my sleeping bag. Jon is throwing small rocks at my head to wake me up. I find my headlamp and struggle to gain a purchase on conciousness. After 2 hours of sleep, I feel like I’ve been punched in the head. It’s like a bad hangover, more accurately. We plan quietly, a couple of spies on the subterfuge hauling mission.
I tell Fox we will use fake European accents if we get caught. It is still pitch dark, but I’ve been up the first third of the route, and know it will go quickly, if we can only pass these four cocoons who are napping at the base right now.
I shoe up with climbing boots and step out on ledges about their small camp. The rock is cool, and my beam shines on a small circle of illuminated granite. My sticky rubber soles edge their way above the other climbers in their sleeping bags. I shuffle and then hear:
"Whadda homos think you are doing?" The agitated voice comes from one of the sleeping bags.
I reply in my best, brusque Austrian accent, "Yah, vee have twoo sixty meter ropes und go veddy fast, yah!"
"Oh, you think so?" The sleeping bag asks.
"Yah, yah!" is my response.
There is silence from down below. What are they going to do, get up at 4:20 am and race us? I feel the slightest tinge of guilt and am curious about karmic reprecussions.
I free climb the 5.7 pitch in a few minutes, and, instead of hauling (normal procedure,) I rappel back down and give Fox the game plan.
He goes up the ropes.
"Eick vein oolen." Fox calls from above.
"Haulenshtien!" I keep up euro airs and we quickly pass.
Perhaps it was us blowing their psyche, or the other party just stunk, but at 8 in the morning, we are 700’ up the wall and they are just starting. They retreat later that afternoon after doing 1/17th of El Capitan. We are goading them, yelling, "Yah, vat do uu homos tink uu are doink?" Again, I think of karma and my micro debts.
The bottom half of the wall goes relatively smoothly. One night, I tell Fox to bring his headlamp because it’s getting dark, but he doesn’t. I admonish his "in the dark" anchor system when I see two bolts nearby that he could have used. His belay constructed from gear is a huge, spaghettied tangle of ropes and slings. It’s okay, though, we are right on time to the sleeping ledges..
On the third day, I wake up to see some storm activity far away, above the Pacific Ocean. It looks like a front, screaming in from the coast. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and start climbing at first light, after we brew up some java. I am clicking on all cylinders, climbing quickly and efficiently, with one eye on the rock and the other on the sky. Very worried about the strorm.
200’ from the top, the clouds are flying overhead. The wind starts whipping loose nylon and clothing around. I am yelling at Jon to come up the ropes, preparing for the final section of El Cap. It’s dark now, so I strap on my headlamp. The round beam illuminates a 5’ swath of the golden granite. I check the anchors and get myself ready to climb. As soon as Jon arrives, I blast off. The last pitch is an overhanging headwall, 40’ long. In 1958, Warren Harding drilled bolts throughout the night on this section, topping out at dawn, as his team had been out of food and water on the epic and the needed to finish. I clip my way up the headwall, poking my head out from the shelter. Snowflakes fly when I do so. I am really worried, as two parties have ended their lives at this very spot.
A Japanese party was entombed in ice when the leader fell off the last moves and then hung in space without being able to ascend the rope back to the top. The belayer and leader froze to death and it was 3 days before the search and rescue team could peel their lifeless corpses off the top and thaw them out. They were entombed in several feet of ice. I think of this grisly scene as I scream frantically for slack from Jon. I can’t move and snow is starting to make the last 50’ kind of scary. Later, he tells me that the ropes were tangled. I am thundering, "SLACK!" as I desperately consider the fall. The snow is now flying around me. I crawl to a pine tree and tie off the ropes. It’s a blizzard now, and my rainjacket is in the haulbag, 160’ below.
I am nearly in tears at the top. I can’t haul the bags because they won’t move. All I want is my jacket. Fox arrives after seemingly, an eternity of blowing snow has pelted my face. I am plastered and soaking wet with white stuff. We are screaming at each other about the haulbags, still stuck over the lip. He’s pissed because they aren’t already at the top. I am pissed because I can’t haul them. As in most big walls, it’s the team effort that gets them over the final bulge.
Fox keeps yelling as I am immediately sedate. "It’s over, it’s over," I keep repeating. He eventually stands down and is calm while we pack up.
Never having been to this section of the top of El Cap, I worry as we make preparations to descend. The storm thickens and my headlamp barely cuts the fury of blowing snow. If we go astray, we take a 3,000 plunge. I lead straight back from the wall and into deep manzanita bushes, a bane of all California climbers. The only thing on our side is the fact that we both have several layers of clothes. Try thrashing through manzanita in the summer with shorts on and you will be cut to the bone. After struggling for several hundred yards, it’s futile to do anything until dawn, we decide. We are plunging back first down a hill, trying to find a flat spot to bed down. There are a few inches of snow covering everything. Finding a micro flat area, we unpack our sleeping bags and bivy gear. Snow piles up. We haven’t even eaten dinner and have one PowerBar left out of our rations.
I huddle inside my swampy sleeping bag and worry about what the night will bring. If there is a foot of snow by morning, it will make the normal descent route impossible, and we will have to trudge several miles along the rim of the Valley to find a walk-off. I sleep uneasily until 5 am. The sound of rain pattering is the biggest relief I’d ever experienced. I know that the rain will make the regular descent possible and we won’t be walking miles breaking trail in snow with 80 pound haulbags on our backs.
The sun comes up and it is a partly cloudy fall day, a dichotomy from 12 hours before. We melt some snow with our stove and split the PowerBar. 125 calories later, we don’t dally, as pizza and beer are calling us.
After getting to the floor of the big ditch, we try hitching a ride from the descent point to where the ghetto cruiser is parked, a mile up the road. A Ford F-350 without a shell stops.
"You guys climbing?"
"Yeah! Can you give us a ride?"
"Sure, you guys look pretty wet." The nice couple looks at us and decides we’re decent, but sopped, guys.
I hop up on the full sized truck and Fox, who is built less lanky than I, tries the same move, but gets pinned under his burdenous haulbag. I drag him in like a beached whale, grabbing the straps of his bag and yarding his body and bag into the bed liner. The Ford churns down the road and soon we are changed into dry clothes.
Down in the Valley, I call work in Berkeley. "No, I won’t be coming in today, Jerry. Sorry, I was stuck on El Cap in a blizzard last night." I get written up later that week. There is a saying, "The worst day fishing beats the best day working." If you substitute climbing in there, you have to further append the statement. "The worst day climbing beats the best day working, so long as you walk away from the climb."
Salathe attempt
The next 1 ½ years, I "retire" from big walls. I clip big bolts, go to Colorado and snowboard there for a while, hoping to never be motivated to get my ass kicked in that big wall way again. "Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it," right? But the mind (at least mine) works in strange, and often stupid ways.
The spring blossoms and my friend Speedy wants to do a wall. We start up the Salathe Wall, the 2nd route on El Cap. It is a devious route that works through the major features on the west side of El Cap. We pack way too much gear, and on the first 1,000 feet, get passed by several people who are doing the first section, called the "Free Blast," and then rappelling 800 feet back to the ground. They all comment on the inordinate amount of gear I am lugging for this "easy" section of the climb.
It takes us much longer than anticipated-perhaps I was using too much gear-and after hearing horror stories about the "Hollow Flake" pitch, in which a 150’+ fall is possible (and has been taken), I decide we don’t have enough water or painkillers to do the route. The Hollow Flake would have been my lead, and looking at it from just below (where we started the retreat,) it was menacing. An 80’, body sized crack that it appeared you would squeeze into and desperately fight your way up. I was secretly glad that I called in the hasty. We hung out on spacious ledges all day and just had a fun time.
Chp 4 Mr. Yim and Mr. Bal
I had promised my dear friend Val Viegener that we would do El Cap. Promised for years. I knew this would entail a lot of leading for me, for Val works as a bartender and doesn’t climb as frequently as me. I would "guide" him up. We packed up on a fine October day in Tahoe. One item that was in the bags that wasn’t there before was a bottle of Seagrams 7 Crown. Never again will whiskey ride up the wall in my bag.
Salathe wall, once again. This time, I’ve been training on wide cracks and other chimneys to get ready for this wall. 1/3 of the route consists of cracks that are larger than hand size, so one has to be ready to struggle through chutes, squeeze chimneys and other types of climbing that most folks would consider plain awful. I am psyched. Nick Arms, a mutual friend, gives us a ride to the Valley. I don’t have a car at the time, and Val’s 68’ Chevy truck doesn’t run so well. The plan is that Val’s girlfriend will pick us up, post wall. We haul at night and establish ourselves at pitch 10 before tossing in the towel to sleep.
The next morning, I lead 2 quick pitches and the next pitch is the "Hollow Flake." My pulse races as I wait for Val to ascend the previous section and put me on belay. Once he arrives, I prepare mentally, and cast off, penduluming into the dreaded, revered slot.
After squeezing into the 12" crack, I slowly work my way up. It’s hot, and the sun is beating down on me. I sweat and keep trying to remove the excess perspiration from my hands with chalk. It becomes a max effort when I am looking at an 80 foot fall. In these situations, you just don’t fall. There is so much adrenaline flowing that you want to rush things, but I calm down and slowly squeeze upwards.
I reach the belay and let out a massive sigh. It was punishing, but no worse than I thought. It did, however, take the wind out of my sails. After hauling, I take a shot of 7 Crown and call it a day. This will be a mistake I rue, because a team of 4 Koreans is on our tail and catching fast.
The lead Korean comes up right after Val. He is using a 10" camming device and aiding his way up the Hollow Flake. I am aghast, and also, jealous. There isn’t the 100’+ fall potential from the top of the pitch, but good protection right above. I vow to find such a piece for the future as I watch the scrawny Korean squeeze through to my belay.
The Koreans are motivated, and have fresh leaders for every pitch, so they pass us. Actually, they fix ropes above and stay on the same ledge system as us. 6 men on a tiny ledge doesn’t seem so bad after many shots of whiskey. The bottle is passed freely, and the Koreans scare me by unclipping themselves completely from the anchor and then clipping in in a different spot. I am paranoid and keep checking my knot.
The next day, they cast off and we slowly follow. Everything is fine until they hit the first "aid" pitch. They are good free climbers, but evidently, in Korea, there is no practice cracks like this for aiding. It takes the leader 6 hours to go 140’ that will take me about 1 ½ hours later. While the Koreans are spread out, some Austrians come up behind us.
"You MUST PASS!" they admonish us.
"Yeah, okay, we’ll try." Val and I don’t feel like leapfrogging them and then perhaps entangling with them up higher. Instead, we settle into the "Alcove," a truly classic bivouac. We mix Gatorade and 7 Crown into a truly brutal wall cocktail that has us both spinning, although we are laying down.
At 3 in the morning, I hear all sorts of clattering. The Austrians are charging through. I tell them to clip into my anchor. They move through and jump the Korean’s ropes.
Chp 5 Holy Shit!
I worked for Doug Englekirk the previous summer. Doug is an exceptional climber who excels in every type of rock climbing there is. He has won national championships in the sport climbing arena, and these days, always places first in his age class (over 21). The best sport climbers are 16 year old, waif-like boys. Doug also has a prolific record on El Cap, putting up a first ascent still well respected and also speed soloing the Nose route in 24:30, at the time, the speed record. He is the epitome of no wasted movement, and clinging on tenaciously until well past muscle failure.
When he asked me in the spring if I’d do the "North America Wall" with him, I was up for the task. He had retreated from the 1/3 mark while I was working on his house and was keen on finishing the project. His partner had flipped out and decided that they were going down. Doug had contemplated soloing the rest, and I can’t remember why he didn’t, certainly he is strong enough. Perhaps they didn’t have enough ropes to split up.
It was a messy Memorial Day weekend in the Valley. We barely hooked up, passing each other on the road. I was heading out because the Valley was closed for the day, and Doug was just coming in. He yelled at me, and luckily, I was looking for his truck. Dana and Nate, his wife and boy, were with him, and were to take the truck back after we were on our way.
We hastily racked the gear and Dana and Nate went to fetch us some water. We schlepped the load and started that afternoon. It was literally ½ hour rack-up and then a quick jaunt to the base. Most of the time I pore over which pieces I will take, sometimes taking 20 minutes to decide the validity of a single piton. Not with Doug, though. We were flying.
Doug cruises some very hard pitches, free climbing and hanging off of minimal gear. He onsights A2 which is at least hard 5.11. Then it’s my lead and there are two cracks. One goes right and wide, but offers a short span of easy climbing. The left is a tiny seam with grass growing out. Doug advises right. I follow his advice until I can’t get any protection in. The crack gets larger. I swing into the grassy seam off of a #4 Camalot, placed high into the still widening crack.
It gets dark. I turn on the headlamp and work the seam. I am feeling good until a small wired stopper rips out unexpectedly.
"FALLING!" My cry pierces the night air.
I start inverting, but Doug stops the fall, getting jerked off his portaledge in the cacophony of the impact.
"Try it again," Doug encourages.
"Shit. Okay." I can’t see Doug’s reaction to my swearing. He would never exclaim any of my key phrases on such climbs, for example, "Dammit." "Oh God." "Fuck. FUCK!" "Jesus Christ!" All of them said in vain by me. Doug has more self control than that.
I ascend the rope and slow way down, scared of another sudden pitch. After frigging around for 30 minutes and seemingly only a few feet gained, I lamed out, claiming tiredness. Doug lowered me off and I slept fitfully from about midnight to 5 am where it was still my lead. After epicing on the easy top section, it was Doug’s lead again and we made up some time.
Calaveras Ledges is a wide series of granite sidewalks strewn with loose rock. By the time I follow Doug, he is unroped and dragging one of our haulbags across the ledge. I arrive at the second haulbag, and Doug motions me across. I ask for a belay. Doug looks at me queerly. The ledges are clearly large enough to solo on, but I am 800’ off the deck. I also feel nervouse because I don’t have my helmet. Doug lost it on the 3rd pitch offwidth. It came unclipped from his harness after he took it off to squeeze through a narrow slot. It made funny sounds as it clattered down the rock. For a second it didn’t register what it was until Doug confirmed that he’d dropped my brain bucket.
Doug gets tied in and baseball sized rocks fall around us, remnants of Peter Shaeffler (sic) and Matt Gray. They were climbing several hundred feet directly above us, and we scurried for cover as the missiles bounced off the ledges.
Doug grimaces/grins at my safety factor, it seems. We drag bags and get out of the way of more falling rock. The rest of the day goes fairly mildly, until my last lead, where the above mentioned Shaeffler took an 80’ plus whipper, head first, past the belay, like a bird.
That’s just what he was yelling, too, "I flew like a bird!!"
It made me really nervous, as the cracks were oozing with slime, but I managed to slowly coax my way to the bivouac that night. Around midnight, I heard thunder, and I was quaking in my bag as the gods played in the high country. No rain that night, but a misty morning, not the best nor worst sign. We tried to climb as fast as possible, and Doug was leading 5.11 in his wall shoes, onsight, instead of breaking out the nylon ladders and standing on gear. He was also French freeing 5.12+ pitches, which makes the climbing go very fast and smooth.
It started to drizzle about the time Doug took off on a traversing pitch, and I held the rope as I clawed into my waterproof shell. The jacket is a bit big on me. Doug went down and sideways and was now working through a tough section. The team we had been meeting at every belay was just above Doug, so instead of climbing the dicey section, (it was mostly covered by their haulbag anyway), Doug latched on and tied off to the belay.
I was rushing to get over to Doug when I made a grave error. Since the rope went down (instead of up) and to the left, I had to lower myself out. Unfortunately, I went on the short end of the rope. Noticing my error, and the quickening rain, I decided I would be okay if I still did this option, rather than pulling myself up, back to the belay, threading the ropes differently and then doing this sequence again.