I've been reflecting alot on my 96 climb of the Triple direct route on El Capitan. When I finish this, I'm going to submit it to Climbing magazine. Please feel free to critque, suggest changes, or just tell me to stop posting this here.
With all this talk of mod trouble and Middle East conflict, I say its time for some new blood.
If enough interest is shown,, I will contiue the story at the start of the climb. Feel free to post your own epic, life and death experiences here and how they affected your outlook on life.
It's 4 A.M., I'm cold and my back hurts. I'm awakened by a black bear thrashing around in the trees forty feet in front of me. fuck it , I think and look up at the moon bathed exspanse of El Capitan.
Its quiet now, but when I'd sat down in my folding camping chair I had been listening to the nervous shouts of the climbers on the face 500 feet before me, setting up camp, yelling instructions to each other.
I realize two things; one is I have an immediate need to evacuate my bowls, and I am so drunk I am going to vomit.
After these two unpleasantries I stumbled to the back of my truck and slept the sleep of the dead. As I faded, I looked again at The Wall of Early Morning Light ( the name of the corner of El Capitan that juts out closest to the road just right of the famous Nose. ) and saw the flash of a headlamp of a climber high on the face. He was still moving, soloing, climbing alone through the night. He was splashed in moonlight and his shadow marked a steady climb upwards. I thought of my own journey and slipped into a dream chased by the voices of generations of climbers who had gone before me, shouting anxiously to each other high above.
I dreamed Steve and I were at the showers after our descent. We had rappelled and down climbed 3500 vertical feet in four hours, slinging our rappel ropes over trees, dodging loose blocks as they tumbled down the cliff face of the drainage gully leading us back to camp. When we finally got back to the Valley floor tourist snapped pictures of our haggard bodies and blackened fingers. I carried the back pack, weighted with extra rope and rain gear, Steve carried the haul bag which all climbers affectionately refer to as " The Pig ", each was about eighty pounds and after 5 nights on the face felt like the weight of the Universe. I got to the truck first; I threw my pack on the ground, kicked and said " never again! ".
Another carload of climbers was parked across the road, and knew what I had been through by the look of appreciation of their face. One of them said;
"Yes you will."
...in my deam...
The showers are closed. This was realistic, as they were when we got there. In my dream I drove home and went back to work, my stinking flesh and dead skinned hands marking me as one who had been through hell. I wore the same clothes for the five days we spent climbing; my socks made a ripping sound when I peeled them off and I threw everything away, but in my dream I showed up to work in my climbing outfit. I was a Leper Messiah. People looked at me and saw the hell in my eyes, the veins on my arms and feared me. My animal smell made people keep their distance.
In the morning I thought about the shower after the climb. 45 minutes of scalding hot blissfullness with a view of Yosemite Falls through the shower window.
We got to the line for the showers. I began to cry when I saw the closed sign. It was that bad.
" What happened to you guys?" a English sounding camper asked.
"We just came off El Capitan." I croaked. My throat was still raw from all the shouting and thirst.
Suddenly a crowd of twenty people crowded around us, shower high-drama time for them all to talk about when they departed for home.
"How long did it take?" said one voice.
"Four nights on the wall, one on the summit." Steve replied.
"I heard it only takes four hours." said another.
"I'm only mortal." I replied.
Steve, as usual looked sullen and tense. He was a physics major, and other than mono pole magnetics and fission, he was only interested in rock climbing and Asian girls.
He was bristeling at the attention and not enjoying it. I was a musician, used to hangers on and groupies. The photos tourist took and the press conference nature of this sorid display stroked my ego.
The Englishmans wife asked a question and Steve looked like he was about to snap.
" Was it beautiful? Was there poetry?"
Steve had the glaring eyes of a machine gunner.
"There wasn't no Goddamned poetry up there."
She looked at me. I felt like a animal specimen in a zoo on display. I looked at Steve. He reminded me of Conan the barbarian.
"Sure there was," I said " share with them Steve." He never forgave me for that. I had asked him to share in a secret treasure. It was like I'd copied the map to the Lost City of Gold and passed it out to strangers in a bar.
" I aint got nothing to say." he growled, and luckily for me, the showers opened just then.
As I waited in line for my turn. I began to think of our first day.
Steve had followed me on the first pitch which was 150' feet and sweltering in the sun. He had been trying to climbing with the 80 pound backpack. Problem was, he was from Seattle and wasn't used to the California sunshine.
He got to the belay, gasping like a fish out of water. He coughed twice and puked on his shoes.
"Fuck..." he moaned.
I wasn't stressed, we were two days ahead of shedule and because of the recent rains we had the route to ourselves.
Or so we thought...
To be conitued
Looking up at first pitch
Last edited by ATG (2006-08-27 19:04:24)