Buried — Updated Edition by Ken Wylie

Author:Ken Wylie
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781771603867
Publisher: RMB | Rocky Mountain Books
Published: 2020-09-04T21:47:22+00:00

September 1985

In a boxy green panel van driven by a man whose craggy face and scarred hands betrayed his many granite encounters, Dave Bartle and I entered Yosemite Valley. Dave was a British expatriate and one of my early climbing partners in Calgary. Ten years older than me, he had thinning blond hair, a trimmed beard and a Scottish accent; a great companion. After rounding the corner on Highway 120 and going through the natural tunnel, I saw “The Valley” for the first time. We had arrived on our pilgrimage.

The instant I saw the view from just past the underground passage, I understood why Yosemite is considered one of the rock-climbing community’s Meccas. Before us lay the tapestry that is Yosemite: the sacred elements of earth, air, fire and water entwined to dazzle the eye. Three-thousand-foot glacier-etched-and-polished granite walls guarded all sides of the valley, anchoring its power and strength. Air that lent distant images a blue hue communicated depth and mystery. Light from the fiery sun accented the features of the stone with a rich golden glow. And water flowed everywhere; not only in the meandering Merced River through the valley’s bottom, but in the abundant waterfalls that leapt from the massive heights of the quartz, mica and feldspar walls on all sides. Yosemite, like the best art or craft, strikes one as divinely inspired.

Our ride ended at Camp Four, the walk-in campground. I spent the afternoon strolling around the park, my perception opened in ways that did not happen for me in the blinding familiarity of home. The new sights, sounds and smells heightened my awareness. I gaped, head cocked back to miss nothing. The sun felt warm and powerful to my cloistered Canadian skin. I took in the sweet smell of ponderosa and sugar pine needles, the touch of cool shade from the oaks, the taste of granite dust that rose from the trails, the resounding roar of the waterfalls high above and the sight of multi-coloured granite, painted liberally by black, green, orange and grey lichen.

Dave and I climbed rock in this enchanted place, the well-established routes taking us up all different sides of the valley. I felt my body growing stronger during the weeks I was there, my pasty white Canadian skin turned golden and it seemed that the stone itself taught me how to climb both its cracks and its smooth features.

We met other Canadians, among them Geoff Powter and Jan Hodgkinson, who had come down together in Geoff’s 1972 Volkswagen van. Some days, when ascending single pitches near the valley floor, we climbed in one large group. On rest days, Geoff liked to spend time in El Cap Meadow sitting on a log in the shade of an oak, next to the Merced River, gazing up at the towering walls. Through a pair of binoculars, he studied climbers who were on multi-day routes up the kilometre-high face of El Cap, a vertical and overhanging wall of granite that is the captain of cliffs in Yosemite.

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