There is a force that compels some to the walls, a drive that pulls at the heartstrings of every true wall climber, an innate and incomprehensible desire to experience the vertical. I felt the precursors of that force awaken within me upon my arrival in Yosemite Valley four years ago. I was instantly and completely taken aback by the towering big walls. I knew that climbers had been scaling them for decades, but looked incredulously at the steep and blank faces that rose from the valley floor. My mind toyed with the idea of climbing El Capitan, a concept that teetered on the very edge of possibility.
There is a force that compels some to the walls, a drive that pulls at the heartstrings of every true wall climber, an innate and incomprehensible desire to experience the vertical.
A friend once told me that I do nothing in moderation. His statement struck me as something wholly true about my personality. Some have called me intense. I focused that energy into learning everything I could about the techniques, logistics, and strategies of big wall climbing. I was constantly climbing in my mind; it consumed my life in those early days. I climbed every pitch twenty times before ever experiencing it in the physical world. I learned quickly.
Self-taught big wall climbers must first survive their first year. My friends and I tested ourselves on introductory walls and began to grasp what it truly meant to climb. We endured our own miniature epics: eighty foot falls while hauling, simul-climbs of off-route off-widths, broken ankles and dehydrated summit dashes. That first year of wall climbing brought me twice to the summit of El Capitan, and to the top of Leaning Tower solo. I was drawn to the adventure, to a new way of life that seemed alien to me. Big wall climbing introduced me to a mentality that seemed pure. I was in love.
Photo Tom Evans
My obsession with climbing oftentimes manifested itself in hours of reading and re-reading guidebooks. I stumbled on a topo for a route called KAOS. It is an A4+ route to the west of Zenyatta Mondatta on El Capitan that Steve Gerberding and Dave Bengston established in 1995. KAOS is a modern aid climbing test piece characterized by incipient features on steep rock climbed with beaks and hooks. I scoped the rock through which the route travels and was struck by the audacity of the first ascent party. Again an idea danced upon my mind at the very brink of possibility. Would I ever be able to climb KAOS? No, that was surely not the realm for any mortal man. But the idea had already been implanted.
The following years brought trials into my life, both on and off the wall. I went through a divorce, I was dissatisfied with my work and profession, and I found myself distant from the people in my life. I became disillusioned with the normal world and questioned its meaning. My reaction to all this was to delve even further into big wall rock climbing. In June of 2014, I took a forty foot ground fall after starting up Lunar Eclipse on El Capitan. I was lucky and walked away with a second chance.
Before the accident, I was climbing almost as if nothing else mattered. I trusted wholly in the process of climbing and was pushing too hard, believing recklessly that nothing bad would come of it. I let hubris take ahold of me. I felt good on the walls and life made sense when I was up there. I felt distant from the rigors of real life. I felt invincible. The accident made apparent the intrinsic error in this line of thought. Recovery demanded that I re-prioritize my life. I realigned myself with family and with others that I love, I committed to approaching Yosemite as a career (I sought to merge my profession with my passion), and I vowed to both live and climb in a more balanced and respectful manner. I would still climb. Rock climbing was the vehicle that brought me to truth, but I would do it differently.
I would still climb. Rock climbing was the vehicle that brought me to truth, but I would do it differently.
I returned to big wall climbing after a short hiatus to allow for physical recovery, and worked hard to surpass the mental blocks that had me questioning even two foot runouts above solid protection. I climbed cautiously but learned how to do so efficiently. I learned that speed does not require elimination of all safety protocols. The years after my accident brought hundreds more leads that taught me to appreciate entire systems rather than singular pieces of equipment. I trained myself to know when it was okay to push it, when it wasn’t, and then how to fully commit. I rebuilt myself and became a better and wiser climber. I often dreamt of KAOS.
My confidence and experience grew as the spring of 2016 drew near. I wondered if I was ready to approach KAOS. I had tested myself on El Capitan A4 and on steep Jim Beyer Leaning Tower A4+. I was inspired by the wondrous powers of beaks on aid climbs, and the thin reputation of KAOS excited me. I would never do it if I waited until I felt absolutely ready- there would always be an excuse. I had trained myself, and I felt physically and mentally prepared.
Tito Krull agreed to be my partner and we took a load to the base, both of us working to mentally commit before leaving the ground. Tito had limited wall experience but had been a great partner on previous trips. I knew that his infallible stoke would foster positive morale en route, even through the intimidating climbing. He crushed the A3+ first pitch (the hardest he had ever climbed) and fixed to the ground. Our gear was at the base, the first pitch was fixed, and I had an eager and competent partner. There were no more excuses- it was time to commit. I was intimidated but thrilled. This was going to be an adventure.
We blasted on May 26, 2016. I led pitches two and three, both long A3+ pitches composed of exciting beak corners, hook traverses, and reachy rivet ladders. Tito took the sharp end for pitch four, an A2 pitch with an awkward chimney section that brought us to the base of the crux pitch leading into the Gray Circle. As if I wasn’t apprehensive enough about the climbing to come, an impressive thunderstorm rolled into Yosemite Valley as Tito built the anchor and began hauling bags.
Photo Tom Evans
We rushed to put up the portaledge fly and prepared for the seemingly inevitable rain. I lied back on the portaledge and stared up at the crux pitch. I was consumed by inner dialogue and fear. Few times in my life have I been so scared. I wanted to throw up. I began making excuses for not climbing the pitch that day. With the incoming weather, what was the sense in climbing the pitch then? At the same time though, I knew quite well that it was only fear urging me to stall. The storm had already begun to wane. It took only an instant, there was a click in my mind, and I knew that committing to the pitch right then was the only real choice. I had a moment of clarity.
I launched into the pitch, forcing myself to trust the hooks that brought me through the initial climbing. I found a beak seam that accepted fairly good tomahawks, and I realized then that I was enjoying myself. Sustained beaks and hooks brought me far from the stability of the anchor, and into an alternate state of awareness. My systems flowed seamlessly without a guiding thought, and my mental commitment was unwavering. The placements streamed along, guiding me through the alien world I found myself in. Hard aid leads bring me to a mindset that I have not experienced elsewhere. I embody a high level of focus, a oneness not only with myself but with the world around me. On this pitch, a long fall surely awaited if I messed up, but I knew that I was safe. I was in my element. I was home.
Hard aid leads bring me to a mindset that I have not experienced elsewhere. I embody a high level of focus, a oneness not only with myself but with the world around me.
I clipped the anchors at the top of the pitch, and was thankful for the rock granting me passage. I reveled in the feeling of empowerment that awakened within me. I sat at the anchor and laughed through tears of joy. Only on walls have I ever cried with joy a mere two hours after being afraid to the point of nausea. Tito and I continued to the top over the next two glorious days.
Many often ask why we climbers do these things. KAOS reminded me of my own personal answer. My experience on KAOS was a condensed and purified version of all that I hoped life could be. It demanded that I perform at my best. Years of technical, physical, and mental preparation brought me to the brink on KAOS, and I was truly happy as I climbed through it.