“It’s gonna blow!” I shout to Dave, 80 feet below me.
I look down and am only somewhat relieved to find he’s about a bodylength to my left. In my excitement, I didn’t clarify that it wasn’t the piece I’m standing on that’s ready to blow… it’s the shoebox-sized rock being wedged out by my camhook that’s getting ready to head straight toward Dave.
We’re deep into our odyssey to climb Mescalito in a single push, and I can see the anchors of pitch 24, just out of reach. There’s no way for me to get off the camhook before the block rips out, hits, and vaporizes within six feet of my partner, and I swing back onto my last piece for maybe the fifth time. This 2-meter traverse is just blank to my frazzled mind; it’s strange… in retrospect I can see the clear placements just a bit higher that would’ve gotten me across and to the anchor, but in my state, I can’t understand any path that isn’t moving directly to the anchor. I eventually make gear stick long enough to make the traverse and bellyflop onto the first real ledge I’ve gotten to rest on since we started this climb, 32 hours ago.
We’re deep into our odyssey to climb Mescalito in a single push, and I can see the anchors of pitch 24, just out of reach.
Dave and Ken threading through way up a sleepless ascent of Mescalito. Photo by Tom Evans
Thirty-two hours earlier, it’s sunrise on a crisp October morning. I still can’t believe I’ve actually found someone willing to go along with such a whackadoo idea as this one… and I still can’t quite swallow what we’re setting out on. It’s not what I want, but I secretly suspect we’ll bail five pitches up, when I’m supposed to take over the lead by making an airy, improbable traverse which we know our idols were just barely able to reverse in a storm, fighting for their lives, while attempting the very same audacious feat that we’re now undertaking. Dave leads off, and the start of such an epic feels… anticlimactic. I’m left sitting comfortably next to our piglet, feeding out rope as the sun’s warm light begins to touch the tips of the Cathedrals.
Soon enough, Dave’s off belay and I begin ascending while he casts off on short-fix. The wall above, the aptly-named Wall of Early Morning Light, shining and beautiful now, is bigger than I can fathom, but the rock here is smooth, warm, and familiar, so we move steadily upwards. Somewhere I christen our piglet of a haulbag Wilbur… it feels fitting. The pitches flow smoothly, and I begin to feel as though we’ve actually begun. At the top of pitch five, I join Dave for the first time, and he looks questioningly at the dihedral above us, but I point straight right… to nothing. I know the traverse goes out there, but I can’t see how. I just take the rack and set off, trusting that I’ll figure it out. There wasn’t even a pause or moment of doubt from either of us… but now we’re committed. And it feels good.
The traverse is awkward, but I keep moving. I follow obvious features, even passing what I later learn was a 5.14 pitch done by Tommy and Kevin the past winter, but as I pass, it’s just a seam, beaks all the way. I wish I’d known at the time so I could properly appreciate that pitch, but I didn’t, and it was still spectacular. On the pitch before the Molar traverse, the second of two major traverses book-ending my lead block, I manage to settle a minor score between friends by upping the ante… I peed while on lead, as they had, but I did it while standing on hooks. It makes us both chuckle, which I think is a good sign as the sun is beginning to get low.
“Wilbur” the piglet and Dave catch the day’s last rays. Photo by Tom Evans
Occasional hoots and monkey calls from friends in the meadow below help to maintain our energy, now waning, into the night. After tagging up my headlamp mid-pitch, and a tumbling fall into the black abyss while sussing out the Molar Traverse, I reach the anchors where I’m to give back the reigns to Dave. I’m relieved to hand it over; I do not envy his task… Taking over at 10pm for what will prove to be a proud all-night lead. It’s glorious to just sit on the belay seat and rest as best I can after ten pitches on the sharp end. I find the night to be much chillier now that I’m not leading and the t-shirt gives way to a couple extra layers.
There’s a soloist who’s set up a ledge somewhere above us, but I can’t really see her, and it feels like an eternity until Dave reaches her portaledge. I’m relieved to be moving again, but the cluster I find when I reach the anchor, with her ledge and bags, plus our anchor and lines and Wilbur is bewildering. I try my best to be unobtrusive as Meghan attempts to sleep, but she’s cordial and even shares a pull of whiskey as I try to tuck myself into one corner of her ledge. I’m unexpectedly pulled out of my half-sleep when Dave calls down that he’s stuck. There’s slack in the rope, but he can’t pull it in. I look into the dark and can barely make out the flake which has trapped the rope. I know what I have to do, but it takes more will than I’d like to leave the portaledge and aid up the 20 feet to free the line. I’m beginning to feel the toll of this wall.
I doze, body against the cold granite, feet on Wilbur, occasionally coming back to call encouragement up. At some point, I drift back from my silent reverie to hear the imperturbable Dave cursing his head off.
A few pitches higher and I’m back to sitting on the belay seat, using my aiders to improvise a hammock, resting as best I can. I doze, body against the cold granite, feet on Wilbur, occasionally coming back to call encouragement up. At some point, I drift back from my silent reverie to hear the imperturbable Dave cursing his head off. All I can see is his headlamp bouncing around, and all I can feel is the rope not moving. He’s struggling with one particularly ornery placement… we never set out to climb the route clean, but given our style, we only have a very light rack of iron and he’s got limited options. I feel for him, but I also just want to see him move again. I have no idea how long it actually was, but eventually, as I knew he would, he perseveres and finds his way through. The roof he worked so hard to get through is impressive up close, but cleaning an aid pitch never really gives a pitch its credit, and I am left to only imagine his position, struggling to make a single move, after nearly 24 hours on the go, in the darkest hours of night. Let’s just say I’m impressed, but in the moment I don’t dwell on it. I have to continue moving up.
Feathered granite swirls around the author in the first light of day two. Photo by Tom Evans
The spacious and famous Bismarck Ledge appears just as dawn rises. I want badly to rest on this ledge before taking the sharp end, but fear I’ll struggle to continue if I do, so after only a quick snack, I don free shoes, leave much of the rack behind, and set out. At the top of a beautiful 100 foot C1 crack, the feature balloons open, forcing a committing 5.10 layback. I hang on my last piece, trying to regain strength that has long since been spent. After as long as I think Dave will stand, I pull into the layback, paste my feet, move my hands up… and I’m falling. This actually seems to calm my mind, showing me the gear’s good, the fall’s clean, and I get back on quickly. I run it out to the top, and nearly pitch off into an impressive 25-foot swan dive before I am solidly at the anchors. After ditching the free shoes, I set off on what will prove to be my toughest lead of the route. After only twenty feet on short-fix, I have to wait for Dave to arrive to tag gear. From there, I’m forced to make some sketchy moves with bad fall potential, followed by an overhanging #3’s crack, and find myself horrifically runout with no gear for 60 feet except the piece I’m standing on. My mind knows the piece is solid, but I’m long past the point of having the mental stamina for sustaining this, and every step up my aiders is an epic inside my own head. I struggle through, but find myself 40 feet left of the anchor, and am forced to make an unprotected traverse. The mental exhaustion of this pitch is staggering, and on top, with the knowledge of how slowly I’ve been moving I can only imagine what’s going through Dave’s mind. I’m absolutely spent. I sag onto the anchor and wait for him to clean the pitch.
I eventually find the gumption to set out on the next pitch after the mental beating of the last. Despite a bit of loose rock, higher on the pitch I find some of the best aid climbing I’ve done. Aesthetic and sustained hooking on flakes and small features, protected by thin cams just often enough to keep it reasonable. I move steadily, smoothly, thrilled to have found the energy to be not just climbing this pitch, but climbing it well and loving it. I simply couldn’t have imagined this only one pitch below. And before I know it, I’ve reached the last pitch of my last lead block. I can’t tell whether it’s too soon, or just in time.
I bellyflop onto the ledge, shaking with exertion, after sending the block that just missed Dave. I try not to imagine how that could’ve gone differently as I fix the lead line and haul Wilbur, now hardly weighing anything. I can’t describe how good it feels to sit on a ledge and, 32 hours after leaving the ground, watch as Dave begins dispatching the three relatively easy pitches to the summit. Despite a complete mess of ropes at the last anchor, soon enough he is off belay. I jug, and coming over the summit I see Dave with that huge red beard that can’t hide an even bigger grin. “Ken… Did we just… push… Mescalito???”
Yeah buddy. We just pushed Mescalito.
Land ho! The summit nears as the author works his way to the “Ship’s Bow.” Photo by Tom Evans