Approaching Lamarck Col, a rocky pass from which we would descend towards our yet-to-be-determined camp, we looked back at the Lamarck Lakes and the tiny trail behind us. A mere thread of dirt. Our goal for the day: to climb steadily upward to the rugged rocky col, at 12,880 feet, and then drop down into Darwin Canyon, hike along the canyon lakes, and search out a suitable camp for our first night.
The trail up to the col was steep
and rocky, and the sun relentless, but coming from the Pacific Northwest, we did
not mind. We encountered what seemed to be a permanent snowfield up near the
col and, after kicking small steps, gingerly traversed it, and soon gained the
col. We paused to break out our water bottles and take in the view. Across the
canyon, Mount Darwin and Mount Mendel dominated the skyline, massive gray forms
with sharp spines, aprons of snow, and fields of talus and scree at the
runouts.
The scale of the landscape was vast and desolate, hard, and unwelcoming. We descended, picking our way slowly through the jumble of rocks on a faint and seldom traveled trail. A chain of five small lakes, arguably tarns, all at about 11,600 feet above sea level, was visible at the bottom of the canyon. They led to the canyon exit and out to another small tarn at the Darwin Bench. Our first camp.
That day, fifty years ago, was my
introduction to the vast hardscaping of the Sierra. The towering spires, magnificent
ridges, and rocky rubble, known as talus were the beginning of my communion with
granite. After a week in the Mount Goddard quad of Kings Canyon, we headed for
Yosemite, which unbeknownst to me would be another doorway.
They appeared as ants, dark specs
moving slowly up the immense granite walls of the 3,000-foot rock monolith. The
dominating visage of El Capitan was stunning to us, as were the tiny forms of
the climbers. We stared at them, as did others, at their systematic,
incremental progress toward the top. I was captivated and puzzled.
Not content to merely look, I asked
myself, “How do they do it?” It was a potentially dangerous question to ask. It
could lead to learning the ‘how’ and then rapidly progressing to the ‘doing’ of
climbing, an enterprise not without risk.
I held that curious question in mind
as we entered the weathered wood structure that housed the Curry Company. They
were a valley institution and appeared that way. I later learned they were the
primary park concessioner at Yosemite National Park for nearly 70 years
(1925-1993). The interior was an outfitters store, displaying a combination of
both groceries and gear, a rustic place that fit well with the environs of
Yosemite.
We added some trail treats to our
basket and headed to the wood-planked sales counter. I noticed a small sign
next to the ‘Pack It In, Pack It Out’ stickers. It said, ‘Go Climb a Rock.’ It
advertised a two-day course in rock climbing instruction for beginners, to be
conducted on the rock escarpments little more than a stone’s throw away from
the Curry Company store. The price was affordable, and the climbing gear would
be provided. I reread the words, decided for myself, and turned to Lara, my
sales pitch short and to the point.
“We’re here, and we’ve got the time.
Let’s do it.” I said as purposefully as I could. Adventure girl that she was,
Lara readily agreed. We signed up on the spot.
The next day we met two rock-climbing gurus. They would instruct us on ‘how they do it.’ The lead guy introduced himself as Lloyd Price. I would learn that he was a Yosemite Valley big wall climber of some note during that era. His assisting instructor was a younger climber, lean and sinewy, who sported shoulder-length blond hair and a blue bandana as a headscarf, a veritable rock-climbing pirate. Next to him, Lloyd, with his shorter cropped hair, looked every bit the somewhat older professor, a professor in the school of rock, rock climbing, that is. We were two of only six students, a small class, but a good size for hands-on technical instruction.
We learned various rope stuff, how
to make a figure-eight knot to tie in, butterfly knots, and so on. The gurus
explained that the class would be divided into two segments, face climbing on
day one and crack climbing on day two. We started bouldering on a modest
granite face. Everyone in our small class leaned into the rock for purchase,
about to receive our first lesson, a foundational lesson.
“Don’t hug the rock! Stand up and put your weight on your feet. Just do it. You won’t fall.”
At first, it did not make any sense,
and then suddenly it made all the sense in the world. Contrary to the popular
misconception, the primary parts of the human physique that do the lion’s share
of the hard work in climbing are not your arms but your legs. The key to
effectively using your legs in most situations is to place the weight of your
body directly over them to achieve both balance and connection to the rock,
which on a face climb means friction. We stood up. Yes, sensei, I understand,
and I feel the force.
From there we moved steadily up, in that moment feeling like we had just made the first step into a secret new world. The experience was so tactile, focused, and thoroughly examined that it took us into the present moment like no other. Time stood still yet the days passed quickly. We practiced all day, interspersing instruction both on the rocks and off the rocks while resting.
Once back in the Pacific Northwest,
we continued our affair with rock. Several days later, we traveled up the
Tumwater Canyon and stood at the foot of Castle Rock. An informal gathering, a
small ragtag group, all having responded to a paper flyer posted in the
University District. For a few dollars, a local climber would go through the
drill on climbing techniques, rope handling, placing protection, belaying, and
leading. He also had the climber’s long hair, the pirate bandana, and wore
dirty rock-climbing clothes, the cotton painters’ pants. After minimal verbal
instruction, we split up into pairs and prepared to make our way up the various
routes on the rock.
I began my first lead on Midway
Route. Though I did not know it at the time, Midway Route had been first
climbed in 1948 by the inimitable and, even then, legendary, Fred Beckey. The
oldest and most popular route on Castle Rock, the first multi-pitch technical
rock climb ever climbed in Washington state. Rated 5.6, it was way harder than
the short practice cracks from my Yosemite sessions. As I led the route, it
seemed almost insurmountably more difficult.
Pausing at a point partway up to
place protection, I experienced abject terror. In that frozen moment, I
perceived that my attachment to the rock was sketchy and deteriorating.
Suddenly my senses accelerated, adrenaline kicking in, my mouth becoming cotton
dry, and my right leg pulsing rapidly up and down, an uncontrolled response to
fear. I did not know its name at the time, but the dreaded phenomenon was known
as ‘sewing machine leg.’
I was panicked, and I knew it.
Microscopically noting the feeling of the rough crystalline texture of the rock
under my fingertips as I searched for purchase, my eyes zeroed in, intensely
examining the wall looking for any potential formation that could provide a
more secure hold. Feeling pulled off balance by my annoying pumping leg, I had
that sinking feeling that I was on the thin edge preceding an imminent and
painful fall.
Somehow, I managed to shift my toes
to take some pressure off my frenzied leg and began to talk myself out of the
panic, telling myself, “You can do this.” And at the same time, I asked myself
why I ever thought rock climbing was a good idea.
Fortunately, I was able to calm down, set the protection, move up to end the pitch, and set up a belay. Not my finest moment, but I doubt anyone else noticed it or thought about it after those few stuck minutes. Visiting the brink was a routine thing that had happened or would happen to all of us. Just another day at the office. The positive outcome was that I learned from that experience and kept moving forward, still in the game.
Our climbing practice continued in
many venues. All our field study and effort was to make ourselves ready for the
bigger, longer, more technically demanding objectives that we’d encounter
higher in the mountains. Most of our education, after a few rudimentary
classes, consisted of progressive self-instruction gained both from doing the routes and watching our friends. The rope handling and other practices
of the art form of climbing became gradually integrated into our skill sets,
so they became second nature.
Confidence was a most important
attribute for climbers, and these shorter routes in no small way contributed to
building that attribute. In the process, we met others from the same tribe and
expanded our portfolio of climbing partners, learning from each other, stoking
the fires of desire, and moving forward. A heady time, as we diligently
prepared ourselves and passed through a gateway to a larger alpine world, a
world that we were so inexorably drawn to by the power of our mountain dreams.
The first alpine climb was the South Face on The Tooth, a modest Snoqualmie area peak. The route was only three pitches long, and we swung leads, my mentor, Nicolai, taking the first and the last. I lead the middle pitch. Yes! The South Face route, though short, had clean solid colorful lichen-encrusted rock and moderate technical difficulty, making the climb easily doable, the structure of the exposed ledge adding to the thrill.
Little did I know that my next climb
would not be a graduated progression in difficulty from The Tooth, which I
might well have expected. It would instead be a herculean leap in not only
complexity but in length and overall difficulty as well.
Mt. Stuart, at 9,415 feet high, is the largest exposed mass of granite in the United States. It’s the crown jewel of the non-volcanic peaks of Washington’s Central Cascades, according to Fred Beckey, and the North Ridge was already a Cascade classic. With a 50-meter rope, about twenty pitches of serious fifth-class climbing on solid granite, much of it on an exposed ridge crest and all of it with dramatic alpine views of the other jagged peaks in the range and beyond.
The rock on Mt. Stuart has a sharp
crystalline characteristic that produces a bit of a cutting sensation on your
fingertips. It might sound unpleasant, but it was not, being both distinctive
and reassuring, something that stood out for me like savoring a unique and
memorable wine.
“Yes, this wine is a bit assertive and full-bodied, makes you pay attention. It has a very expressive terroir. It is not flinty like French Chablis; it has a more masculine, sharp granite-like characteristic. I like it, yes, I like it very much.” Chateau Stuart, North Ridge, vintage 1974, an alpine classic!
During
those early years, my dancing with granite was mostly technical, a full body
exercise with both hands and feet and no small degree of risk. While the dance
continues, today it is less risky, and except for non-technical scrambles, the
routes involve mostly footwork, intricate at times, always mindful, and on the
best of days, consummately graceful. And, in those moments I find joy in simply
moving around, and over, and through the boulder-strewn trails and off-trail
routes, on my way through the magnificent mountain wilderness,
Yesterday’s venue was, unsurprisingly, Granite Mountain. I embarked on a quest to seek our seasonal Beargrass blooms and dramatic clouds. My thought was to capture them with my spherical panoramic photography. I had no idea whether either would materialize but one thing I could count on was the granite boulders of the high meadows and summit ridge that hosted the historic Granite Mountain Lookout.
The
lower trail, tree-shaded and covered with forest duff, pine needles, and cones, makes
for a reflective experience that I call ‘right brain drifting’ and what others
may know as Shinrin-Yoku, forest bathing. But that will soon change. After breaking
out of the forest, the upper meadows snake towards a historic fire lookout
perched high on a rocky ridge. The trail is festooned with boulders of many
shapes and sizes, all of which must be surmounted to gain access to the summit.
Few human movements are taken without thoughtful consideration and footwork. It
is a slow dance, upward.
The rocks await, inert, oblivious to our desires. Yet they provide the perfect partner for this intricate alpine dance. On routes such as this, one does not simply drift into the present moment. The present moment presents as the result of involvement and physical determination.
I find it immensely satisfying. Simply sensational!
