Yosemite!

The Valley has long been an elusive dream of mine. But that dream has never involved any planning. I have no fantastic notions of scaling El Cap in a day, nope, there are no delusions of grandeur here. No lofty goals or even any hint of an idea as to which test pieces I should jump on or which classics I should try leading. The only fixated thought has been a simple desire to feel meadow grass beneath my feet, to see oceans of granite looming overhead, and spend idle hours taking in the energy of the world's most epic climbing destination. For many months I just wanted to get away from everything and everyone and be somewhere else entirely. I wanted freedom from the daily grind...The job, the bills, the vexation of living in a square apartment with cubical rooms and rectangular yards. Going in circles. Chasing tail and wondering Where could freedom lie? How could I attain Zen? For me, the answer lied in the heart of Yosemite. In the "spirit of the valley".

On May 21st, I set off from Bishop towards the Yosemite Valley with no expectations or presumptions, save for the assumption that poor weather would make a mountain pass unlikely. As it would turn out, the untimely Tioga Pass closure forced me to head Northward from Bishop and cross the Sierras near Lake Tahoe, then double back along the Western Range to enter near Mariposa. This came as no surprise, the road into Bishop was quite dreary, as was the morning weather. In the end, after the seven hour detour, I reached the long mountainous road into Yosemite National Park.

Ominous clouds looming over Bishop 

Waking Up in the Buttermilks to the threat of snowfall

The Road In; All clear on the western front

Just before the road begins to descend into the valley, after a rock tunnel but before a sharp turn downwards, I careened into a pullout to behold a truly inspiring scene. My first glimpse at this enormous Valley gave me a new appreciation for the term "jaw dropping". This viewpoint was a moment of great emotion and intensity. I savored it for some time, then dropped down into the Valley towards Bailiff, where a warm fire and cold beer awaited me.

 

The Upper Pines campground was a stage of activity. Doors were slamming open and shut on the campers and trailers that littered the campsite while smoke slowly coalesced upwards from the small camp fires that abounded. People walked and biked merrily greeting each other and cooking their dinners in the faint remaining light that was glimmering through the tall pines, which acted like cathedral glass, filtering the sun's beams in such a way as to portray a feeling of warmth, even in the crisp Spring air, making me feel very much at home.

That sentiment was further established by a much needed dinner with some beers Bailiff had kept on ice for me. We had met climbing in a gym in Gainesville, and after catching up over a meal we thumbed through the guidebook, thinking of which routes we should climb in the morning. I secretly wondered if he was as surprised as I was that I had made it. Of course, he had invited me. But that was months ago, and all I had said was I'd be there. There was no planning or logistics involved. Either I would show up or I would not, and Bailiff had made his plans without any assumption of my presence. Now that I was finally here, taking it all in, a very surreal feeling came over me. This felt quite like a dream, and I pinched myself under the picnic table for reassurance, and pinched my Shadow as well, and hoped that we wouldn't wake up in another cold dark parking lot. But we didn't. The next morning we woke up to this...

Half Dome

Bailiff and I spent the day surfing the granite ocean. To begin with, we set off on some classic cracks, eventually making our way towards a multi pitch slab endeavor; an enticing flake that flowed continuously upwards for several hundred feet.

Bailiff racking up

and ready to lead

 I followed Bailiff up to the top of the first pitch, where we tinkered with a shoddy old video camera and marveled at the scenery. From our highpoint above the tree line the Valley opened wide, views quickly became sweeping vistas, panoramas of a geological haven, and we could do little more than stare in awe of the grandness of it all. Suddenly then, very much unexpectedly, came the moment I had been yearning for all day, when Bailiff slid the trad rack from off the sling around his chest, and casually passed it over to me. I could see the weight, both literally and metaphorically, relieve itself from the chest of Bailiff, and land firmly onto my outstretched hand. No words were needed, no questions of whether or not I was ready, or if I felt up to leading Yosemite crack high above the Valley floor. From such a perch, there is no room for wasted time or careless errors, so without hesitation, I nodded with a feigned calmness, arranged the rack around my own chest, and, with grave seriousness, took to the sharp end of the rope. The intensity of your first leads force you into a rhythm, and I quickly found myself cruising up the flake, hand jamming into the crack while fumbling with cams, fidgeting to get comfortable and place something, anything, to protect me through this moment. But in all this movement, the shuffling of feet in and out of the crack, of hand over hand jamming through moderate lay backs and juggy underclings, skin scraping against the rough unpolished stone, in all the commotion of the hard metallic gear smacking against the even harder granite, and the loudness of my own breath, there was a profound stillness. A stillness that existed only in mind, and effectively quieted the loud metal clanking, hushed the rushing wind that channeled fiercely through this enormous valley, and even turned my own panting into a faint whisper, so that I could hear the emptiness of my own mediation, and then begin to hear the sounds of my heart beating, faintly and with high tempo at first, but becoming more and more discernible as it slowed. Was it my own physiological rhythm that was abating as I climbed higher, or was my brain chemistry being altered so it was only my perception of time that was changing? Were the intervals between each ventricular contraction really becoming larger? Luv Dup...Luv Dup...

Or perhaps that quantum quackery that postulates the observer gives rise to the universe is true, and in my own infinite power I was slowing time down to a stand still, to a singular point where the sharp granite and my own bleeding skin became one in a dance without music. In a sea without waves. Lost in intense emotion without thoughts. What a peculiar feeling to feel. What a strange thing it is to be anything at all.

Those are the simplest of moments to calculate. If from every decision were produced an infinite amount of vectors, then I can only think of two important concepts. To do, or don't do. Action and inaction. From those two concepts arise all experience. If I had turned down the opportunity to lead, I would not have experienced a few fleeting moments of stillness. Perhaps I would have continued being a competent and experienced belayer. But I took to that lead and, whether imagined or not, my brain felt transformed from experience. And because there was attained a natural euphoria, I can only speculate it was a positive transformation. One that builds rather than destroys. Whereas turning down an opportunity for a new experience is an apparently safe thing, but apparent only from the perspective of immediate familiarity, and safe only from the perspective of immediate comfort. But just outside those zones of familiarity and comfortable stagnation lie great unknowns. In that uncharted darkness that exists from moment to moment, intertwined into the fabric of every decision, of every instant for action or inaction, lies an abyss of potential results, each with its own lessons, consequences, and transformative qualities, and they become illuminated the instant the observer discovers them. I urge you into action. Particularly, action into new experience, so that you too can discover moments turning inward, where the interconnectedness of all things becomes as apparent as the disconnection that existed before it. When you snap back into reality, you may have learned, by success or from failure, you may have felt a transformation, of mind or of body, and you may wake up in another place, another time, coming back into another mind. I woke up on top of that pitch and looked down towards the reality I would be snapping back into. When that fleeting stillness did pass, Bailiff and I tied the ropes together and began the long rappel. Back down to earth. Both of us grinning ear to ear and carrying good news to spread to the others down below. That life is very good indeed. I felt very thankful to the stone for reminding me of that, and because I am feeling quite inspired from within the log cabin coffee house in the quaint little town of Sisters, OR from where I sit, drink mate, and write, I am spreading the message here. Life is very good indeed. It is a simple message that I go to great lengths to rediscover, time and time again. That is why I go to the high places. To obtain these simple messages that were awaiting me on seemingly distant ledges. That is why I keep coming back, tying in to the sharp end, knotting the eight that symbolizes infinity, time and time again, over and over, bringing down with me all the lessons, consequences, and transformations that I can harvest from the high places of the mind. 

Rockin' Out in Sin City

So the Vegas REI was holding our 9.5mm 60m Mammut Infinity rope that we had ordered over the phone from Flagstaff, and while I primarily embarked upon this road trip to escape the dregs of civilized culture and modernized madness, I found myself driving towards the heart of The American Dream that Dr. Gonzo himself had entered, and promised myself that I would remain outside of the city and limit my stay to the surrounding rocks. Fortunately those rocks abound, and as I drove towards the flashing lights of Las Vegas I became giddy with the idea of climbing them.

When I pulled into the REI parking lot I was surprised to see an enormous apocalyptic cloud descending upon Las Vegas. I ran into the REI to pick up my rope with the hope that I may get some climbing in before the world ends. But, once inside, I was distracted by all the shiny stuff. So after drooling over trad gear for about an hour I thumbed through the Red Rock climbing guide book, took some route description pictures with my phone on the sly, and then stumbled upon a copy of High Infatuation, a book by one of my climbing idols, Steph Davis. By the time I made my way to the register with my rope and Steph Davis' book (I couldn't resist), I had forgotten all about the doom that lay outside, but I took these pictures just in case the world actually was ending.

Seriously...This thing was scary

I pointed it out for ya

One of the REI employees, a climber himself, gave me some info on where to camp at Red Rock for free. Later I would find out that I could have received a hefty fine had I been discovered by the BLM, who have a reputation for being very strict and unforgiving, and according to a local, had recently shot and killed a drunk pedestrian some weeks ago.  But I didn't know all this my first night, and made myself comfortable in the parking area of the Black Velvet Canyon access trail, where the lights of the city shined bright until morning came.

Parking

Well, in the morning I had planned to meet up with a dude from MountainProject to do some good ol' sport climbing in the Black Corridor. But before I would drive back up towards the Red Rock entrance, I jumped on the Mountain Bike for a morning ride.

The Morning View

This Lucky Duck went Riding!

Shade is a luxury in the desert

After riding I was severely parched, so Shadow and I made our way onto the scenic loop road, a meandering one way street that gives you a drive by tour of the Red Rock Canyon. I parked at the second pullout and met with Matt (I think that was his name) and and we set off to hop boulders and toss Shadow up onto high ledges in order to access the narrow canyon known as the Black Corridor, a a a rocky trench that was as wide as my wingspan. We found amazing sport climbs on either side of the corridor. There were plenty of 10's and 11's on high quality sandstone, filled with large huecos that made perfect knee bars and even hip-in-wall rest areas. It was good fun! And we both onsighted all the 10c's and d's, with cruxes pulling over the final roof. I highly recommend a stop there if you like sport climbing.

The approach

An R rated arete

As the day dwindled down we decided it was time to head to California. The plan was to stop in Bishop, where poor weather awaited. But if the storms passed quickly, we could then make our way up through the Tioga Pass and be in Yosemite by Wednesday, where Bailiff would be awaiting us.

Goodbye Red Rock