Ten Days After, VI 5.7 A3
Notice the obvious, worn line of "The Prow" to the
left.
A climber on "The Prow" is visible just above his haulbag in the
upper third of the picture
A plan was formed, the date set and soon we were in the Valley. The next
morning we humped loads up the trail towards the base of Washington's Column.
Very near the end of the trail, Robert slipped on some loose talus and the
haulbag on his back hammered him into the ground. He put out his arms to
stop himself, only to end up wracking his right elbow. Almost immediately
he went into shock.
Our ascent was over, even before we had left the ground. We were both pretty
disappointed, but took solace in the knowledge that since we hadn't actually
started climbing yet, it couldn't be considered a "bail."
The next day I was back in Los Angeles. The fever still burned. I called
my alternate partner, Mike Esparza, whom I also met thru rec.climbing and
told him that his number came up. He was stoked, but work and family obligations
put off another attempt at the climb for three weeks.
The fever burned and faded over those weeks in a kind of sick cycle. Anticipation
alternated with apathy because it was still weeks away. But eventually the
day came and Mike showed up at my door. It was 8 am on a Saturday morning.
Mike was fresh off from pulling a 12-hour graveyard shift at his "wafer-tech"
lab job, having worked the same shift 4 days in a row. We threw my gear
into his car and blasted out of town.
We arrived in Yosemite at about 3:30 p.m., pulled into the Lodge, bought
some beer, went to the parking lot, racked gear, drove to the Ahwahnee parking
lot and began hiking. We were efficient. We were driven. We were burning
with that same fever.
We arrived at the base of the route around 6 p.m. I picked up the water
and canned food I had stashed a few weeks earlier and Mike led the first
pitch of the Prow. He hauled the bags as I jugged the line with Half Dome
glowing orange behind me.
Mike attempting the crux, Pitch 7
Now you see him, now you don't!
After a few moments he pulled back into the belay and we discussed our
options. Mike had had enough. The pitch was way over his head. I was still
a bit dazed from my Close Encounter of the Hammer Kind. I looked left and
saw a line of bolts leading to the "Prow" only 50 feet away. We
could traverse and finish on the "Prow." Leave the blown gear
hanging in the wind to fuck with the next party's mind. We could also just
get over there and bail. I was quickly seeping into a funk. Mike was out
of it, having just taken the biggest ride of his life. I was reeling from
a head injury and not relishing jumping on a lead that had spit out both
Coomer, the wall vet and Mike, the pseudogumby, without distinction.
While sitting there debating our options, I had to laugh. Only months earlier
I had briefly knocked out Kathy Dicker when I tagged her helmet with my
boot in a fall right above the belay on "Mescalito" when an expanding
block did just that.
"Payback is a bitch" I laughed. "Oh fuck it. Put me on belay."
I knew that I had to step up to the roulette wheel and take my spin. If
I had bailed or jumped over to the "Prow" it would haunt me forever.
We lost a fair amount of time swapping the lead, but sooner than I would
have liked, I was back at the fixed angle that caught Mike. The copperhead
he had used was busted mid-cable so I placed another. Next, I jumped on
an alumnihead and a rivet. It was eerie clipping a new runner to the carabiners
that also held blown ScreamAid remnants. I knew full well what a fall on
this pitch looked like, for I had just witnessed it. There was no doubt.
Fuck up and go for a ride.
From the rivet I placed a #2 Lost Arrow where Mike had put in a knifeblade.
A little more experience had taught me to recognize an expanding flake when
I saw one and put in a pin thicker than it appears to take. The pin went
in all the way to the eye, but also popped off the edge of the pod-shaped
hole that Mike had tried to copperhead. Expando for sure. Ten feet to my
left, a bodyweight Zamac was my saviour from the big ride. A second Lost
Arrow went in. My daisy chain clipped in short in case the flake expanded
and dropped the piece I was on, hopefully the pin I was nailing would catch
me. I stopped pounding the third Arrow when I felt the pin I was on shift.
Very scary. After transferring onto it, the Zamac looked close enough to
grab, but it was still 4 feet away from my outstretched arm. I would have
given half my rack for a cheater stick at that point, or all of it for not
having to place that final Lost Arrow in the expanding flake.
A brief rush of adrenaline and I was clipping the Zamac rivet. A loud sigh
of relief escaped my lips as I hung there for a second, thankful that the
roulette wheel had stopped spinning. Or had it? After the Zamac I was on,
was a second just like it. Totally bodyweight. Hardware store specials.
100% worthless in any fall.
But it wasn't the Zamac that scared me. It was a dinner plate sized flake
that was as thin as a slice of bread that had to be hooked. The flake creaked
and groaned as it flexed under my tentatively placed weight. If this thing
blew I was going to rip everything back to the rivet below the expando flake
that had caught Coomer or all the way to the pin that had stopped Mike.
From the relative safety of the Zamac, I prepared another rivet hanger and
clipped my right aider to it for speedy placement. I spent perhaps a second
on the flake using all my balancy slab climbing skills, before I was clipped
into the next bunk rivet, I was safe...well, somewhat.
The pitch continued up a thin ramp littered with Zamacs to a flake with
fixed heads. Clipping up the heads I realized that nothing on this pitch
except what was below the expanding flake that I had nailed would stop any
fall. Thankfully I didn't have to find out and clipped the anchor.
Upon arrival, I noticed that in the switchover confusion, I had forgotten
to grab Mike's cordellette and locking biners for the belay. The few runners
and free biners I had would have to make due for the belay.
The bags arrived a bit before Mike even left the belay. I figured he was
still rattled from his flight time, so I decided to be patient. It was around
6 p.m. but I was determined to get another pitch in before we quit for the
day. When Mike arrived, the switch went quickly and I was back on the sharp
end.
Pitch 8 was also rated A3 on our topo. Odd since the lying thing said absolutely
nothing about the expanding flake. Also odd because it's one tenuous knifeblade
placement above bomber gear. Many fixed heads and more Zamacs took me to
a traversing A1 horizontal crack under an overlap and then up a flaring,
JTree like crack to the belay.
The anchor took me awhile to build, not just because I was exhausted from
leading 3 pitches that day, but also because it consisted of three fixed
angles and a newish-looking 3/8" Rawl bolt. I backed it all up with
a cam and some slings tied into another fixed pin on the next pitch. Soon
the bags and Mike were up and we were settled into our groove. Vicodins
once again knocked me out and I'm sure helped Mike not to have any nightmares
about the day.
The sun once again came up with a vengence. The entire climb had been brutally
hot. We were limiting our water to 3 liters per person per day, or at least
trying to do so. I wanted some water for the descent, but it was painful
to deny such a strong urge to drink.
Our last day on the wall is a bit of a blur as we joined the "Prow"
just above the "Strange Dihedral." A mixture of six fairly easy
and generally boring pitches led us to the summit, topping out with Half
Dome on fire.
Now as I sit, back in my office, the fever has subsided. But I don't know
that it will ever break, or go away. At least not for awhile. My desire
to continue to push myself on aid lines is pretty strong. I need to go back
and finish "Native Son." The "Sea of Dreams" is also
calling my name. Who knows, maybe Baffin Island one day.
I can dream can't I?
. . . .
. . . .