Victory in Retreat

Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney

The Big Stone, Yosemite National Park

It’s quiet, and considering the company I’m in, that’s an indication that something is seriously wrong. Jason doesn’t do quiet. He’s a former army ranger, trained by the United States government to persevere through immense hardship. The methods Jason regularly deploys to see himself through suffering include singing, talking, laughing loudly, and cursing; they definitely do not include being silent.

I’m a quiet guy by comparison, and when things get hard, or the suffering starts to overwhelm my resolve, I retreat into silence. It’s very much at odds with how Jason does things, but our partnership works. He talks and I retreat into a dark cave in the back of my head. This, however, is disconcerting. I can’t handle it when he gets quiet.

He’s six feet above me on a bright red portaledge, one of the bigger deals we scored in the lead up to an attempt to climb El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. I’m on another portaledge below, and the only sound is the faint jingling of climbing gear from above as Lee, the third of our foursome, aid climbs up another rivet ladder. We’re 5 pitches up a route called Zodiac, one of the most popular routes on the southeast face of El Capitan. For those unfamiliar with the routes on the southeast face of the Big Stone, this section of El Capitan contains some of the steepest, most consistently overhung big wall routes in the Valley. Tangerine Trip, the route we intended to climb, is overhung for 15 out of its 18 pitches.

Dylan, our fourth climber, is next to me on our portaledge, possibly asleep. I’m staring at the back of Jason’s red helmet, wondering if his silence is evidence that he feels the way I do. I’m not having fun, I miss my wife and daughter, and nothing at all has gone our way since rolling into Yosemite Valley the day before. Silently, I’m wondering if I should say the “b” word.

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Two days ago we left Denver, drove through Grand Junction and all the way to the west side of Las Vegas. Good progress, we called it. We wanted to get to the Valley as soon as possible, to give ourselves every chance to climb El Cap. We slept on the ground in what we thought was public land, but when the sun came up, it appeared we had landed in some sort of mining operation. After only a few hours of fitful sleep due to the odorous nature of where our tent was located, we were back on the road. We arrived in the park ahead of schedule, but sat in construction traffic for hours, and were then greeted with smoke from a controlled burn when we reached the Valley floor. We had a choice to make.

“I think we have time to get up there and put one or two pitches up,” I said, eyes focused on the immense ocean of granite that is El Capitan. My theory being rooted in not wanting to spend a night in the backpackers’ campground. A much better plan would be to spend the afternoon shuttling our gear up the talus field to the base of our route, and bivouac there for the night. That, however, is deemed illegal by the National Park Service, and camping on the walls of Yosemite is only allowed 100 or more feet above the ground.

“The first pitch is more than 100 feet. Let’s go for it,” I said, further entrenching myself in an opinion that would contribute to our impending failure. Everyone agreed.

We found parking, picked up our climbing permit, and began packing haul bags, or “pigs.” Jason was in charge of packing the beer pig - a necessity of big wall climbing according to some members of our party. The rest of us worked on climbing gear and the food bag. Our haste to get on the wall before dark clouded our judgement, and food was haphazardly thrown into dry bags that were then placed into pigs. In our self-inflicted hastened state, we ended up packing more than double the food we needed, and certainly more beer than was required.

We mistakenly assumed that the hike to the base of our climb would pale in comparison to the death slabs, the aptly named hike to the base of Half Dome we had undertaken three years prior. Fifteen minutes later, laden with over-stuffed pigs and still hours away from the wall, our moods began to sour. I retreated into that dark, silent place in my head, and Jason talked.

We arrived at the base of El Cap around 7 p.m., but couldn’t count our losses and bivouac for the night. We had to start climbing, or run afoul of the Yosemite legal system. There was already a party on Tangerine Trip, so we called yet another audible. The only party on Zodiac was at least 3 days ahead of us, so we turned our sights on a route that none of us had studied leading up to the trip; we had assumed it would be too busy. I tied in, took the rack and cast off while the others tidied up haul bags and gear.

Night fell, and three-quarters of the way up the first pitch, I turned on my headlamp. By the time I reached the first pitch anchor, smoke began filling my nostrils and an orange glow loomed behind me. The controlled burn on the valley floor was less controlled than intended, and several giant pine trees glowed with orange flame. Setting up camp on a wall is a difficult endeavor. Doing so under the cloud of wood smoke is more so. We didn’t lay our heads down until well after midnight - exhausted, and not likely to sleep with whatever night we had left.

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“How are you doing, Jason?” I asked as I began fixing dinner on the portaledge. His silent reply added to the collection of evidence that this big wall attempt was not going to succeed. I answered for him. “Because I’m not having any fun, and I miss my family.” That statement seemed to break the damn, and bottled up thoughts from both Jason and Dylan rushed out. Still, nobody said the “b” word.

There’s a sense of duty among partners for an objective like El Capitan. This is rooted in the knowledge that in order to achieve something like summitting a route on one of the biggest walls in the world, you’re going to have to pay the toll. Large parts of climbing a big wall are not fun - hauling loads, getting dripped on by what you hope is water from unseen seams in the rock above, and constantly managing your fear all wear down resolve. The commitment of you and your partners to weather these storms can make or break a climb.

Perched on the side of El Cap, there’s plenty to remind us why we expend all this time, effort and money to put ourselves in these compromising positions. Watching peregrine falcons rocket towards the earth, listening to cave swifts converse in the chasm behind some giant piece of granite, laughing with your friends at the silliness of the endeavor and watching the way the sun affects the personality of a place over time builds a vast sense of awe for a place like Yosemite.

Great adventure partners loudly appreciate the beautiful, and quietly acknowledge the ugly. They know when to suck it up and keep pressing for the objective. They know when to acknowledge that they’re outmatched, whether physically or emotionally, and retreat for the good of the team. They know when to say, “bail.”

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There’s no doubt in my mind that we could have climbed Zodiac to the top of El Capitan. The team had all the skills necessary. What Jason and I didn’t have this time was the mental strength. This was our first big objective since becoming fathers, and neither one of us expected or planned for the immense gaping hole in our chests that would come with being away from our kids. Had we pressed on, I’m sure the hole in my chest would have begun to fill with bitterness and frustration. No objective is worth introducing those emotions into a friendship.

Bailing five pitches up Zodiac may seem to some like an abject failure, but I didn’t see it this way. In addition to learning from the experience, having some fun along the way, and making it home to our families, we further stoked the fire in our bellies to stand on top of the Big Stone. I consider that a successful trip to The Valley by any measure. El Capitan isn’t going anywhere, and I’m going to climb it with three of my greatest friends.

Half Dome

Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney

The sun sets on Half Dome, Yosemite National Park.

“I’ll send you the pro carabiner.” Jason hollers up from Big Sandy Ledge. I hear a faint scoff from Lee; he knows as well as I do that nothing on this carabiner Jason is sending me is remotely close to protection.

Jason’s tone suggests the ultimate level of sarcasm, and yet, I’m somehow emboldened and encouraged. I pull up on the second rope I’m trailing from my harness and the carabiner in question arrives. It has a red piece of webbing on it, connected to some medieval-looking piece of iron. 

“Fuck. So this is a cam hook,” I mutter to myself.

I’m aid climbing the first pitch of the Zig Zags on the Regular Northwest Face of Half Dome in Yosemite. The Zig Zags are three of the harder pitches on this route, and they launch into a steep section of the wall directly below The Visor - an overhung outcropping of rock that protrudes from the summit of Half Dome. These three pitches sit approximately 1700 feet from the start of the route, and another 3000 feet above the valley floor. The height and exposure is palpable.

The difference between aid climbing and free climbing is an aspect of climbing that’s often misunderstood by non-climbers. People hear “free” and conjure up images of professional climber Alex Honnold climbing this very same route on Half Dome without a rope. How he keeps his wits about him 1700 feet above the ground without a rope is beyond my comprehension. Regardless, what Alex is famous for is referred to as free soloing. Free climbing is where a climber ascends a route using their hands, fingers and feet to pull on weaknesses and cracks in the rock, and is attached to a rope to catch them should they fall.

Aid climbing is another thing entirely. It involves placing gear, such as aluminum nuts and active camming devices into cracks, and pulling on these pieces of gear to progress upwards. Aid climbing is the technique climbers use to ascend routes that are outside of our ability to free climb. Only one person in our group is capable of free climbing at the difficulty of the first pitch of the Zig Zags, and he just led 17 pitches in a single, 26-hour push the day before. Needless to say, Lee deserved a break.

A cam hook resembles a wide steel chisel that has been curved back on itself. It has a hole drilled in one side that a sling and carabiner can be clipped to. The chisel end gets placed into a crack that is too shallow for even the smallest nut or camming device. Some poor bastard, me in this case, then clips a ladder made of nylon to the sling on the cam hook, and stands up on the top rung to reach what is, hopefully, a real piece of protection.

I glance down to my left; this pitch of the Zig Zags required a pendulum. This meant that I climbed to a high point where the crack in the rock tapered down to nothing and clipped my lead rope (the rope that will catch me if I fall) to a long piece of webbing tied to a piton. I then asked my belayer, Dylan, to lower me ten feet and started running back and forth across the wall. A big enough swing allowed me to reach another crack to my right, which I then placed two more pieces of gear into to aid my upward progress. These pieces were tiny, and soon this crack tapered down into nothing.

This is where my engineering brain really fails me in my battle against fear. I start running the calculations, “Ten feet of rope out to that corner. That webbing I pendulumned off is sun-faded and that’s ten feet, plus those last two nuts I put in were shit, which is another ten feet. So I’m looking at 20 feet of rope to my last good piece of gear. Multiply by two, and add 10 feet for rope stretch. Yeah I’m looking at a 50 foot whipper into a corner.”

In reality, that piece of webbing could probably hold a compact sedan off the ground, and those last two nuts could catch at least a twenty foot fall. Regardless, the thousands of feet of air whispering at my back don’t help my inner dialog calm down. Somehow, through all the dialog and fear, my body keeps moving. I step in the top rung of my ladder, watch the cam hook flex and twist under the load as it bites into the rock, reach up and sink in a red Black Diamond Camalot into a crack above my head. By comparison, this piece of protection is a boat anchor compared to the gear below me. The fear is gone - replaced with a surge of dopamine. I’m home free to the anchors, build backups and fix the two ropes for tomorrow in an orange Yosemite valley sunset.

I rappel back down to my friends Jason, Dylan and Lee, who are hanging out on what’s been dubbed Big Sandy Ledge. It’s Sandy, sure, but not very big, and is the site of our bivouac. This ledge was the goal of our first day of climbing.

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We arrived in Yosemite valley on a Sunday morning. After gaping in awe at El Capitan in the glory of early morning light, we strolled over to Half Dome Village for a hot breakfast. The Village is as touristy a place as you’ll find in a national park, complete with a cafeteria, gear shop, liquor and grocery store - all of which we were more than happy to visit. After our breakfast we left the company of World-Cup-watching foreigners behind and headed back out to the car. I still can’t fathom how anyone could sit inside in a place like Yosemite.

We packed up the haul bag and the backpacks, both sources of great debate and frustration, and began the long slog up the Death Slabs approach. I soon came to understand the name as we slogged up steep talus and fixed ropes in the hot July sun. We ran out of water a quarter mile from the spring that flows out of the base of the climb, and I nearly vomited from the heat and the sun. That spring is truly a miracle of nature, and I spent the entire evening enjoying it’s presence.

Lee and Dylan began fixing the first few pitches of the route on Sunday night as Jason and I rested and heckled our “lead team.” We had decided to split our group of four into two teams, and I was on the haul team. The lead team was responsible for leading pitches and fixing a trailing rope for the haul team to ascend. 

The haul team is responsible for lifting the haul bag, filled to the brim with water, food and gear up each pitch, while attempting to keep pace with the lead team. Jason and I employed the use of pulleys and traction devices, which only allow the rope to travel in one direction, to lift the nearly 200 pounds of supplies. My friends and I had spent the last six months practicing these rope systems in preparation for this route. I slept fitfully that night, anxious about the 17 pitches between us and our bivouac ledge.

The following day, our two teams worked to absolute perfection. Every couple of pitches I would get a glimpse of Lee, immersed in a sea of granite, at the sharp end of a bright green rope. He and Dylan flew up the first six pitches, and it was all Jason and I could do to keep up. When the wall turned vertical around pitch 8, our pace picked up with theirs, and we caught up with the lead team at the rope toss pitch. In the orange glow of the sunset, Dylan, Jason and I watched Lee try again and again to toss a knotted rope into a crack, take a massive swinging fall and eventually put up one of the most impressive leads I’ve ever seen.

What happened over the course of the next 8 hours Jason calls “fuckery.” Lee was at the top of pitch 12, the sun was going down, and the ledge we were planning to sleep on was at the top of pitch 17. All four of us had to pull our most fear-inducing rope tricks out of the bag to make it through the next five pitches, and we had to do it all by headlamp. To be honest, after midnight, I don’t remember much of anything. It was a blur of exhaustion, nausea, and uninterrupted, fearful focus.

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“Anybody have any idea what time it is?” I asked in a daze.

“Turn around,” Lee said as Dylan laughed.

The sky behind us was turning pink with the sunrise; no wonder my headlamp didn’t seem very bright. “Holy shit,” I muttered. This was the 24th consecutive hour the four of us had been climbing. Everything hurt, and I felt like I was going to puke at any moment. In a mindless fog I hooked up my pulley system and began hauling the haul bag. The haul team had to keep up. At 8:30 a.m. on Tuesday morning I was the last one to reach Big Sandy Ledge - 26 hours after I had been the first one to start up the first fixed rope on Monday morning.

We spent Tuesday resting, drinking whiskey and water, laughing, and eating exorbitant amounts of food. On Tuesday evening, I got the honor of leading a pitch in the sunset, and we reached the summit on Wednesday after another truly impressive display of teamwork. The only thing standing in the way of us and beer was a ten mile descent down the backside of the 2,100 foot wall we had just spent three days battling.

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Climbing is a strange activity. It’s frivolous, and it might seem the only real result of the endeavor is an elevated level of fitness and a collection of great stories for the campfire. I’m coming to learn that the most tangible output of climbing is the bond I’ve formed with my partners. 

I watched three of my best and most reliable friends perform utterly superhuman feats for four days on end. As we left the valley two days later, our bellies full of beer and pizza, we stopped to gaze back at Half Dome as another sun set on the valley and turned the Regular Northwest Face red and gold. 

Tears of happiness, appreciation, relief and joy welled up in my eyes. Six months of preparation got us through the biggest climb of our lives. Life is beautiful, my friends are great, and returning home to family is the greatest gift the mountains can give you.