Perspective on The Prow

Every day from May to October Climbing Stewards and Climbing Rangers set up telescopes aimed at El Captain from our vantage point in the meadow below.  We scan the Milky-Way-like granite monolith for climbers as though they were distant stars with signs of life.  Often too tiny to see with the naked eye we allow visitors to get a closer look at these distant humans. It’s an incredible program, one that visitors often tell me is the best part of their trip to Yosemite.  Their lack of exposure to the activity of climbing has them wide-eyed and amazed.  “That’s insane” they say.  Often, I shake my head in agreement, while knowing the explanation is far more complicated.  I do my best to explore this topic, but sometimes I hit a wall in which I am simply at a lose for words as to why anyone may want to climb a big-wall.  As Chuck Pratt once exclaimed while climbing near Ribbon Falls, “I could climb a million years and still not know why I do it…Why!?…Why!? Why am I here!?”

“I could climb a million years and still not know why I do it…Why!?…Why!? Why am I here!?”

Even more “absurd” than standard big-wall climbing is the activity of climbing one by yourself.  When I found myself hiking loads to the base of Washington Column for an attempt at my first big-wall solo I knew I would have plenty of time to explore “The Why”.    

Although having commonalities, the climbing community is a diverse group of individuals often with drastically different sensibilities. Some that write about their experience justify their activities through deeply philosophical paradigms. Take Royal Robbins for instance.  In his account of the first ascent of The Prow he wrote, “A man trapped in the anonymity of the crowds looks upward for a way out and sees in the mountains a way of separating his individuality from the mass.”  As a Steward my hope is not to escape the mass but rather to inspire it. To share the incredible place I call home in hopes that it compels individuals to take bold action to protect our planet.  Without a partner lined up, with three days off from volunteering, and with a weather window that would put the Valley in the bearable low eighties, I decided life presented a perfect opportunity for me to learn a thing or two about soloing a big-wall.  Maybe my small climb could be a source of inspiration for others as well. 

Having never slept on a portaledge before, and with an urge to spend a few nights away from the busy campgrounds, I decided to spend two nights on the wall.  But why had I committed to three days of climbing, belaying, cleaning, and hauling all by myself? Frankly, I knew the view would be more than worth the labor I was to put in.  The beauty of place is a strong motivator for climbers.  The physical perspective change obtained through traveling up thousands of feet of granite translates into a symbolic perspective change. By viewing great distances we see how small, yet precious, each life, each moment truly is.    

I chose The Prow, among other reasons, for the shade it would receive in the afternoon.  The July heat was corralling most others to the cool Merced river where inner-tubes  and rafts lazily meandered from bank to bank.  With my summer campsite being only a stone’s throw away from a quiet brook I would have been wise to wait until the afternoon to set my plans in motion.  Instead, my enthusiasm drove me to the base of The Washington Column early.  At 8 A.M. I was already drenched with sweat from the steep half hour approach.   I sat at the base beneath a small tree and asked myself if I really wanted to do this.  I could just spend the next three days laying by the river with friends.  The answer came quietly as though compelled by the subtle voice of life itself. “Shine on you crazy diamond”, it said.  Maybe Roger Waters was musing instead.  Regardless of the inspiration’s source it stirred me. After making the first few aid placements in a beautiful right facing corner I found myself above the tree-line and as the sweat from my brow began to smear my vision I was already finding gratitude for the blessing I once had (and would receive again): namely soothing shade.  When climbing, any level of hardship can be a tool we use to appreciate the simplest conveniences.

The first day went off without a hitch.  There won’t be any epic tales retold here.  For that I suggest you read Glen Denny’s recently published Yosemite Walls: a collection of short stories about the Golden Age of climbing in Yosemite.  The stories are timeless, and are a testament to the power of rock climbing and Yosemite Valley.  Instead I’ll simply allude to hours of heat, solitude, and the soundscape of Yosemite Valley.  Most moments were filled with the small beauties of the world.  Be that the modern wonder of waste management trucks or the evening chatter of  white-throated swifts.  There was no clanging of hammer to iron on the wall.  Others had done that work for me, so I climbed without a hammer.  Cheating mostly with my single set of Totems I placed one cam hook and one cliffhanger over the entire route, while clipping copperheads, pins, or beaks along the way.  These fixed placements became my connection to the past.  In a sense I was climbing through a living museum.

As the earth continued its rotation I eventually reached Anchorage Ledge, a small sloping ledge only a few hundred feet from the ground.  I fixed the first bolted pitch off the ledge and returned to set up my portaledge.  As a Steward, maintaining a wilderness experience for others is important to me.  So when it came time to set it up I gave extra care to minimize the clanging of the metal frame against itself and the rock.  Hopefully a dumpster was being emptied at the same time drowning out my blundering symphony, I thought.  Once comfortable I spent my evening quite as a deer mouse, taking in each moment of light and air, and as the darkness drew closer I watched as the sun gave space for the rest of the stars to shine.  I fell asleep imagining all the mystical mountain ranges on other planets in other solar systems that would never be climbed. 

Once comfortable I spent my evening quite as a deer mouse, taking in each moment of light and air, and as the darkness drew closer I watched as the sun gave space for the rest of the stars to shine.

On day two I found myself climbing through the controversial bolt ladder Robbins had created on the first ascent.  A staunch advocate of an ethic that minimized bolt usage, Robbins along with Glen Denny, placed 38 bolts on the route, a total widely considered excessive (Mike Covington began the route with Robbins but decided to withdraw due to his distaste for bolting and the amount of bolts he had already drilled while on lead).  In response to his critics Robbins famously retorted, “but man, it’s all a question of the climb being worth it. Worth the number of bolts. Look at the line man, look at the line!”  Thankful to not have to prove anything to myself or others I was free to climb just for the fun of it.  I was able to appreciate the hard work Robbins and Denny put forth.  Their time and energy was a gift to all those that climbed the line after.  If anyone is keeping track I say the line is indeed worth it. 

After climbing through a few thin seams and the Strange Dihedral, I reached Tapir Terrace, my temporary home for the night.  Thankfully I was alone, without any tapirs inhabiting the ledge.  Since I had only moved a few more hundred feet up the wall my view was similar to the night prior.  This time though, after having moved around an arete I not only had the company of Half-Dome across the valley, but Cloud’s Rest and Mt.Watkins further up Tenaya Canyon.   Gazing upward I slowly began to notice a sliver of rock floating in the sky.  The mass of rock rotating around our planet began to reflect the suns light as the rest of the days sky dwindled.  More pleasant than falling asleep to a Hollywood classic, my eyes darted around the sky and cliffs taking in the multitude of colors as they slowly smoothed away to a universal darkness.

The heat of the previous two days was beginning to catch up to me, and so as I woke on day three I began moving upwards quickly with hopes of reaching the summit by midday.

The heat of the previous two days was beginning to catch up to me, and so as I woke on day three I began moving upwards quickly with hopes of reaching the summit by midday.  After a few low angle hauling mishaps and some fun free climbing near the top I reached the summit of Washington Column and was caught off guard by picturesque views in all directions.  Leaving the ground two days ago I had no idea I would be experiencing the best top-out in the Valley.  Fortunately, my phone no longer had an electrical charge.  If it had, I may have made the mistake of trying to capture the moment.  Instead my eyes were the lens. I remained receptive and grateful.

I took my time on top reorganizing gear and repacking the haul bag.  Getting all my gear back down to camp would prove to be my physical crux.  Thankfully I had descended the notoriously loose and exposed North Dome Gully many times, but this would be my first with any substantial amount of gear.  When climbing with a partner you end up splitting the load.  When soloing you get the privilege of carrying everything yourself.  Deeming it too demanding and too dangerous to descend with all the gear I decided to make two trips.  Shuttling loads back down to the floor I eventually arrived at camp as dusk set over the valley floor and campfires began offering a familiar comfort to the night.  Having pushed myself more physically over the last three days than ever before I was reminded of the power of the human spirit.  It not only propels individuals to solo big walls but moves all humans to live lives with perseverance and dignity.

Exposure too keeps climbers dreaming of high places.  There’s a moment of liberation when we find ourselves in the most unlikely of places, places that our brains have taught us since birth to avoid, and yet we find calmness and clarity.  It’s a common misconception that climber’s aren’t afraid of heights.  On the contrary, fear persists, yet we grow when we observe our actions or reactions in regards to those fears. We sit with our fears, or climb through them, and with determination process them.  Working our way up steep prows of earth, we notice birds no longer gliding above but arcing and drifting below.  How did we come so far?  On the rock we blend into the environment, our wilderness.  In doing so it becomes easier for us to experience our place on this planet.  We are reminded we are but a part of it.  Not modernly severed from, rather inseparably responsible for. 

I set out to climb The Prow for a multitude of reasons: for a retreat of sorts, for adventure, for a new perspective, to rejoice in the beauty of each new precious moment.  All of which I received tenfold. But the question of why I climb will forever linger.  I suppose humans climb for the same reasons they do half the “crazy” things they do: if for no other reason but to dance in the mystery of life and to allow the experience to engulf the soul without logical constraints.