We're Really Doing It

At story time on the last night, Dave told us a big one.  We had seen a rescue helicopter a couple of times fly in below us while we were climbing and it sparked Timmy’s memory, “Dave’s been pulled off the wall before.” (We later found out that the helicopter was picking up a guy who had reached up for a hand hold on the face of Half Dome and the block came loose.  It chopped his rope and he fell to his death.)

Dave told us about a time back in 2004 when a long, unexpected storm rolled in around late October.  He was on a different route and had packed a porta-ledge with a fly, but others hadn’t done the same.  The nose route has natural ledges to sleep on the whole way, so a lot of people don’t bring shelter.  There happened to be a Japanese team that were suffering through the storm day by day around the corner to the west from Dave.  I guess what happened was they couldn’t wait any longer and decided to cut their bags loose and go for the top.  They were later found frozen, hanging in their harnesses, about one pitch from the top.  We actually passed the spot, and when you see it you can’t imagine being stranded so close to finishing.  Hearing the story brings you right back to where you really are, a place that is foreign.  Like Timmy said, “you’re not really safe, until you get to the top.”

Despite the stories, you push the bad thoughts out of your head, and the excitement of finishing does wonders for your ability to push on, even if you’re tired. Three pitches left…two…one.

The last pitch is a special gift from the rock to let you know exactly where you are.  The lead climber goes up and around a very steep section, but when he fixes the ropes for the rest of the crew, they go right off the top of a massive overhang.  So, for the first time, we were forced to climb a rope, totally exposed, and twisting in the wind.  You really don’t realize how much you use the rock to stabilize yourself until you don’t have it anymore.  The only word to describe jumaring like this is awkward.  Ok, one more word, brutal.  It was those last 100 ft or so that the Wal Mart pull up bar really paid off.

While you climb closer and closer, Timmy does a good job of reminding you to look down. He loooves to yell below:

That last pitch of the nose is a bitch, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

The last night of sleep on the other hand was…laughable.  In this picture you’ll see a triangle shaped ledge.  That ledge is good for two right?

In my drawing below I’ve pointed out some of the details of the sleeping area.

Our first thought when they told us that the both of us were going to sleep in this small space is that they were joking.  On the triangle’s longest side it was good enough for one person. The other person, on the cliff side, would have their feet touching the edge.  Timmy and Dave assured us that by putting some bundles of rope at out feet that we could create a flat area and everything would be just like home. NBD.

It was Heath’s turn to sleep on the inside, but when Dave got freaked out by a big ass spider in the crack to the left, he decided to take his chances with the 2500 ft free fall to the ground instead of a bug.  The only problem is that Heath is taller than me, so it makes it even more ridiculous that he’d sleep on the shorter side.

After the worlds weirdest night of sleep Heath said he just kept his arm straight out to feel the edge to know how much space he had.  All this while slowly sliding towards our feet and scooting back up every 30 minutes.

Is it morning yet? How ’bout now?… now?

The biggest shock of the climb was the feeling of starting out each morning and re-introducing yourself to your new bizarre life.  By the end of each day you’ve desensitized again, then with eating and music you’d lull yourself into a comfort zone.  In the morning you’d get thrown back into your prison life where Dave is all over your ass to round up your shit, eat and get ready to climb.  Everything would be cool until it was your first turn of the day and it was time to get back into the anxiety zone, life on the rope.  ”Fuck man, I thought I was over this.  Why am I scared…again?” After a few days of this, along with all of the other oddities of living on a wall, you’re worn the hell out.

I like the way Timmy puts it:

Long before we even left our houses to start this thing I had a plan.  My plan was to pack rock climbing shoes and somehow convince Timmy to let me climb one pitch.  One pitch, that’s all I ask.  So when we met up with Dave and Timmy in the valley I asked if there were any parts of the nose that I could climb and I got a quick yes.  They said there were a couple 5.9 pitches on the 3rd day.  For most people that doesn’t mean anything, but to people who have at least climbed in a gym, it sounds doable.  A 5.9 is not that hard right?  Well, on the 3rd day when we woke up and I realized we were at the pitch that Dave was talking about, the one that I could climb if I wanted, I got a little sick.  I looked at Dave climbing it above me and his leg was shaking a little bit because he was in an awkward position, and that’s when I realized there was no…fucking…way I was climbing way the hell up there.  So maybe a 5.9 isn’t that hard, but when you take that climbing wall and put it 600ft higher than the top of the Empire State building, the answer becomes crystal clear.

Eating breakfast on El Cap gave me this weird feeling that I would guess prison or being stranded on a desert island would be like.  You know when you see the movies where there’s a group of people crouched in a circle around the last of their provisions and they’re waiting like dogs to get their share?  Well, it’s not like we didn’t have enough food, but if the bicycle trip taught me one thing it was that the first meal of the day you should just plow down as much food as you can because the 20 minutes of the stuffed feeling are no match against the benefit of working on a full tank.

So, Timmy would open these cans of fruit, which I hadn’t eaten since I was a kid, and it was “go time” with your dirty hands in the can.  Grab a pineapple ring, a half a peach or pear, or bagel with some peanut butter.  You’re reaching into a can and you look around to ask “anyone want any more pears?”, but inside you hope no one says yes so you can get primal and rip into the last of the fruit.  After the feeding frenzy there’d be a session of handing out clif bars and shot bloks for the days climb.  I crammed those bloks into my pockets like a shoplifter…unite and take over.

At night Timmy would break out cans of beans, tortillas, and cheese, or maybe trader joe’s boxes of asian noodles.  He’d sit there and be the nightly chef, divvying out burritos until you refused the last helping.  I never thought I’d have so much food that I’d be turning down thirds or fourths, but at the end of the day, meal time was down time, and you’d get a chance to bullshit, eat, and listen to some music.

Ok, after that sweet and sensitive post, lets talk about what everybody asks me about. Shit…and piss. It’s not in my nature to talk about this kind of stuff, ask my wife or Heath. I’m a pretty private person about my bathroom habits, but this climbing thing forces you to change your ways. Of course I already blessed you with Timmy’s amazing “vertical toilet” analogy, but it doesn’t really get across what it’s like. He may say that you pee on the people below you, but the part he leaves out is that in order not to pee on the ledge you’re sleeping on, you have to stand on the edge of a massive cliff. Even though you’re clipped in, your pedestrian brain doesn’t compute standing so close to the vertigo zone.

As for number two, it gets a little more complicated. The whole way driving up to Yosemite Heath was laughing at me because he knows my body shuts down in foreign environments. If I’m somewhere new, my body just says “it’s cool, we’ll wait ’til we get home.” So when we got to climbing and I was ready to go on the first day, Timmy put the data together and concluded that “fear is a great suppository.”

Timmy is pretty understanding when it comes to people adjusting to life off of the ground, so when it’s your turn he gets you all ready. He gets out “the kit”, he preps a bag for you, rolls it into a nice little chefs hat, and clips you in with some room to spare. The only problem is, if you’re new to this, you set you bag down on the ledge to pull your pants down and forget about the wind.

There goes your precious bag. Swirling in the updraft like the plastic bag in American Beauty.

You could be watching your millionth sunset over the ocean, or flying over a tropical Island, but every once in a while everyone gets a chance to be absolutely blown over by the scene in front of them, it’s one of the greatest feelings in the world. El Cap pretty much guarantees you an opportunity to go to that place.

Timmy says it well:

Each night there was a pretty consistent routine. Get the ropes all good, find a comfortable place to sit down and clip in, eat some food that Timmy would put together , and then just chill. We brought this little speaker too, so we would play some music during dinner and the down time. I’m not sure what night it was, but there was a gap in the conversation and things went silent. Nobody had their headlamp on and there was this perfect moment of quiet except for the Pink Floyd… Heath noticed it, I noticed it. We became fully aware that we were sitting thousands of feet off the ground in the pitch black listening to music. It was unbelievable. You’d look down into the valley below and watch the traffic drive in from the tunnel. The constant stream of headlights in the black looked like lava flowing down a mountain.

When you’re a kid you might build a fort in your living room from sheets and broom sticks, or maybe camp in your back yard. It was usually rooted in that feeling of want, wanting to feel like you’re somewhere different, your own world where you’re doing something unique. Well, after I’d tied my shoes, long sleeve shirt, and water bottle into my rope, I’d lay back, pull my sleeping bag over me and look up. I’d look around and think “I can’t believe I’m fucking here man. I can’t believe if you looked from the valley that we’d be less than a speck on the wall and this is where I’m sleeping. I can’t believe I have to tie my shoes in because there’s no guarantee they’d be there in the morning if I didn’t. I can’t believe I’m going to bed in a rock climbing harness a half mile off the ground”

I think that Heath and I both assumed that at the end of each day we’d just be zombied out, totally drained, and just wanting to sleep. Not the case really. I think the biggest surprise after day one was that it wasn’t as hard as expected. Granted, we’re not the guys doing the lead climbing, but for what we were doing, it didn’t wreck you. One of the things that Timmy stressed was that if we wanted to make it we had no choice but to trust the gear. If you didn’t, you were going to be screwed.

Here’s Timmy telling us about someone he took up in the past:

If I had just walked up to the edge of this 3,000 foot face I would have lost my stomach, but starting from the ground makes things so much different, it takes the shock out of it. After only a few minutes you get high enough off of the ground to say “Alright, at this height I’d die if I fell. So from here on out, the consequences are all the same, I’m good with this.” It’s kind of like riding a motorcycle on the freeway for the first time. It’s such sensory overload to the part of your brain that fears death, but once you desensitize it for a while, it goes numb so you can move on. On the bike you just picture your body ragdolling down the road a few hundred times and then you’re good, on the rock it’s more of a tumbling and crunching thing. To be honest, my biggest fear was that I’d freeze up one day and not want to move, because I don’t think you know you’re one of those people until it happens. I’ve seen it before, they just go into this other mental state and nothing you say can snap them out of their fear coma. So, huge relief to find out I’m not that guy.

The first day sets the stage for really how much repetitive work you’ll be doing over the next several days. Timmy wasn’t kidding, you just jumar up, and then haul, jumar up, and then haul. The hauling is really hard work and it doesn’t take long for it to set in that you’re basically going to climb this rock twice. Once climbing to the anchor and another when you’re lowered down to haul and you climb back up again. You do this a bunch of times and the next thing you know the sun is going down and you finally get to just sit and rest.

Highlights of the day:

-Another guy climbing up 200ft to our ledge at night to offer the worlds biggest joint to us. Heath and I decided to abstain from the pot while we lived roped in.

-Heath and I whispering in disbelief that Dave wasn’t clipped into the rock, but was just connected by what seemed like a really small and simple knot. “God that looks so sketchy.” Then he turned around and told us he was going to lower us down to the sleeping ledge on that same knot. “Dude… are you joking?”

-Timmy walking around on the ledge at night and saying “Heath, you gotta stop bumping me man, I’m free solo” (no harness, no rope, no nothing)

-Last but not least, silverfish bugs crawling all over my arms and face as I tried to sleep for the very first time on a wall in a harness. Eventually I just turned my headlamp on and had a killing spree with my finger and did my best to reduce the local silverfish population.

Good night El Cap. I hope I don’t roll off this cliff in my sleep.

Day one: Up early, which wasn’t a problem for either of us for the few days prior to the start, we were always awake and waiting for the sun to rise. Awake, with that feeling you used to have when you were a kid and your mom dropped you off at the first day of little league. Nervous, a little cold, and wondering if you were at the wrong field.

We got my sister Julie packed up and off to Camp 4 where she’d wait in line and see if she could get a spot in the climber camp. With Dave’s van all packed we headed out to go bang on some tents and see if we could get one more helmet on loan. It only took a few minutes and then it was finally time for the moment of truth, get the haul bags on our backs and make our way to the base of the Triple Direct route, and start jugging.

We got our first taste of the change in mood when the bags were out and being sorted to haul at the base. You don’t really realize it, but Timmy’s demeanor kind of woos you and makes you comfortable. So, when he gets into business mode and Dave starts cracking down, you realize it’s time to get serious.

Sorting clothing. Pack a separate stuff sack with the food we’ll need for lunch. What do we need available on short notice? Where’s the sunscreen? How am I going to carry all of this photo gear on my harness? Stuff your pockets with bars and shot bloks. Am I hot? Am I cold? What’s the temp going to be like up there? Who’s going first? Are these ropes new? They look kind of old.

Dave was the lead climber for the first day, and after he quickly went up the first pitch, our lines were fixed and it was time to learn how to jug. Right jumar on. Right aider, or “etrier”, on. Left jug on. Left aider on. Carabiner’s are all locked? And just like that, Heath was off. As I look back at the video of us learning to jumar up the rope, it’s kind of funny how awkward we look. It’s a pretty basic concept that you get your head around in a short amount of time, so watching us jerk all over the place is a tad embarrassing.

Once you get going you’re like “ah, man, this is gonna be easy.” Jugging IS easy, when the rock is still at a nice angle, but when it over hangs it’s pull up central, a whole other story.

In order to give you the clearest picture of how a team of four go up El Cap, I think I’ve got to go over a few terms and some basic principles. We, just like you, hadn’t a clue how to climb as a team, especially a team with two additional haul bags disguised as human beings in flannels.

The basic order is that you have one lead climber and one person who climbs second and cleans the route of the protection that the lead climber placed. So if Timmy started, he would climb up a route, anywhere from 60-120ft and place small devices in the cracks every 10ft or so that would protect him if he fell. When he’d get to a belay station (two bolts drilled into the granite) he would clip in and pull up a tag line(smaller rope) that had the ends of three ropes. Two ropes for Heath and I, and one rope for hauling the bags. When those were tied into the bolts you’d hear “line fixed!” and then it was safe for Heath and I to go up. The last climber would then jumar up the rope and clean the pitch. This is where the real work came in, hauling the bags. When Heath and I neared the top of the rope, we’d get off our lines and get onto the haul line to use our body weight to pull the haul bags up through a pully. Make sense? It’s kind of a cluster fuck unless you’re there looking at it. But basically, Timmy goes up, then we go up, then we haul. Over and over and over again.

People ask us if we climbed at all. The honest and not so awesome answer is no. Turns out, if you’re not a rock climber, your ass is not coming near leading a pitch on El Cap. All the risk is placed on the lead climber and there was about a 0% percent chance of us putting that weight on our shoulders. So how do you ascend a rope? Well basically you have two of these things called jumars, or jugs:

They each clip into the rope and allow you to slide up and then they catch when you pull yourself up on them. Hanging off the bottom of each one is an aider:

Once you get the rhythm, you basically walk up the rope by alternating your hands and your feet. I know, all this info is kind of boring, but without having a basic idea of how it works, it ends up just seeming like greek.