Inspiring Generations by Anniversary Story Book Committee

Author:Anniversary Story Book Committee
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781930238558
Publisher: Yosemite Conservancy

We Climb Anyway

Audrey Camp

THE BALD FOREHEAD of Stately Pleasure Dome offers no relief from the July sun. I crawl all over the top before finding the single, squat yellow pine jutting from the rock. Its trunk curves toward the sky; its base is ringed with colorful cordelettes, left behind by climbers on descent.

I crouch at the precipice, my raw palm resting on the rough bark of the tree. The golden-gray slabs of granite roll down and away like a waterfall, hundreds of vertical feet, striped with sparkling mineral deposits.

Suddenly, my shoe loses traction on the rock. My foot kicks forward a few inches. With a gasp, I catch hold of the tree. Tiny bits of granite and dirt roll helplessly over the edge into the wind.

I cling to the rappel tree in a cold sweat. I crab walk back from the edge to a secure spot. I close my eyes and wonder why anyone would choose to climb.

Many visitors to Yosemite National Park go to gape at the yawning granite cliffs and domes, the park’s signature, remnants of an ice age. Some go to scale those cliffs and domes with their bare hands.

That July Saturday, my group had begun at the base of Stately Pleasure Dome, a wide-open rock face at the eastern end of the park which boasts a dozen bolted climbing routes. There were seven of us: three experienced climbers, three beginners, and me, somewhere in the middle.

Our mission was Hermaphrodite Flake, four pitches of granite slab and jagged cracks. I felt confident, having completed the route once before with my husband, Jonathan. While he, Brian, and Jeff, the strongest climbers in the group, sorted the gear, I braided my friend Cindy’s fine, curling hair. Cindy, her boyfriend, Brad, and Jeff’s fiancée, Amy, had never climbed a multipitch route before. When they spoke, a tremor ran through their voices, triggered by the towering run of rock beside us.

Jonathan and I scrambled up the two hundred unprotected feet to the first belay station. The rock felt familiar under the sticky soles of my climbing shoes, but I worried about my friends. The beginners walked up slowly, holding onto a rope Brian had lowered. It wasn’t protection, but it made them feel safer. Jeff dug his toes into the granite and ascended in strong, fearless bounds. Only air cushioned the space between him and the dark ribbon of the road to Tuolumne below.

With each of Jonathan’s movements, a blur of rope followed him up the wall, winding through my belay device; the friction warmed my palms. On routes like Hermaphrodite Flake, permanent bolted belay stations are located every fifty to one hundred feet, the length of a single pitch. Over the years I’ve become more comfortable being clipped into those bolts by only my two daisy chains.

At the third belay station, I peered down the rock. Brad stood atop the big flake above the second pitch and had Cindy on belay. She wore a pink drawstring pack with nylon straps, completely inappropriate for the excursion, but it was all she had to haul their lunch and water.

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