“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place?” —Rene Daumal
The answer to this question had been obvious to me my whole life. Like all great climbers, I was driven by curiosity – a curiosity to know what the world was like from above. As a restless schoolchild, I had wondered, with my hands gripped high on the refrigerator handle and by bare foot pressed into the countertop edge, what the glasses, plates, and bowls see, up there in the cupboard. In retrospect, I guess they probably saw the top of my mother’s head as she hurried to snatch me, rescuing my tired fingers as they began to slip.
As a young adolescent, I speculated, as my worn tennis shoes fought to keep traction on the slick roof of my cabin, that the crest of the roof might provide a better view into the Montana valley below. I learned one summer later, to the displeasure of my mother, that the chimney provided a still-better vista.
Yet, nothing compares to the panorama of Yosemite Valley from the granite slabs of El Capitan. With chalk-dusted fingers digging into jagged-cracks, forearms burning, and a brisk breeze tugging at your shirt, nothing is more exhilarating than watching the dots of excited tourists explore the National Park below. On occasion, a friendly warbler will land in a hole in the rockface, squawking words of encouragement as you pull yourself towards your next carabiner-checkpoint.
From my love for heights, you might reason that I am naturally impulsive, reckless, and unsafe. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Now, as a trained professional climbing instructor, safety is my top priority. My climbing tours company, YosemiTours, requires all instructors and guests to follow strict safety guidelines, like wearing tight harnesses around our wastes, wearing helmets, and using special knots to secure ourselves into the side of the rock face. As a guide, I have the further responsibility of chiseling secure metal anchors into the rock for belaying, facilitating safe climbing practices, and suggesting appropriate routes for climbers of varying experience-levels.
Combined, these safety measures allow climbers and guides to feel at ease while enjoying Yosemite’s world-renowned rock walls. And let me tell you, there is seldom more satisfying than viewing from below, as enthusiastic novices scamper up the first stages of El Cap for the first time.
So, as I watched Antony begin his first day of his climbing trip throughout the American west, I was excited and honored to be his private guide.
Antony was an older man – late 60s – from a small town in Italy. With a passion for climbing perhaps rivaling that of my own, Antony had lined up over two weeks of private climbing sessions in California, Nevada, and Montana. I had been assigned to guide him up the first third of El Capitan’s Nose, as the entire climb would take a man of his age over 24 hours to complete. As our feet left the ground early on a Wednesday late in August, Antony’s excitement was radiant. Our goal was to make it to the nose and back in just under six hours, allowing us plenty of time to rest before our descent back into Yosemite valley.
The day was hot, typical for the valley in late summer. This didn’t seem to affect Antony. He was a seasoned climber, and he knew what he was getting himself into. As we approached the half-way point, I called up to Antony, who was resting on a ledge after clipping his line into the carabiner, asking if he’d like to stop for a rest. We had been making good time. Antony agreed to stop, commenting on the cars far below us, specs of metal crawling along the narrow roads of Yosemite valley. They looked like ants.
I grabbed a granola bar from my pack with my left hand, using my right hand to pull myself into the rock face. My toes were pressed firmly into a 3-inch divot in the granite, a relatively comfortable spot for a snack. As I enjoyed my treat, I watched the crumbs blow out of the wrapper, drifting slowly downwards into the valley. I wondered if Antony had any snacks in his pack that he could enjoy.
I looked up again, seeing the old man beaming down at the valley. What a day to see the world from above! I called up to him again, asking if he had a snack and enough water in his flask. He said he had Italian cookies and plenty of water. As if to demonstrate, he unzipped his pack with one hand, keeping the fingers of his other hand squeezed tightly into a small hole in the granite, and pulled out a small package of cookies. Clamping the package between his knees, Antony cleaned the chalk from his left hand, and stooped to tear open the package. He ripped it open, and a few cookies spilled out, flying past my face and into the abyss. He chuckled, and motioned to zip his pack. As he bent to close his pack, his weight shifted on the rock ledge. A small piece of granite crumbed under him, exploding into a white dust and a hail of small pebbles. Caught off guard, Antony jammed his fingers into the rock face, desperate to find traction. He found none with his left hand, moist from the absence of chalk, but the strong grip of his right-hand fingers was enough to keep him upright. His line swayed gently in the wind, clipped securely into the carabiner above his head. He straightened himself, caught his breath, and made another attempt at closing his pack. Antony’s experience and technique were evident, as a scare like this would be traumatizing for most newer climbers.
Yet, as I turned away to retrieve my own pack, I felt my line tighten with force. Above me, Antony grunted as he lost his balance on the rock ledge, swinging like a door such that his back was flung into the wall. His right heel stood precariously on the edge of the ledge and his right hand fingers were clearly losing their strength. Then, disaster.
As he motioned to adjust himself, a strong gust of wind slammed the rock face, knocking him sideways. The line caught him, but yanked me off balance in the process. Trained for falls, I quickly regained my footing, but Antony did not. He drifted high above, supported only by his harness and the line that connected it to the carabiner. He resembled a fly caught in a spiderweb, suspended helplessly in midair, several meters out of reach of the rock face. He growled a profanity, kicking his leg out to try and gather momentum to direct himself back to the wall. Yet, this only caused him to swing side to side in the air. His backpack, which had been pressed onto the ledge by his leg, was no longer supported. It tumbled off the ledge, careening narrowly past my head and down into the valley, ricocheting off protrusions in the rock face until it was too small to see.
Meanwhile, Antony was in trouble. His once calm, experienced demeanor was nowhere to be found. He began twisting in the air, desperately swiping at the rock face that was well out of reach. As he did this, the line groaned under the stress of the increased weight. As this happened, I felt myself pullied a few inches up the rock wall, causing me to once again lose connection with my outstretched toes. The sun had slid behind a cloud, casting a shadow across the valley far below. I could no longer make out the glint of the cars.
The rope hissed again, this time splintering into several smaller ropes, twisted together. It was then that I realized that if I didn’t do something soon, the line was going to break and Anthony was going to fall. I yelled up to the panicked climber, instructing him to stay absolutely still. I was going to try and lower him down to me. I uncleated the line from my harness, allowing it to slide through my fingers. Slowly, Antony’s body lowered closer and closer until he rested about 2 meters above my head. Then, with a loud snap, he accelerated past me, followed by fractures of defeated nylon string, drifting in the wind. He was out of sight in seconds.
And that was it. Antony was gone, forever, and I was alone. Not to mention, I was without a functioning line. My hands pooled with sweat. I was going to die up here, or worse, down there. For what felt like hours, I clung to the side of the face, wind whipping my back. I felt weak, lightheaded, and utterly lost. As the whuring of helicopter blades came into earshot, I finally felt my toes begin to slip. My wrists burned, my fingers were on fire, and I had nothing left. As a man in a harness reached out to take hold of my arm, I felt myself pass out of consciousness.