When you live in Hawaii where do you go on vacation? Part II

The second part of my trip began with a drive down the Oregon and California coastline in the rain while being sick to a conference in San Francisco. It then involved attending said conference, eating enormous quantities of amazing food, and hanging out with friends. Finally, it involved gearing up for the two weeks of climbing.

I met up with my friends Lizz, Dan, and Pat for the climbing part. Let me do a bit of character development for those of you who do not know Lizz, Dan and Pat. Lizz and Dan both live in Hawaii and flew out for the trip. Pat used to live in Hawaii but recently moved to the Bay area. Our group included one college professor (me), two engineers, one who is in the coast guard, and one professional bassoonist – I will leave who is who for you to decide.

Lizz is a fearless and strong climber and I wish I could be like her. She just climbs the most amazing things without seeming to exert any effort at all.

[Lizz with bouldering pad]

Pat is among the more tenacious climbers I have met and spent a lot of time saying, “I’m done…” “I’m really done now…” only to get on some other really hard boulder problem and finish it. I quit believing him when he said he was tired after our first day of bouldering.

[Pat doing a heel hook on a V5 problem]

Dan is a great climber who is incredibly calm under pressure. He sort of has one emotive register. Early on in the trip, Dan said that it isn’t that he doesn’t feel emotions, but that they all get expressed in the same tone of voice. It is hard to communicate this particular character trait in words, but imagine someone who sounds the same when they are super excited or super angry. I say all this because it is important foreshadowing.

[Actually, Dan is coming DOWN here]

These are folks I know from climbing in Hawaii and they all climbed together for several years. They also do things like compete over how many times they can do lift their legs to their heads while hanging from the ceiling of a bouldering wall. In other words, it was very nice of them to let me come along given I can’t really lift my legs even once over my head.

In other words, I am clearly the weakest link, which I generally don’t mind.

Let me elaborate. I don’t consider myself to be a boulderer and this was actually my first time bouldering outside. Furthermore, while I have done lots of traditional climbing over the years, my trad skills are limited by my total lack of confidence in placing gear that would actually save me in a fall. I generally approach traditional climbing (which requires the placing of your own protection as you go up) as a form of soloing with 20 pounds of camming devices hanging from your body. I consider all gear I place to be for my psychological benefit in getting through a difficult section and not as protection from a fall. I can hold my own as a sport climber (bolted climbing) but I knew that Yosemite was going to be a huge challenge for me.

I normally don’t narrate climbing trips because I do them so often and I think they are interesting only to other climbers. Also, they involve a lot of technical jargon that is difficult not to use and it is hard to avoid the play-by-play "then I did this move" sort of thing. So, feel free to just skip the rest of this post, which is mostly about climbing with a few bears making an appearance.

The short version is: I did lots of climbing, had a friend solo (meaning he climbed without being roped in) a climb along side us as we did the same climb with gear, saw some bears, did my first pendulum lead, followed one of the scariest traverses I’ve ever done, did NOT get better at climbing chimneys, had one epic climbing day involving bivvying overnight, learned that I can trust my gear, learned that being thirsty is no fun, didn’t shower for 11 days, had the best Bloody Mary’s ever, got stuck in a two hour traffic jam in Yosemite park, met a guy who fell off El Capitain, was airlifted to the hospital and was back in the valley the next day, got bit by a tick for the first time (to my knowledge), did a 13 mile hike that culminated in running through the deluge that was the mist from a waterfall (my only shower for the trip), got to sit in hot springs (do hot springs ALWAYS come with a weird old naked guy?) and much more.

Now, if you want the details, read on.

When we all converged in San Francisco to begin the trip, the weather was not cooperating in the Valley (which is what we hip people call Yosemite National Park) and so instead of heading straight up to Yosemite, which had been the original plan, we drove to Bishop, California – home of the Buttermilks as well as Owens River Gorge.

For those of you who are not climbers – the Buttermilks is a bouldering area. Bouldering consists of climbing smaller rocks without ropes. Your partners spot you, to help direct your fall and you bring along your own pads, which you should attempt to fall on. Of course it isn’t clear that the pad will do much good 20 feet off the ground. Also, they are small and have to be positioned just right to be of any use at all. At a certain point, you just don’t want to fall off a boulder problem. Everyone but me was a very accomplished boulderer.

[Lizz climbing some problem or another]

I managed to get a few easy problems, but it turns out I just don’t have the drive to try very hard. I liked looking at the problems, but I didn’t care if I finished them. Bouldering is rated on a scale from V0-V16 (if you want to learn more about rating systems, check out Wikipedia). I managed to get a V2, just to give you an idea of how pathetic I am.

Pat and Lizz are both masters of the climbing technique known as the “heel hook.” They would say things like, “heel hook there, it makes it super stable.” When I tried this move, it just felt like I was going to pop my hamstring right off my leg. I can use a very small heel hook, but not one over my head. Dan is so strong he doesn’t need to do heel hooks.

[Lizz doing a heel hook, but barefooted -- didn't need her feet for this one]

Bouldering was an interesting experience and some problems were more to my style than others. Owen’s River Gorge was also amazing – really fun sport climbs that were just a pleasure to climb. However, even I would be bored trying to narrate sport climbing routes -- they are fun, short, and flow really nicely. Staying in the shade made climbing here pretty doable.

[Looking into Owens River Gorge]

The first three days flew by and then it was time to head to the valley to do some real climbing. Yosemite is an amazing place and in North American climbing, it is sort of a birthplace for the sport. U.S. climbs are rated on the Yosemite Decimal System – indicating that what happened in the valley was pretty essential to climbing in the U.S.

[Waterfalls in Yosemite -- they were at a 40 year high in terms of volume]

[View of Half-dome -- we didn't climb on it]

[If you look closely you can see the bear -- one also walked right past us while we were climbing, but I didn't have my camera with me at the time.]

After the chore of finding camping in the most crowded National Park I’ve ever been to, we spent the first several days doing smaller multi-pitch climbs and generally getting used to the rock and climbing cracks. Granite is great rock, but tends to require technique in crack climbing and friction face climbing – the opposite of the techniques used in many other types of climbing. Also, because much of the ratings were done in the 50s-70s, before people thought you could climb harder than 5.9, you can’t take even the easiest of climbs for granted here.

Most of what we did was 5.8 or below, Pat and I concentrated more on the 5.6-5.7 range, Lizz and Dan pushed up into the 5.8-5.9 range, including climbing this one five pitch 5.8 called “Nutcracker” with only nuts.

[Pat leading a 5.7 chimney on El Capitain - we only went up a single pitch]

While all the climbs were fun and enjoyable, there were two days of longer multi-pitch that are worth narrating in more detail because only the biggest climbing nerd wants to hear about every climb we did.

Let me provide a bit of climbing terminology. A multi-pitch climb means that a roped team climbs multiple rope-lengths to reach the summit of the climb. A pitch is a rope length (60 meters/200 feet is the standard, though many people climb with 70 meter ropes as well). Not all pitches go in a vertical direction – some pitches connect different vertical lines as traverses. The more rope between the climber and the belayer, the more rope drag and so often a climb will include a traverse to get to the next vertical section to avoid increasing rope drag more than necessary. To do this it takes a lot of gear.

Generally, to accomplish a multipitch route, you switch leads with each climber leading every-other pitch. There are other factors to consider – time, strength of the leader, speed at which people climb. Anyway, our first long multi-pitch day was on a moderate climb called “Royal Arches,” which is a 5.6 (with 5.7 variations) that is somewhere about 13 pitches long (with two traverses). Without going into too many boring details, the highlight of this climb include a really fun pendulum – where you tie yourself to a fixed line and then swing yourself from one side of the rock to a ledge on the other side. The scariest part of the climb was following a traverse pitch with no protection on a near-vertical friction surface. It was, all in all, a great day that ended with pizza and beer.

[Me looking DOWN on Royal Arches from the hike -- the climb we did that leads up and to the right under the arch-like features]

The day after we all climbed Royal Arches, Lizz and Dan went to do another day-long multi-pitch route, while Pat and I took a “rest day” by hiking 13 miles with 3200 feet of elevation gain that gave us a panoramic view of the valley. While incredibly beautiful, it wasn’t much of a rest day. We did get to stand at the top of some beautiful waterfalls that are running really fast right now. So, the next day, Pat took Lizz to the airport and Dan and I had a real rest day because we intended to climb another long climb the next day.

[The scenery is beautiful -- I have at this point gone over 7 days without a shower.]

After listing the multiple climbs that might be good to try, we settled on the North East Buttress of Upper Cathedral – an 11 pitch 5.9 climb. I was a bit concerned about this because most of the 5.9 pitches included chimney climbing and hand-sized cracks – my two weakest climbing techniques. However, Dan, in his calm and mellow manner, assured me that we would be able to make it through. It might not be pretty, but we could do it.

[Looking at the NE Buttress of upper cathedral spire -- it is the rock at the top with the sheer half -- we climbed close to that side]

With that in mind, we arrived at the trailhead at 8:15 the next morning and began the one-hour hike to the base of the climb. When doing multi-pitch, there is always a balance between hauling too much stuff and too little. To that end, we had one rope (meaning we were committing to completing the climb instead of bailing off), three nalgene bottles of water, two windbreakers, two long shirts, the climbing gear, one backpack, some food. As you alternate leads, you also switch who carries the climbing gear (the leader) and the backpack (the second). As the leader goes up s/he places gear to protect their ascent. The second then takes the gear out and upon arriving at the next belay station, all the stuff is transferred and the next leader takes over.

This climb was 11 pitches, with the hardest pitches at the top. I had forewarned Dan that I might not be able (mentally or physically) to lead the 5.9 pitches, so we planned that I would start the climb and then in theory, I would hit the first 5.9 chimney pitch first and we could test out what I was up to or not. Of course, it didn’t get that far, because I knew after leading my second pitch (third for the day) that there was no way I could do the 5.9 leads – I struggled through my silly 5.8 section, with run out gear thinking I might take one of the biggest falls of my life. When I finally got to the belay ledge (making lots of high pitched noises), the climbing party ahead of us had decided it was time to bail (I apologized to them for all the high pitched noises). Given that they had two ropes, they could still do this. As Dan noted upon arriving at the belay ledge, we couldn’t bail without leaving gear – which he would not do. So, it was upwards for us.

I led one more pitch – a really fun traverse pitch that set us at the bottom of the last 6 pitches. Now the fun began with Dan patiently beginning the lead.

[Dan getting ready to do the traverse]

The first of these pitches was a fairly straightforward one that was hard but not impossible. It ended in a very uncomfortable non-ledge at the bottom of the chimney/off-width crack section. It was the next pitch where the fun began. Dan started up, but the first crack in his calm demeanor was not too far away. He made good progress through the first part, pulled over a roof and went out of my visual line of sight. However, I could still hear him. This section was some sort of squeeze crack/chimney mess (we knew from the description), but all I could hear was loud moaning like someone in pain, really heavy breathing, with an occasional oath. Such verbal exclamations from such a calm person did not bode well for me.

Soon enough it was my turn. Chimney climbing involves putting your feet on one side of the chimney and your back/hands against the other and worming your way up through a combination of very unaesthetic moves. This is difficult to do with a backpack on – which as the second I was now required to haul. My first idea was to put the backpack on the front, which succeeded in choking me and getting in the way. So, after the first 30 feet I stop and rearranged. The second idea was to hang the backpack from my harness so that it dangled behind me. This worked remarkably well, but I kept worrying it would somehow come unattached and plummet the 600 feet to the ground where we would loose the worldly possessions we had found fit to haul up this rock (which I found out later included a eye mask for sleeping that I got from an airline and had been left in the backpack). Having 600 feet of exposure also provides extra incentive NOT to hang on the rope or fall (which I wish I could say I didn't do, the hanging part).

[Looking down from one of the larger belay ledges on the top half of the climb -- I pretty much stopped taking pictures after this so the rest of the trip is without photos.]

I finally made it up to the part where Dan had been moaning and instead of even trying to climb it, utilized my new found aiding technique to just pull on every piece of gear he had placed. Now, those of you who climb know that this is NOT good technique, nor is it something I would normally do, but sometimes pride gives way to survival. More to the point, when it comes to climbing off-width cracks and chimneys, I don’t even have any pride – they just suck. So, while it still took effort – I at least had something to hang on to while hauling myself and the backpack up that section of the climb.

I felt really bad that I had bailed on the leading and I kept apologizing to Dan for this, but the honest truth is there is no way I could have led these pitches, and if I had tried, it would have gotten dark while I was still on the first of them. Dan, being the calm and patient guy he is, just kept me on a really tight belay (at my request) and kept right on going. I kept worrying that I was going to pull both of us off the rock if I fell…but Dan sets good anchors.

Things went on in this manner until the final pitch of the day – again, a pitch involving chimney’s and off-width cracks. Dan started up, again in my view. It was here where the real profanity began. This pitch involved a 5.9 roof move and then more off-width chimney/crack climbing. As Dan neared the roof, something like “Jesus, fucking, mother of god, will you give me a break?” came out of his mouth. This was followed by a lot of other such exclamations along with some self-motivational discourse. I just stayed quiet because I didn’t want to disrupt his focus. However, when I got to this section, it wasn't clear HOW to do it at all -- and remember, this is only a 5.9!

It went on like this as Dan pulled the roof and went out of my sight. More profanity and grunting ensued until everything went silent. I figured silence was not a good thing and I was dreading what was to come.

Let’s just say that it is not clear to me how Dan climbed this pitch. My technique involved pulling on every piece of gear – then replacing it myself so I could pull on it again. That is, my technique involved doing this until Dan stopped placing gear. Yes, he essentially soloed the last 30 feet of the climb (meaning 60 foot fall minimum) through the 5.8 awkward chimney section. I could barely make it up since there was not gear to pull on. I guess the only good thing about soloing these chimneys (which were sort of small) is that you are more likely to get stuck in it and not be able to move than fall out of it -- or then go sliding down it scraping all the skin off your body in slow motion.

By the time I topped out, Dan was back to his normal mellow self, the sun was about an hour from setting, and we still needed to find the walk-off trail. We had been going for about 11 hours, including the hour of hiking.

We ate a small bit of food (first food since breakfast) and drank some water. We had hauled three Nalgene bottles (32 oz each) of water with us for the day and at the summit we had finished everything but the last 8 or so ounces of water. I asked Dan if he would like to finish the water, but he said we should hold off on that last bit until we got to the car, which turned out to be a great idea.

We packed up and went to find the trail. At this point we had ambitions to make it to the bar and pizza place by 9:30.

The sun set behind the mountains at 8:30 and the headlights came out. Somewhere around 9:00 we lost the trail. Since we had been on what we thought was the trail only moments before, we kept going down, thinking we would hit the trail at the bottom of the hill. Soon, we were bushwacking through the heaviest brush you can imagine – no trail, falling in the dark, but still descending. Finally, we pushed our way back to the cliffline with the idea that we would follow it around, find the descent gully this way, get back on track and out of there. This plan would have worked, except that we had come down the wrong side of the mountain to a place that did not actually hook up to our descent gully.

We should have stopped at the first bivvy site someone had constructed, but I blame our lack of stopping on dehydration and the belief we could still get out of there that night for pushing on. We should have stopped at the second bivvy site we found, but we saw a glade of trees a few hundred feet further on that we thought might give us a vantage from which to figure out where we were. Finally, at 11:30 pm, we stopped for what was the inevitable bivvy since 2.5 hours of bushwhacking through the most impossible shrubbery imaginable had left us pretty broken of a will to go back the way we had come. Thus, we settled down for the night in some bushes with a rope as a blanket and our helmets as pillows.

This was my first unintentional all-night bivvy and all things considered, it could have been much worse. First, it wasn’t all that cold and there was no wind, snow, or rain. Second, there were no bugs. Third, bears didn’t come to eat our food. Finally, while we were nowhere near where we needed to be, we also were not lost, we just needed to retrace our steps.

This doesn’t mean it wasn’t cold – 3 and ½ hours of bushwacking had left me pretty sweaty, which was immediately cold upon stopping. Also, given we only had about 2 inches of water left to share, I was more thirsty than anything. I blame this on being a mouth breather – I had spent some amount of time during the last few hours trying to remember to breath through my nose, but it just wasn’t happening.

I don’t think either of us slept all that much, but sleeping was probably the best way to pass the time before daylight. My thoughts went something like this when I wasn’t asleep:

Wow, it is cold.

I am really thirsty.

Trying to sleep on the ground on this steep slope is not very comfortable.

We traveled through really thick bushes, how come the ones we are sleeping in now seem so shallow?

Did a bug just land on my head?

This rope is not warm and has hooked on my foot.

I am really thirsty.

Wouldn’t it suck if we wake up 10 feet off a really popular hiking trail?

Now I’m sliding down the hill.

Water would be good right now.

So would beer.

I should breath with my mouth closed.

My leg is cramping but if I move it will get cold again.

I hate that we can hear a river and I remain really thirsty.

I think that Giardia might be worth a drink.

I forgot we had food in our backpack – what if bears decide to come and eat it?

I hope they don’t take the climbing gear.

The moon is really light tonight.

It is cold.

I am really thirsty.

Only two hours until daylight.

After a fairly long and relatively sleepless night, it got light enough to move again. Our first goal was to get to the top of the ridge, which only clarified for us that the way to get off the mountain was to retrace our steps and go down the right way.

We spent the next 2 and 1/2 hours doing this. Back through the horrible bushes and back up the original hill.

Finally, we found the right trail and headed down to the car, which took another 2 hours of hiking.

My primary topic of conversation during this time was how thirsty I was.

Dan had mostly stopped talking altogether. He apologized because he said he doesn’t do well without sleep. I thought there might be other contributing factors as well – having to lead 6 pitches of really hard climbing, not having any water, trying to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without water (don’t try this – it is really hard, also cheese when dehydrated and without water is horrible), and then an extra 9 hours of hiking around in the bushes without a trail – all things that could contribute to not wanting to talk.

By the time we reached the bottom of the trail, I had reverted to what I call my “mountain scuttle,” which involves a hunched over shuffle. I had estimated how many minutes it would take to get back to the car and was obsessively counting them down. Dan took off almost running for the car where we couldn’t find our last remaining water bottle.

26 hours after we started off for this climb, we got back to the car, headed for civilization where our agenda included: 1) drink water 2) drink Gatoraide 3) eat a box of cookies 4) wait until the bar opened.

Then we had the best Bloody Mary’s of my life.

This adventure pretty much ended climbing in Yosemite for this trip. The next day was our last in the valley anyway and while I would have gone out to climb, it did seem a bit anti-climatic to do anything after our epic. Also, my fingers were pretty raw, mostly from pulling on bushes. So, we all headed back to San Francisco.

The first thing we did upon arriving, was to go bouldering. I actually think I might get to like bouldering after all!