I’m 30 feet above my last piece of gear. Maybe 35? It’s hard to tell. Falling is no longer an option, that’s for sure. I’ve set two small cams above an overlap, an area of rock where wind and rain and freeze/thaw cycles have, over the course of millions of years, opened a little gap that will accept the pieces of spring-loaded metal that I carry on my harness. The gear that should, pray to God, save me in the event that my first and most critical form of protection – my climbing prowess – fails, and keep me from getting seriously injured or killed.
Joey is hanging from the anchor that I built, another 25 feet below that. He’s clipped to a 3-point assembly of the same temporary, removable protection that we’ve wiggled into a crack on the face we are attempting to climb. I say attempting, because we’re only 2/3 of the way up, and this thing isn’t over until we top out and get back to the ground, where we will open beers and celebrate another fine day in the mountains. Up until recently, Joey absolutely hated hanging from gear anchors, but he is finally starting to trust them. With hundreds of pitches of climbing under our collective belts, we will happily suspend ourselves from these small pieces of metal, as if they were rigging installed by God himself. It’s strange how this idea of God keeps popping up in my head, even though I am a decided atheist.
Later, Joey will tell me that he’s never been this gripped in his life. Maybe when we were high on Fairview Dome, a few years ago. He’s eyeing the anchor and the scant pro above, and his mind races as he ponders the thought of me peeling off the face and taking an enormous whipper. Falling some 60-70 feet, he imagines that I go sailing past him, ripping out the pieces of protection and fully weighting the only thing that I am attached to – the harness around his body – and perhaps even ripping out the anchor itself, leading to the nightmarish scenario of a complete belay anchor failure – the worst possible catastrophe that can befall a team of climbers. This would, of course, lead to a fatal tumble down the face of Stately Pleasure Dome, just above Tenaya Lake in Tuolumne Meadows, the high country of Yosemite National Park.
What an ironic name. Stately Pleasure Dome. I am feeling rather un-stately at the moment, and very little sense of pleasure. I am wondering why the fuck we keep coming back to this place, and doing this to ourselves. What kind of masochists are we?
My hands are getting sweaty, and I dab them in my chalk bag. Palmar hyperhidrosis, the sympathetic response as my central nervous system reacts to emotional distress. As you read this, you might be experiencing the same effect, except that the worst outcome is that your phone slips out of your hand and the screen shatters as it hits the ground. No broken bones. In my case, the sweat on my hands is acting like a lubricant, decreasing the coefficient of friction between my fingers and the rock. On slab, that friction is really the only thing that is keeping me from slipping off; it’s not like I am actually holding onto anything. This isn’t the climbing gym, where, if you get scared, you can just reach up and grab a huge jug. I’m standing on a small, rounded nub of rock – another overlap that hasn’t quite opened up and offers no options for protection. My fingernails, which are already bleeding because I’ve bashed them into the granite repeatedly over the last few days, don’t hurt at all. Or, I should say, I am completely unaware, at the moment, of the fact that they hurt terribly, because I have more pressing issues at hand.
Eight feet above me and up a bit to my left is a lovely, sharply-fractured piece of rock that juts out from the smooth face of the dome we are attempting to ascend. Below this feature is a deep crack about 2″ inches in width. The size of crack that will accept a bomber gold Camalot, the kind of placement you can hang a truck from. If I can just find a way to get within reach of that crack, this nightmare will be over. Unfortunately, I don’t see any obvious way to reach the feature. Or, I should say, I don’t see any satisfactorily easy way to get there, and I’m going to have to make some real climbing moves if I’m going to dig myself out of this situation. I’ve run out of options. I have to sack up and climb. Which is why we are here, right?
“Dude!” I yell down to Joey. “This is so fucked!” If I can set a piece in the crack and clip my rope, all the horrible, dramatic, life-altering possibilities of this messed up situation that we’ve knowingly thrown ourselves into will be over and I’ll be safe. At worst, if I slip and fall with that piece in place, a bit of slack and rope stretch might lead to a short tumble and scrapes, like falling off a bike on the sidewalk. But until I set and clip that piece, a fall here would be like jumping out of a speeding car on the freeway. I really, really don’t want to let that happen. And this is the draw of climbing, I suppose. You throw yourself into scary situations that millions of years of evolution have conspired to help you avoid, and you climb your way out of them. Ironically, that same evolution has not entirely erased the fact that, at one point in the not-too-distant past, our ancestors were literally living in trees. We were, at some level, designed to do this.
But that is the kind of philosophical bullshit that is fun to write about, while sitting in the comfort of my home, waxing poetic about the beauty of climbing and our motivations. You don’t see monkeys climbing up featureless slabs of rock, because monkeys aren’t stupid. We humans, well, I digress.
I don’t want to be too dramatic. After all, I am standing on a rounded bump of rock that is at least 2″ wide, so it’s not like I’m going to fall. I could probably stand here for 2 hours, if I really wanted to. I could do this 1,000 times and not slip off, even once. I’ve been climbing in the gym a couple of times a week and outside many times a year for how long now? Have I ever fallen off moves like this? Nope. Squash those feelings of doubt and continue moving, and get yourself safe, you idiot. At the very least, think about your partner. Get into that crack and build a belay, because Joey looks like he is about to throw up and I bet his toes hurt like hell.
I stretch my left foot out and place my toe on a rounded nubbin of granite the size of a pencil eraser. My right hand is gripping a crystal of rock that is even smaller. Carefully, I shift my weight from my right foot, placed firmly on the seemingly huge 2″ ledge, and onto the nubbin. I want to test it, to make damn sure it doesn’t break off when I weight it completely. It’s good. I place my left hand on the rock above, the tips of my fingers digging into tiny imperfections in the surface, that will help me keep my balance. Then I commit fully, carefully lifting my right foot up and smearing my toe against the rock, and in a single move, as smoothly as I can, I let go with my right hand as I reach out with my left, for the edge of the broken ledge that is just beyond my reach. For a split second, nearly all my weight is committed to that rounded nubbin, 600 feet off the ground. If my foot pops, I will fall some 70+ feet.
I made it, of course. I was shaking with relief as I placed a cam, and then another, and yelled down to Joey that I needed a minute to get my head straight. My pants felt dry – I don’t appear to have shit myself. I had never been so gripped in my life, even though the moves I had just pulled off were trivially easy. The consequences of a fall had left my mind in a state of near-panic. I’ve climbed runout terrain before, but it must have been the fact that there were ledges to stop and rest that made this particular climb so difficult. So mentally draining. On Zee Tree last year, I was nearly as runout and a fall would have led to similar consequences, but that involved climbing above bolts and there was no option to stop and think. I had to keep moving. Here, I arrived at each overlap and was able to shake out and chalk my hands, look down at Joey, and contemplate the strength (or lack thereof) of the gear below, and then forced to proceed.
Soon after, we topped out South Crack and stood together at the top of Stately Pleasure Dome. This is an important point; all of this, we experienced together, as a team. There isn’t anything quite like climbing in that regard.
I could see the quick-talking Austrian coming up the route just north of us. He appeared to be topping out Great White Book. My green #6 Camalot hung from his harness, and I needed to get that piece back, I reminded myself. I had asked him to scratch it up for me, because I dislike offwidth climbs and the piece was essentially brand new. Maybe I should just let him keep it, and I can use that as an excuse to never climb an offwidth again.
Hold up. Before I continue this trip report, we need to rewind a bit. After all, this trip had been a year in the making. Twelve months ago, while climbing in Tuolumne, we contemplated the potential goal of climbing the 3rd Pillar of Dana, one of the harder Sierra classics. A few things had to happen first, in order to climb the route (safely). We had to get stronger on finger cracks, on hard multi-pitch climbing, and become more proficient placing thin gear. There is a saying in this sport – you push the climbing or the protection, but never both at the same time. On Dana, we would probably be doing both, so the idea was to get stronger and gain experience climbing above small pro, so that we would be comfortable and enjoy ourselves. Or, more likely, scared out of our minds and miserable, but at least survive and share beers at the end of the day.
A year ago, Joey and I were returning from our failed attempt at traversing Matthes Crest. We had bailed on the route for a number of reasons. We only had one rope (and had read that two were required for the standard descent). We had our heavy packs with us and had neglected to stash them at the base. I was suffering from altitude sickness and a bad headache. His knee felt weird. But those were all excuses for the real reason we didn’t complete the climb – we were scared and we weren’t having fun. Neither of us are particularly bold climbers, and on any given day we have been known to get a case of the willies and call a climb off. As a result, there are times when we don’t get stuff done, which is always a mix of relief and regret, since we get so few climbing days together. In this case, we had hiked all the way out to the Crest and started up the route, only to call it off. We did some soul searching after that trip, and decided that we wouldn’t place unnecessary pressure on ourselves in the future. We would climb for fun, and just enjoy ourselves. Feelings of disappointment and failure were replaced with contentment and hope, which was really nice. We came to this conclusion while shooting pool and eating hot wings in Redmond, just outside of Smith Rock. In a moment of levity, I remember asking Joey, “Why don’t we just hang out and do stuff like this together, like normal friends?”
Let’s face it, because that shit is boring. I’m no hardman but I’ve got an adventurous spirit, and I rarely feel as alive as I do when hanging from the face of a hard rock climb. There’s nothing else in life like it.
During last year’s hike back from Matthes Crest, Joey tweaked his knee. That is probably an understatement; he yelled out and we had to stop and rest. His knee had locked up, and he couldn’t bend it. Scans would later reveal that he had a “bucket handle tear” and a torn meniscus, which would later require arthroscopic surgery to fix. So, Matthes didn’t go exactly as planned. But, we gained some familiarity with the route and would return to tick it, a year later.
A few months later, we made an epic trip to Joshua Tree, where we each led a bunch of hard (for us) routes. In preparation for a potential run at Mt. Dana, I had been practicing finger crack technique at the gym. Hand jams used to feel difficult, but once I got the technique down, jamming felt great. Finger size cracks, it seems, hurt like hell no matter how good your technique might be. Squeezing and torquing your fingers into small cracks is a strange sort of self-imposed torture, but there is a sense of satisfaction as what begins as a terrible struggle turns into balanced, sequential movement. A year later, and my knuckles have noticeably grown in size and my fingers look like I must feed baby alligators for a living. I’ve always got cuts and scratches on the backs of my hands, and the arthritic pain on mornings after a training day can be intense. Getting old is fun.
In the mean time, Joey had surgery on his knee and dedicated months to rehab and physical therapy. This was the third time he’s injured himself while climbing together – once at Holcomb Valley, where he sublexed his shoulder mid-route on a hard climb (yet somehow popped it back in and got the redpoint) and then an ankle fracture at the gym, when he flew off a dyno from a weird angle. Hopefully, this knee thing marks the end of his injuries, at least for a few years.
Last spring, we were both healthy again, and on a trip to Joshua Tree we ticked Taxman (10a), Exorcist (10a), and Ball Bearing (10a), among others. Later that month, on a short trip to Bend, we climbed Cruel Sister (10a) and Blood Clot (10b), and a bunch of other tough routes, as we pushed the limits of our ability on gear. We took some falls and pushed ourselves, and we practiced setting thin gear; all of which would be required on Dana. And then a few weeks ago, I made another trip to Bend, where we climbed the Lower Gorge and drove to Washington, where we climbed Prusik Peak car-to-car in 16 hours. We bivied in the back of Joey’s truck and started up the trail at 4 am, summitting many hours later, and made it back in time for a pair of Mr. Bacon pizzas at Blewett Brewing. That was a long day (over 20 miles of hiking, 12,000 feet of elevation gain/loss, and 6 pitches of climbing), and prepared us well for Tuolumne.
While Joey was rehabbing his knee, I lost a bunch of weight by doing multi-day water fasts. I dropped nearly 20 pounds, which helped my climbing enormously. By mid-summer, we were both in good shape and feeling healthy and strong. I couldn’t remember the last time we were both in such good shape at the same time, with Joey’s recurrent injuries, and my love for pizza and french fries.
So, when we arrived in Tuolumne this year, we felt ready to pursue some hard objectives. Knowing that Dana was at the top of the list, we decided to climb a shorter route of similar difficulty on our first day. We started up the Direct NW Face of Lembert Dome (5.10 b/c) which involved some moderate climbing interspersed with harder, but short cruxes. Keeping with tradition, we rock-paper-scissored for the first pitch, which gave Joey the sustained climbing, and left me with the toughest sections of fingers. He climbed well, onsighting his pitches. Higher up the route, I tackled the crux finger crack and took a short fall, which sobered me up a bit. I started to have doubts about Dana.
The next day, we climbed South Crack, the horror story I recounted above. This route was a good reminder that even the most moderate climbing in Tuolumne should never be taken lightly, and it is entirely possible to scare oneself silly on an easy climb.
We ate well, like we always do. Our annual Tuolumne trip has turned into a cooking extravaganza. The nights would drop below freezing and we boiled some hot miso soup for the mornings, using my Ivan Ramen chicken broth and some prepared bonito dashi as a base. I brought the pizza oven and we made Mr. Bacon knock-offs, using my homemade pancetta, fresh mozzarella, and caramelized onions. Joey fired up some of his cheesy bread, which is always delicious. We made camp chili and cornbread, a recent addition to the repertoire.
Our phone alarms started beeping at 4 am on Friday morning. It was time for Dana. Still dark and freezing outside, it was hard to pull ourselves out from the array of blankets inside the cozy tent. We lay there for a few minutes, neither one of us prepared to make the call. Finally, Joey blurted out, “Let’s do it.” The decision had been made.
We climbed out of the tent, warmed our soup, and broke open some chemical hand warmers for our jacket pockets. We sipped some of Joey’s cold-brew coffee, and drove to the start of the approach at Tioga Lake, just a few miles away. I was feeling very antsy, and Joey knew it, but we didn’t talk during the drive. We spent some time purging camp chili in the freezing-ass cold pit toilets, and it was there that I came to the obvious conclusion that we weren’t ready for Dana. We were close, and would probably be fine, but the idea of tackling a backcountry route of that length and difficulty, with very real fall potential, was too daunting. I was certain that it wouldn’t even be enjoyable – it would be the sort of Type II fun that we would look back on fondly, but feel miserable during. And while sitting on that freezing toilet, thinking about my family and the grim possibilities of being forced to self-rescue should one of us bust an ankle in a fall, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth it. I left the toilet and told Joey, “Sorry man, but I’m not up for this.” He nodded, and I am certain he felt the same inside. After last year’s trip, we agreed that we would climb for fun and avoid putting unnecessary pressure on ourselves. For better or for worse.
Cancelling our day on the Third Pillar turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because we were up and ready to climb, it was still early, and the thought of bagging an easier route suddenly felt fun and exciting. We drove over to Daff Dome and hiked out to the start of West Crack. What a day! Joey proclaimed that it might have been his favorite multi-pitch route ever, and I had to agree. 4 pitches of pure finger jamming bliss, with an awkward roof crux thrown in for fun. We moved in good time and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, topping out the dome early in the day and treated to 360 degree views of Tuolumne. Joey confided that he had no regrets about Dana, and that we made the right choice. There’s always next year.
By the time Saturday rolled around, we had already climbed a ton and felt like we’d accomplished a lot. Our final objective would be a traverse of Matthes Crest, another one of the all-time Sierra classics. The very same climb that we bailed on the year before, but this time, it didn’t feel nearly as intimidating. The Crest is a long day; it begins with a 6 mile hike to reach the base of the route, and then 3 pitches of easy climbing to access the ridge line itself. We brought two smaller cords and used twin rope technique (which neither of us had ever done), and it went pretty smoothly. We also simul-climbed, which meant that we were able to move faster, foregoing the safety of a conventional belay (but still keeping a few pieces of protection between us at all times, lest someone should fall). There’s a joke about a ridge traverse like Matthes Crest – if one member of the team should fall, the other should throw themselves off the other side. Thankfully, we didn’t have to resort to such antics.
Much of the traverse involves easy, but exposed scrambling along the top of the ridge. I’ve seen it referred to as a “sidewalk in the sky” and that description is mostly accurate. It’s easy, secure climbing but it would scare the hell out of anyone with a fear of heights, since the ridge drops away for hundreds of feet on either side. After a couple of hours of moving along this terrain, and having to deal with the cluster of ropes, we decided we had satisfied ourselves and we rapped off the west side. This involved five or six rappels using bail anchors like small trees (bushes) and blocks of rock. It wasn’t fun, it was laborious, and we nearly got our ropes stuck on one of the pulls, which was unnerving. But, it was good practice because bailing off a climb is always a real possibility in the mountains, and doing such a long escape in good weather (with plenty of daylight) wasn’t too challenging. It’s not uncommon to be forced into such a situation, whether it’s darkness, or an injury, or a thunderstorm that forces you to run for lower ground. Practicing this in perfect conditions wasn’t a bad idea, and meant that we could get back to our campsite before it got dark. We had more pizza waiting.
We left the next morning, stopping at the Whoa Nellie in Lee Vining for a couple of their delicious breakfast burritos. Whether that was a smart decision, with so many hours of driving ahead of us, I can’t say for sure. Another late-summer trip in the bag, and I can’t stop thinking about next year.