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.
