The approach

I’m really starting to like El Cajon, the more I go.  It’s close to my house (30 minute drive) and though it’s a bit of a slog to get to the base of the cliff (1,800 feet of elevation gain over ~2 miles), it feels wild and secluded.  It’s an enormous wall as compared to Mission Gorge and the other climbing venues near metropolitan San Diego.  I also like the texture of the rock itself, which isn’t too slick or chossy at all.

Nearly there

At the start

Getting to the wall does take some time, but I’m happy to report that we found the proper start and saved ourselves the awful bushwhacking at the beginning.  The weather was good and I think it was cold enough to keep the rattlesnakes in their dens.  Hiking up through the tall grass, I’m always worried that I will stick my hand into a snake’s open mouth.

The last time we were here, it was sunny and hot and we underestimated how much water we’d need.  By the time we finished rapping down from the top of Leonids (5.9), we were seriously dehydrated.  This trip, I brought 3 liters of water and a big Gatorade, and hydration was not a problem.  I also enjoyed some M&M’s while we hung out at the top of pitch one.  There’s nothing like a mouthful of M&M’s to draw one’s attention away from the fact that your toe feels as if it is about to break off.  But that is a story for another day.

Ryan at the start of Bright Eyes (5.6)

Ryan and I have climbed together a fair amount, but this would be his first trad lead.  I was excited for him, because this route was one of my first trad climbs and I remember what it felt like to enter that chimney, not knowing what to expect.  I gave him some beta and off he went.  He told me that he intended to “sew it up”, a strategy that any new leader would be wise to follow.

Upward progress

Approaching the crux of the climb

In order to climb safely, the leader must place protection into the rock at frequent intervals.  Leaving the ground, the leader might carry 15 or 20 pieces of gear, along with all the associated slings and carabiners that are needed to attach the rope.  Figuring out when and where (and how) to place this gear is both art and science, and this is really what makes trad climbing so fun.  If you place too many pieces at the beginning of the climb, you could run out before you reach the end.  If you don’t place your pieces at smart intervals, you risk hitting something should you fall.

The belay

Any new leader is faced with a serious problem.  There is no way of really knowing if your placements are sound, unless you actually fall on them.  So you climb conservatively, well below your personal limit, and slowly gain experience placing gear.  But until you take that first whipper, how do you really know?  How can you trust that little chunk of aluminum is going to catch you, should you fall?  Even if you climb with a mentor who has vast experience, at some point, you have to cast off on your own and put the theory to the test.  And in doing so, you are taking a calculated risk.  But I suppose that this is one of the rewards of trad climbing.  High on the rock, you have to be pretty clear-headed about what you’re doing and why.  Nothing else matters.  There are moments of gripping terror, and then sweet relief when you sink that cam into a fat crack.

Bright Eyes (5.6)

Praying to the gods?

Sewing it up

Ryan led the first pitch slowly and methodically, and he did a much better job of protecting the climb than I did a few months ago.  I think I got a little nonchalant in the chimney section, opting to gun for the top rather than spend time looking for the best pro.  I made a mental note to be more conservative on future climbs, especially so early in my climbing career.

Belay station

El Capitan Reservoir

I led the second pitch, which felt pretty easy except for the very last section, which was a bit exposed.  Ryan commented that the top of pitch 2 felt just as hard as the chimney in pitch 1, but I disagreed.  Perhaps it was my broken toe, but I felt totally insecure as I was stemming up that thing.

Up high

Rapping down

And no, my toe isn’t really broken (at least I don’t think it is).  It just hurts like hell, and stemming is not my friend right now.  Time for more ibuprofen.

I asked Cy if he would be interested in a hike up Mt. Woodson, which isn’t far from my house.  We huffed and puffed our way up the steep road, and even old Newbie was having a hard time with the grade.  Pushing our matching Bob strollers, I’m sure we were quite the sight to behold.

Baby Hike

Z-bug

Mac

Newbie took care of some business at the bottom of the hill, which meant that I wouldn’t have to lug a bag of crap the whole way.  Unfortunately, he dragged his leash through the poop before I could clean it up, and I inadvertently got feces on my hands.  This created a bit of a conundrum, since my hands now stunk of poo and I would need to handle and feed the poor Z-bug.  Oh well, what are you going to do?  I decided to rub my hands together furiously, in an effort to kill any bacteria with friction and heat.  I’m pretty sure it worked.

Newbie

The diving board

The precarious remains of a giant exfoliated boulder sits near the top of Mt. Woodson, and we decided to take some photos.  The rock is  frighteningly thin at its edge, and it makes for a wonderful photo.  If you stand on the edge and bounce up and down, you can actually feel the rock flex underneath you, and it feels like a diving board.  My New Dad’s Handbook didn’t mention anything about this type of activity being unsafe, so I’m sure it was fine.

Cy and Mac

Jason and Zanatos

The keen observer will notice that I am standing much closer to the edge than Cy.  Having stood on this rock before, I felt confident that it would support our weight.  Also, Cy is a bit of a weenie, if you must know.  Just kidding.  He’s more responsible than I am.

Adventure Baby

Z-bug was getting tired and hungry, so we packed the kids up and began our descent.  I decided to hold off on feeding Zane until I got a chance to clean off my poo hands, though he didn’t thank me or show any appreciation.  I thought that was rude of him.

Z-bug frown

View from the summit of Mt. Woodson

Cy and Mac

The approach - the Red Rocks Loop Road

Calico Hills

It had rained the day before, and I was worried that the rock (sandstone) would be too soft to climb.  There’s something unnerving about scaling a cliff that is essentially compacted sand.  As we drove into the park, we saw a bunch of other climbers (little dots on the wall) and this helped to alleviate my fears.  The rock must be safe, right?

Hiking in

It's much colder than it appears

It had been a few weeks since I last climbed, and I didn’t feel ready to jump on anything hard.  Hell, I never feel ready to jump on anything hard.  I have plenty of fun on easy climbs, after all.  We decided to open the weekend with a jaunt up a bolted 2-pitch route called Man’s Best Friend (5.7).  The short approach involved a scramble up a 3rd class gully and an exposed traverse across some slabby sandstone.  I started feeling nervous when one of the holds broke off in my hand as I negotiated a ledge.  This sandstone is interesting stuff…

Standing at the base of Man's Best Friend (5.7)

The route starts near my shadow in the picture above.  It follows a prominent crack to a hanging belay where the rock transitions from gold to red.  I imagine the colors must represent the layers of some ancient sand dunes, but I wasn’t contemplating the geology while I climbed.  I was mainly thinking don’t fall.  The climbing was actually very fun and secure, and I reached the belay without incident.  Tom followed and soon joined me at our uncomfortable perch, about halfway up the wall.

Starting up the crack

In case you’re wondering, I don’t make a habit of mugging for photos while my belayer releases the rope.  If you look close, I’m clipped into a bolt and hanging there on tether.  I politely asked Tom to take this picture with one hand, while keeping the other on the brake, just to be safe.

The start of Man's Best Friend

At the first anchor

View from the top

We eventually reached the top, where it was windy and freezing ass cold.  We enjoyed the view for a minute or two, and then began rigging the rappel to get back to the ground.  I rapped down to the first anchor and tied in, and Tom cleaned the top anchor and joined me a few minutes later.

Tom rapping down

Tom at the top

We reached the ground safely (two rappels) and relaxed at the base for a bit.  It was getting colder now, and we were tired from the long day of travel.  The loop road closes at 5 pm, and we decided to call it a day and head back to the city for food and drinks.

I wanted to climb Physical Graffiti (5.6) the next day; a long 2-pitch trad route that the guidebook gives 3 stars.  As it turns out, we ate two dinners (the first at 5 pm, the second at 10 pm) and then drank and gambled well into the night.  No, an early start was not in the cards.  We forced ourselves out of bed at 10 am the next day, and after a confusing attempt at ordering breakfast at Burger King, we were back in Red Rocks by mid day.  A late start, to be sure.

Rather than attempt a multi-pitch trad climb while hungover, we decided to head to the Panty Wall, a popular beginner’s area with numerous face climbs in the 5.7-9 range.  There were no fewer than 4 other parties on the wall, but we found an unoccupied route for ourselves and tied in.

Panty Wall

I felt like crap.  I was tired and dehydrated, and I was still ruminating over the money I’d lost playing blackjack at The Mirage.  Looking up at the route, I could see plenty of holds, but there appeared to be serious deck potential up until the 3rd bolt (about 25 feet high).  I shot Tom a look that said, “Watch me, buddy” and started up the climb.  I felt a sense of relief when I clipped that 3rd bolt.  I reached the top and lowered off, and then Tom climbed the route on top rope.  I climbed it a second time on top rope, and then we pulled the rope while leaving the 3rd bolt clipped.  Tom, with a little prodding, was ready to attempt his first lead climb.  Well, a quasi-lead, anyway.  I don’t think he wanted any part of those first 25 feet, and I don’t blame him.

A year ago, Tom was belaying me as I started up my first lead, and now our roles were reversed.  Good times.

Tom leading The Last Panty (5.7)

I was still feeling like crap, so we decided to call it a day.  I would have gladly top-roped some more climbs, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with the leads.  I could tell that Tom wanted to climb some more, but unless he was willing to take the sharp end, we were done.

Which way is the car?

Tom

Giant pocket

The womb

Or so I thought.  We made it back to the car by 3 pm, and I suddenly felt a sense of urgency.  I had packed all this trad gear out to Vegas and I hadn’t even used it!  We drove a couple miles down the road and parked at the base of an arcing crack called Fender Bender (5.6).  I was rushing things, because we had to be out of the park by 5 pm (or face a $120 fine).  I quickly racked my gear and began eyeballing the route.  It looked as if the first opportunity for protection would be about 12 feet off the ground, and then another 12-15 feet before the crack offered any solid pro.  Ahh, what to do?  Tom wasn’t exactly enthusiastic at this point, but I figured I could start up and scope it out, and always bail if need be.  And that’s exactly what I did.  I made it to the first piece of pro, a tiny pocket that would accept a small cam.  Looking up, then down, then out towards the horizon…  screw it.  This wasn’t smart climbing and it certainly wasn’t fun climbing.  I carefully downclimbed back to the base and we called it a day.

The start of Fender Bender (5.6)

On Saturday, four of us ventured out to the crag to climb the 3-pitch classic Leonids (5.9).  The 350 foot route is fun and sustained face climbing up a well-protected line that finishes above the Triton Tower, a large wedge-shaped rock that juts out from the face of El Cajon Mountain.

We passed a couple of hunters on the approach.  Four climbers crashing through the brush and a couple of old codgers in full camo, whispering to us, “Be careful… it’s deer season…”

After 1,800 feet of elevation gain, we reached the bottom of the climb.  We decided to climb in two parties, one right after the other.  Ryan and I would go first, followed by Joey and Joel.  I should note that these photos are all courtesy of Ryan, who brought along his point-n-shoot.

Searching for the start

Looking up at the wall, one sees lots and lots of bolts.  Everywhere.  I suppose that might turn some people off, but I don’t really mind at all.  When I see shiny bolts stretching as far as the eye can see, I’m thinking protection.  If we were in a pristine mountain environment I would probably think different, but this was East San Diego County, after all.

We spent some time searching for the start, and then I set off to lead pitch one.  The holds were small and the climbing was very sustained, and I called for tension so that I could rest at a couple of bolts.  I might have started with a desire to flash the route (to climb it clean without any hanging) but I gave that up after passing through the crux, which left me feeling unnerved and shaky.

Gearing up for the start

It took me about 25 minutes to reach the 2-bolt hanging belay, about 175 feet off the ground.  I used a couple of runners to build a redundant sliding-X anchor, and then brought Ryan up by belaying directly from the anchor using my Black Diamond Guide.  Shortly after Ryan set off, Joel led with his own rope and draws.  The system worked pretty well, and my only complaint was the uncomfortable hanging stance, which was absolute murder on our feet.  It would have been uncomfortable enough if we were swinging leads as a party of 2, but the fact that there were 4 of us made for longer transitions.

Ryan was feeling confident, and he decided to lead the second pitch.  He cast off, leaving me and Joel hanging at the anchor.  We spent the next 30 minutes complaining to each other how bad our feet hurt.  A bit later, Joey made it up to the belay and the three of us winced and shifted our weight around as we waited for Ryan to complete the pitch.  Ryan got stuck on the final move below the anchor, and at one point he yelled at us, “What are my options here?!”  With 160 feet of rope paid out, I had to inform him that his best option was to figure out a way up.  I knew he was scared and out of his comfort zone, but the other option involved downclimbing the route, which would be even worse.  Anyone who leads will eventually face a situation where they are gripped with fear, and learning to deal with that fear is an important part of climbing.  I won’t speculate what thoughts might have been running through Ryan’s head, but he found a way past the crux and he finished the pitch.  I am positive he is a better climber, having faced it.

Looking down from the top of the second pitch

Ryan brought me up the second pitch, with Joey behind on his first lead.  I would occasionally look down and smile – it sure felt good knowing that I was on top-rope.  I was able to enjoy the climbing and the view.  I arrived at the second belay and after some route-finding and discussion, set off on the third pitch, which was surprisingly exposed.  I’m not sure that the moves themselves were difficult, but this short pitch involved a traverse up a little ramp and around an exposed corner, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Ryan joined me soon after, and we started our rappels.  I descended to the top of the Triton Tower and we made 4 more very exposed raps back down to the ground.  I’ll be honest – I don’t enjoy rappelling at all.  You’re 100% dependent on your equipment and there are just so many opportunities for something to go wrong.  I’m paranoid about the rope getting stuck or tangled, and on one of the raps I found myself hanging from a 2-bolt anchor with one of the knotted ends caught on a flake about 30 feet away.  It was a windy day, and it might have been safer to forgo the knots and just be extra vigilant about the rope ends.  Ryan was able to clear the jam on his way down, but it was still unnerving.  We were descending the face of the tower which appeared to be 5.11+ climbing – it wouldn’t be fun trying to climb back up, in an emergency.  We made it down safely, and from start to finish, the climb took us exactly 5 hours.

Joey

Joel at the top

The second "comfortable" belay

By the end of the day, I was seriously dehydrated.  I had consumed 64 fluid ounces of Gatorade since we started, but my mouth felt like sandpaper.  We stopped for a brief rest in the shade and all I could do was stand there like a zombie.  I looked over at Joey, who was pouring water over his head to cool down.  What the?  I felt like Steve Martin’s character in The Three Amigos, when they’re dying from thirst and Dusty Bottoms is gargling with water and offers them lip balm.

We hiked back to our cars as fast as we could and then reconvened at the 7-11 in Lakeside, where I bought a quart of chocolate milk, a 32 ounce Gatorade, and a 44 ounce Big Gulp of Coke.  I knew it was a mistake, but I filled my stomach with so much liquid that I nearly vomited on the way home.  I spent the rest of the evening fighting off leg cramps and drinking more fluids.  Coke never tasted so good.

It wasn’t hard at all to convince my mom to spend a few days in San Diego.  Armed with backup, Jasmine gave me the go-ahead and I was giddy at the thought of an escape into the wilderness.  It would be a short trip, but time has become a precious commodity these days.

Jasmine and Zanatos @ 6 weeks

In case you’re wondering, the answer is yes.  I will be posting pictures of my little bug on these pages, every chance I get.  I don’t have the time or energy to run another photo blog (not yet, at least).

My friend Ryan shares an interest in photography and climbing, and we had been talking about climbing the East Ridge of Mt. Russell.  Early season snow put an end to that plan, so we decided on the Dusy Basin, as our fall back destination.

We drove to Horseshoe Meadows to acclimate on Thursday night.  At 10,000 feet, it serves as an excellent camp before a trip into the high country.  I brought along my old North Face Snowshoe, a sleeping bag rated to zero degrees.  I shivered my ass off all night!  That’s the last time I use that bag for anything other than slumber parties.  I had no idea that synthetics lose so much loft, but then again, that bag is over 10 years old.  Fortunately, I also brought my new REI Expedition, which is rated to a frigid -20 degrees.  Overkill, I know, but I never got a chance to use it last winter, and I figured that a bivy near 14,000 feet would be a good initiation.

We drove to Bishop the next morning, ate at Schat’s Bakery, and collected our permit.  The plan was to hike into the Dusy Basin, spend a night, and then climb Mt. Agassiz (13,891 feet) and bivy near the summit the second night.  This would give us the opportunity to photograph the Palisade Crest and Palisade Glacier at sunrise, a longtime goal of mine.  We could see some peaks from the trailhead, and though there was snow, we decided to leave our crampons and ice axes in the car.  A decision that we would come to regret the following day, when we were halfway up the mountain and unprepared for the conditions.

South Lake

Halfway there

The trail to the Dusy Basin passes through a charming valley and then climbs up and over Bishop Pass (11,972 feet).  As we gained altitude, the small patches of snow continued to grow until we were hiking almost exclusively over a packed-down trail of the white stuff.  After four miles, we reached the bottom of the pass and started our ascent.

Looking back down the valley

Looking up towards Bishop Pass

Early season snow

Jason at the top

Our camp, Upper Dusy Basin

After setting up camp and relaxing for a bit, Ryan and I headed off in different directions to scout the area for some nice photos.  It was still well before sunset, but I wanted to investigate the area and find a nice location to shoot the  sunrise.  Sadly, as often is the case in the Sierra Nevada, I watched as the clouds slowly evaporated away, leaving behind nothing but clear blue sky.  I did manage to make a few images before the clouds disappeared entirely, though.

Upper Dusy Basin

The Palisades

Afternoon light

It was getting chilly and I dashed back to camp to add some layers and grab my headlamp.  There didn’t seem to be much hope that the Palisades or surrounding peaks would light up, so I prepared my dinner and relaxed for a while.  Before it got completely dark, I moved my tripod to the edge of the little ledge we were camped on, and prepared the camera for a wide angle view of the entire Dusy Basin.  The moon would be bright, and I figured it would be worth capturing an image illuminated by nothing but the soft lunar glow.  Ryan prepared his camera for a star-trails shot using his intervalometer, which would turn out pretty neat.

Dusy Moonscape

The next morning, I shot some more photos and we loafed around camp until it warmed up a bit.  Sometime after 10 am, we packed up our gear and made our way back to Bishop Pass.  From there, we headed off trail and towards a very large boulder at the base of Mt. Agassiz.  There, we ditched some unnecessary gear (bear canister, tent, etc.) and then eyed the various routes up the west side of the mountain.

Ryan surveys the routes up Mt. Agassiz

Mt. Agassiz’s western flank is lined with alternating spiny ribs and wide, talus-filled gullies.   We chose the widest and most benign-looking gully, and then started towards it’s base.  We reached the large snowfield pictured above, and quickly discovered that it was easier to zig-zag our way up the snow rather than try and boulder hop.  Ryan has some mountaineering experience, and he showed me the correct way to French step and front-point safely up the slope.  He kicked steps and led the way, making it very easy to follow.  We didn’t have our axes or crampons, but trekking poles helped us keep our balance.  The angle of the slope felt intimidating at first, but I gained confidence as we moved higher on the mountain.  Looking down at our zig-zagging steps was exhilarating to this first-time mountaineer.  The footing felt secure, but I wondered what the consequences of a slip might be.  It looked as if an uncontrolled slide down a 1/4 mile of snow would be the result.  So, I tried my best not to slip.

Our route up Mt. Agassiz

Ryan in the lead

Kicking steps is hard work

Following is easier

Not that easier

After reaching the top of the snow slope, we began boulder hopping our way into the gully.  Easier said than done – our packs were heavy and the snow was thigh-deep in places.  We slowly made our way up the gully, which was starting to narrow and steepen.  I was feeling committed now, and my heart was racing due to the exertion, the altitude, and the exposure.  The middle of the gully was buried in deep snow and ice.  We climbed along the steeper edge, where it felt safer to scramble up broken talus.  I was paranoid about pulling a giant boulder onto myself, so I made an effort to climb in balance, testing any rocks that looked suspect.

An hour later, we had navigated our way to the upper part of the gully, where it turned north towards the summit plateau.  We were getting close.  Unfortunately, what started as 3rd class scrambling was starting to feel more like climbing.  I checked my watch and it showed 13,000 feet – we were only 800 feet from the summit.  Looking up, I could see that Ryan had come to a halt at an awkward, exposed area.  He eventually pulled himself up and over some boulders and scrambled out of view.  It was my turn, and I spent several minutes searching for a better option.  I was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable.  A big flake of rock jutted out in front of me, but it seemed awfully precarious.  It must have weighed two hundred pounds (or more) and it was wedged in place by two meager points of contact with the surrounding boulders.  It felt solid, but I couldn’t bring myself to place my entire bodyweight on this flake to pull myself up.  If that flake blew, it would come crushing down on me and then we’d both tumble down the gully in a big, ugly mess.

I shouted up to Ryan and we began discussing our options.  It wasn’t long ago that we were in a similar situation – on scary terrain and trying to decide whether to go up or down.  I don’t remember my exact words, but they were something like, “This is horrifying…”  We talked some more and he said something along the lines of, “Well, I don’t want to die.”  I stemmed out as far as I felt comfortable, found a frighteningly small hold for my right hand, and then reached for a big sloper with my left.  Relying on the friction between my hand and the rock, I pulled myself up and over this little crux and breathed a sigh of relief.  That was an exposed climbing move with a 40 lb. pack on my back, and the thought of having to downclimb this terrain made me felt sick.

Lacking better equipment, we had reached the point where the risks outweighed the rewards.  We considered dumping our packs and continuing on to scout the route, but the real concern was getting back down, not up.  It’s almost always easier to go up than it is to descend.  If the weather turned sour, there was no way we would be able to downclimb this terrain in a snowstorm.  If we camped at the summit, the snow would likely ice over at night, making a morning retreat even more treacherous.  Hanging out at the summit until the following afternoon didn’t seem like an option, since we had to be home the following night.  It was a bittersweet decision, but we decided to turn around.

Later, Ryan mentioned that he was thinking about the newspaper headline during all this: Two Climbers Fall to their Deaths on Mt. Agassiz, Ice Axes and Crampons Left in Truck.

There's always next year

The descent

Walking down snow is easier than boulder hopping

Glissading down the final slope

We plunge-stepped our way quickly down the chute and back to the snow slope.  In retrospect, we should have stayed in the deep snow in the middle of the gully, rather than out on the exposed edge.  This would have certainly offered safe passage to the top.  Descending this slope in the morning would have been tricky, though, and there was no way of knowing how hard the snow would freeze at night.  In any case, I felt like we learned something about snow travel and how to read the terrain, and I walked away from the experience feeling as if we accomplished something.  And it was a heck of a lot of fun, too.

Instead of heading back down into the basin, we picked up our stashed gear and hiked up to a little knob above Bishop Pass.  From our campsite, we had outstanding views of Giraud Peak and the Black Divide to the west, and Hurd Peak to the north.  I wouldn’t get a chance to photograph the Palisade Crest from above, but some nice clouds appeared at sunset, and I came away with some keepers.

Sunset Over Hurd Peak

A small lake near Bishop Pass

I’ll close this post with my favorite picture from the trip.  On the hike out, as we approached the trailhead, we caught up to a small group of Asian hikers. 

“Hey Ryan, check it out.  Koreans.”

“How do you know they’re Korean??”

 ”Um, I can just tell.  It’s the way they’re walking, see how they hold they’re hands behind their backs like that?”  

They moved to the side of the trail and as we passed them by, I casually said kam-sam-nee-da which means thank you. They erupted in laughter and smiles.  At the trailhead, there was an even bigger group and I offered to take their picture.  From behind the camera, I said hana-dul-set (1-2-3) and then snapped the picture.  More smiles and laughter.  It was a ton of fun and I doubt they had any idea I had just used 90% of my Korean vocabulary in those two brief interactions.  Actually, I wonder if any of them suspected I was half Korean, or just some random white guy who knows a few Korean words.  We’ll never know.

My homies

The Last of the Bachelors

After some debate, Lakshan decided to celebrate the end of his bachelorhood with a surf trip to Pt. Mugu, just north of Malibu.  This is a story told in pictures, and possibly some odd quotes that won’t make a whole lot of sense unless you happen to be drunk.  Enjoy.

Stocking up on supplies

Band of Brothers and chair

As it turns out, the trailer came in very handy.  We stopped in Malibu for some groceries, and imagine my surprise when the guys returned with an office chair and a Roman column.  As the old saying goes, never pass up a free Roman column.

Camping essentials

Pillar of Truth

“The situation is that his guns are bigger than mine and he has more of them. We keep our heads down while his troops dig 30 yards of trench a day. When those trenches are 200 yards from the fort and within range, he’ll bring in his 15-inch mortars, lob explosive rounds over our walls, and pound us to dust.”

Rock, machete, tire iron, & pipe

Shoes with which we stomp

There is honor in this board

“Death and honor are thought to be the same, but today I have learned that sometimes they are not.”

Camp

Wave-riding apparatus

“I just dropped in to see how you boys was doing.”

Sycamore Cove, Pt. Mugu State Park

Steve showing off

Window of Truth

Campfire antics

“The whole world is set on fire.”

The morning after

Cy's special hash

“It was a war party. That means they’re going to be attacking up and down the frontier.”

Suiting up

Throwback boards

Mike and Mike

“There is a war on. How is it you are headed west?”

Hope there's surf

paddle out

“I saw nothing that would lead me to the conclusion that it was other than a raid by savages bent on thievery.”

Lopez

Lopez

“But he knew the consequences, and he stayed. Are those the actions of a criminal?”

Cy

Cy

Mike

“They’re going to hang you. Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?”

Lopez

Steve on his giant bodyboard

Cy

The layback

“I ain’t your scout. And we sure ain’t no damn militia.”

California day

Pelicans

Lopez

Jason

Lakshan

“Haven’t you got anything better to do on the lake today, Major?”

Steve

Cy and Lopez

Jason

“You’ve complimented me with your persistence and patience, but the decision I’ve come to is this. I would rather make the gravest of mistakes than surrender my own judgment.”

PCH

Wild fennel

Steve makes a discovery

“No, you submit, do you hear? You be strong, you survive… You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.”

-Steve referring to his precious fennel seed

Drying off

“Death and honor are thought to be the same, but today I have learned that sometimes they are not.”

The honorable one

Lakshan

“When the Grey Hair is dead, Magua will eat his heart. Before he dies, Magua will put his children under the knife, so the Grey Hair will know his seed is wiped out forever.”

Jaime and Mike

guys

“Nathaniel’s word’s been good on thie frontier a long time before you got here.”

Bedroom view

Cy

“They do not live their lives “by your leave”! They hack it out of the wilderness with their own two hands, bearing their children along the way!”

Buttered spuds

Buttered donut

Weird face

“Great Spirit, Maker of All Life. A warrior goes to you swift and straight as an arrow shot into the sun. Welcome him and let him take his place at the council fire of my people. He is Uncas, my son. Tell them to be patient and ask death for speed; for they are all there but one – I, Chingachgook – Last of the Mohicans.”

Parting shot

A few weeks ago, I contacted Bob Gaines, owner of Vertical Adventures and co-author of a popular Tahquitz guidebook.  Interesting tidbit: Bob was a climbing double for William Shatner in Star Trek: The Final Frontier (1989).  I was interested in hiring a professional guide to lead me up a moderate multi-pitch at Tahquitz Rock, home to some of the finest alpine climbing this side of Yosemite.  My new climbing buddy Ryan was interested in joining, and we spent the day at Suicide Rock with guide Tony Grice.  Tony is a certified AMGA Rock Instructor and has logged lots of mileage on everything from the big walls in Yosemite to adventure routes in the Sierra.  We did some mock leads on top rope and practiced anchor building and swinging leads up a 3rd class gully.  It was a great learning experience, and Ryan and I spent the following weekend at Mission Gorge doing some more gully practice, and then I led the 2-pitch Skyline Pinnacle (5.7).  Technically, we felt ready to tackle an easy multi-pitch a Tahquitz.

A bit of history.  Growing up, I knew this granite wall as Lily Rock.  My grandparents owned a cabin in nearby Pine Cove, and I must have been four or five the first time I laid my eyes on the towering pinnacle.  I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the late 70′s, when Tobin Sorenson, John Long, and John Bachar were climbing hard and putting up new routes that would later become classics.  It was the era of the Stone Masters, but I was busy catching bull frogs and dragonflies at Lake Fulmor.

On our guide day, I left San Diego early so that I could visit the old cabin.  My grandpa passed away about 20 years ago, and my grandma sold the cabin a few years later.  It’s hard to believe that so much time has passed.  I drove up to the cabin just as the sun was starting to rise, and it looked exactly as I remember it.  I was hit by a flood of memories.  On cold winter days, my sister and I would clamber down the stairs and spend the mornings sitting on the bottom steps, directly in front of the heater.  My grandma would make delicious pancakes and we would watch the scrub jays eat walnuts on the front porch railing.  Idyllwild, Pine Cove, and Lily Rock all hold a special place in my heart, and my very first backpacking trip was with my uncle up Devil’s Slide Trail, out of Humber Park.  These are some of my fondest memories from my childhood.  The fact that Jasmine had just given birth to our first child a week earlier did nothing to quell the emotion I was feeling!  I’m not a terribly spiritual person, but I found myself talking to my grandpa, and telling him about my life and my new son.

So, in a nutshell, leading a climb up Lily Rock would be a special experience.

Our cabin in Pine Cove

Zane @ 3 weeks

Ryan and I departed for Tahquitz at 4 am with a very serious goal; we would climb The Trough (5.4), a 400 foot, 4-pitch route that served as the path of first ascent in 1936 (read: the easiest route up the face).  Having led a few 5.6′s and 7′s with relative comfort, I didn’t expect The Trough to be quite so intimidating.  As it turns out, the old-school ratings at Tahquitz live up to their reputation, and I found myself surprised at the difficulty.  Although I’m getting better at dealing with exposure, I’ve never felt nearly as committed as this.  When you’re 300 feet high on the rock and nearing the end of the rope, with only a few pieces of remaining pro hanging from your harness, there is something about life and the consequences of your actions that becomes crystal clear.  At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I felt alive.

The Trough (5.4)

We arrived at Humber Park just before dawn.  Being so new to trad climbing, let alone multi-pitch, we knew it would be slow-going and we wanted to get an early start.  I sure as hell didn’t want to be stuck up there in the dark.  I planned to lead all the pitches and Ryan would follow and clean, and we racked up in the parking lot and started up the Ernie Maxwell Trail to the base of the rock.  Twenty minutes later, we realized we had passed the signed turn-off for the climber’s path, and we turned around.  We hoped this would be the first and only route-finding error of the day.  Unfortunately, it would be the first of three.

Gear check

About 45 minutes later, we had huffed and puffed our way up to Lunch Rock, at the base of the west face of Tahquitz.  It wasn’t long ago that I was in pretty decent shape, but the recent lack of exercise due to my kid (and laziness) quickly became apparent.  We scrambled up some 3rd class ledges to gain access to the start of The Trough (or so we thought).  We were already off route but we didn’t know it.

Lunch Rock as the sun rises to the east

Near pitch 1, and already off route

I could see that the route opened up above us.  The Trough is a very distinct break down the west face of Tahquitz, and I felt confident we were in the right spot.  We did a final gear check, and I felt good.  I carried an enormous rack of gear, for fear of running out of pro.  A double set of cams, 1.5 set of stoppers, plus some odd tri-cams and hexes.  12 shoulder length runners and a couple of 4-footers, plus a cordellete and my “emergency kit” which consists of an extra belay device, a small knife, two prusiks, and 2 lockers.  Ryan would carry our approach shoes, a liter of water each, snacks and headlamps.  He carried a bit of additional pro, just in case we needed it.  I felt a little silly when, on the final pitch, a free soloist climbed past us with nothing more than a chalk bag attached to his harness.

Near the start

Ryan

I should mention that these photos are all courtesy of Ryan, who brought along his Nikon DSLR.  I had enough to worry about, and didn’t bring my camera.  I did snap a picture of him topping out on the third pitch, using my iPhone.  You can view his photo website here.  Ryan is a relatively inexperienced climber, but he’s done some alpine mountaineering and he’s safety-conscious, and I am able to climb with confidence on his belay.  He’s also fairly analytical (an engineer by trade) and we’re able to communicate well, all of which seems to lend itself well to trad climbing.

So, I set off on the first pitch, placing my first piece about 15 feet off the deck.  Easy 5.5ish climbing across broken slabs, a bit runout in spots, and I reached a small tree at ~90 feet.  Here, I was faced with a conundrum.  I realized I was trending away from The Trough, and I found myself directly beneath an imposing roof.  Yet, it still hadn’t occurred to me that I was off-route.  I decided to build an anchor (picture below, upper left) and I brought Ryan up.

At the top of Pitch 1, perplexed by a difficult roof.

By now, an hour had passed and I could see some climbers in the chimney to our right.  I called over and asked what route they were doing, and to my dismay they answered, “The Trough!!”  Hmm…  We were 50 feet to their left, and there appeared to be a few options.  I could traverse across an exposed face, with dubious protection behind a thin flake, or I could try and climb up and over the roof, and then work my way across the ledge above.  We discussed our options in democratic fashion and I decided to give the roof a try.  A few reachy moves and I was able to surmount a big horn, but the climbing was starting to feel scary.  I had no desire to climb anywhere near my limit, and I downclimbed back to the anchor.

Next, we considered a tension traverse, which looked simple enough.  I would traverse over to the right using the tensioned rope as an assist, placing gear along the way.  I felt confident as the leader, but never having done this before, I worried about the safety of the second (Ryan).  In retrospect, I think it would have worked well, but neither of us felt confident enough to apply this theory to our very real situation.  Instead of taking any risks, we decided to rappel off the pine you see pictured to my right, and we were safely back on the ground.  Rather than view this as wasted time, I think it was a good learning experience (and a fun pitch of climbing).

Unfortunately, we found ourselves third in line behind two other parties, and we spent the next hour kicking around at the base.  The clock was ticking, and I was getting antsy.  We set off on the proper start at 12:18 pm.

Later-than-planned start

Setting off

The first pitch couldn’t have been more than 100 feet, up to a sturdy pine as a belay.  There were some spicy, somewhat exposed friction moves near the top.  The climbing wasn’t difficult, but it was more than I expected based on the rating.  I gave a mental “thank you” to Tony Grice, who suggested we do The Trough instead of Angel’s Fright (5.7) as our first climb.  Without a doubt, Angel’s Fright would have been more than I had bargained for.  Ryan had coiled the rope using a mountaineer’s coil, and this seemed to introduce some twists which made feeding rope a real chore.  As the leader, I found myself fighting rope drag and, at times, climbing faster than he was able to pay out slack.  We decided to reflake the rope at the top of the next pitch, to clean out the twists.  We also lost a 4′ sling, which became jammed on a chockstone I had slung for pro.  Oh well, we needed to get moving and a sling isn’t a cam.

The second pitch, up the V-shaped, ledgy trough, was intimidating.  I aimed for a large pine tree nearly 200 feet above us, which I knew was the next belay station.  Opportunities to place pro were abundant, but the ledgy nature of the climb conspired against me.  Halfway up, the rope drag was becoming fierce and I had burned through quite a bit of gear.  I was out of sight from Ryan, and I found myself running it out on the easier sections, in order to preserve some gear for the uncharted territory ahead.  The ledgy nature of the route seemed difficult to protect, in any case.  I used my gear to protect against a major fall, accepting that a short tumble would likely result in a bashed knee or a broken ankle.  I suppose this is reality of climbing such terrain.

The crux may have been the final few feet of the pitch.  I worked my hands up a thin, polished crack with sketchy feet and arrived at a spacious ledge.  Another climber was leaving the belay, and we talked for a bit.  He recommended that I belay from pro set behind a flake, instead of the big tree, and I followed his advice.  If I were to do it again, I would use the tree, which was 2 feet in diameter and unquestionably safe.  I don’t mind a slightly less comfortable stance as a tradeoff for that security.  My anchor appeared sound, though.  In fact, Ryan was unable to clean my pink tri-cam.  I was really starting to worry about the time, but rapping off at this point would have involved leaving gear, since we only had one rope.  I brought Ryan up and I told him very frankly, “We have to hustle.”  I wasn’t suggesting that we rush, but I wanted to be efficient and handle the belay transitions quicker.  We had two pitches to go, plus the 4th class friction descent, which was still a wild card.

The transition went pretty quick, and I was off on the next pitch within a few minutes.  The climbing was easier now, with big steps and ledges and I was running it out 10-15 feet, maybe more in places.  I was moving up the rock with confidence, and I quickly reached the next belay (a tree).  Looking ahead, I saw an even bigger tree another 40 feet up, and I decided to go for it.  I knew it would be a rope stretcher, and Ryan confirmed (later) that I had indeed come close to the end of our 60 meter rope.  Without a doubt, the longest pitch of climbing in my life.  And it was fun, since I wasn’t nearly as scared as the previous pitches.

I anchored to the tree and used our non-verbal communication method that we had practiced at Mission Gorge.  I quickly pulled up several arm lengths of rope as hard and fast as possible, to signal that it was safe to take me off belay.  Twenty minutes later, Ryan’s head popped up above a little bulge and I let out a little shout of relief.  All that remained was a short friction pitch to the top, and there was still plenty of light.

Looking down from the top of the third pitch

I scrambled up the friction slabs to the top, no more than 30 feet of easy, unprotected climbing.  I placed myself amongst a pile of big boulders and then belayed Ryan directly from my harness.  It must have been 5 pm, and I quickly gulped down a liter of Gatorade as we sat and admired our accomplishment.  Ryan agreed that this Tahquitz 5.4 felt harder than some of the 5.9′s at Mission Gorge.  The moves themselves might not have been terribly difficult, but the level of commitment and exposure brought a mental challenge that was far from trivial.  The only time I’ve been so intimidated by something that was supposed to be fun is in heavy surf.  It’s a mix of “Wow, this is awesome!” and “This is scary as hell, and I want it to be over now.”

Topping out

Glad to be on top

Route overview with belays (4th pitch not visible)

The Friction Descent is a 4th class downclimb, and a popular method to descend from the top of Tahquitz.  I had read reports ranging from “trivial” to “scary” and I wasn’t sure what to expect.  We found the start without difficulty (thanks to online research) and getting off the rock wasn’t bad at all.  There was mild exposure in places, but I never felt as if it were dangerous.  We arrived at the base and followed a rough trail back around the west side and towards the start of our climb.  We were still pretty high, and the path started splitting off in different directions with little forks here and there.  This is where we made our final route-finding error, and we soon found ourselves lost in a thicket of manzanita, following the faintest of trails.  What I originally thought were human footprints, I believe were actually animal tracks.  An hour later, we were totally lost and darkness was rapidly approaching.  Exhausted and hungry, I knew we had to move fast or risk having to navigate our way back to the trailhead in complete darkness.  This wasn’t a life or death situation, but it was going to be a major inconvenience at the end of an already long day.  We decided to head down the slope, following some faint game trails that would eventually lead to the bottom of the ravine.  I used this technique when I got lost in the Alpine Lakes Wilderness during a snow storm, and it worked great.  On that trip, I followed some mountain goat tracks which eventually led me back to the trail.  It shouldn’t come as a surprise that animals know the best way to navigate their way around a mountain, and they use the same trails as we do (especially at night).

Twenty minutes later, we connected up with the Ernie Maxwell Trail, and I think we both felt a sense of relief.  The sun was setting and we wouldn’t be spending the night bushwhacking our way back to the car.  We ate dinner in Idyllwild and made it back to San Diego ~18 hours after the start of our day.  A fine adventure, indeed.

Holcomb Valley Pinnacles

We drove out Friday night and camped on the side of road, not far from the main parking area.   The next morning, we ate a hearty meal of breakfast burritos and then hiked the short approach to Coyote Crag, where Johnny had climbed a few weeks earlier.

Jason, Johnny, & Wei

The approach

We planned to warm up on Bye Crackie, a 60-foot 5.7 that the guidebook calls a classic.  Unfortunately, a party of three were already on the climb, so we chose the slightly more difficult Coyotes at Sunset (5.8) to start the day.  Johnny had been on this route before, so he went first and set a top-rope for Wei and I.  The featured rock and positive holds made for some really fun moves.

Coyote Crag

Jason on Black Magic Poodle (5.9)

Nearing the crux

Wei felt confident after the TR and decided to go for his first-ever sport lead.  The vertical face and closely-spaced bolts made this route a perfect choice, and he sailed up the climb without difficulty.

Wei on his first lead

Johnny on belay

We met a bunch of other climbers from San Diego.  I ran into Paul from Mesa Rim, an instructor at my lead climb course a few months ago.  It was a strange feeling to look over and watch my instructor on a route that I planned to climb.  Over the next couple of hours, we worked our way across the face of Coyote Crag.  The climbs getting steadily harder, with Johnny going first to suss out the moves.  A little hang-dogging, but he was braver than either Wei or myself that day.

Johnny

Coyotes at Sunset

After we exhausted the routes on Coyote Crag, we tramped up to Motherload Rock and I scoped out a 60-foot trad route called Fool’s Gold (5.6).  I wanted to lead a gear route, but there were lots of other climbers milling around at the base and I started feeling nervous.  I felt stupid as I racked up with enough gear to get me to the top of El Capitan, and I knew I would be going slow as hell.  Oh well, if I look like a kook, so be it.   Johnny was happy to belay and I started up the route.  I got some more practice setting nuts in opposition and I tried to place a variety of pieces (instead of relying only on cams).  Down low, the climbing was really easy and the stances were huge.  After 15 minutes, though, I was feeling tired and I realized that futzing around like a sloth was starting to take its toll.  Near the top, the crack thinned out and I found myself a few feet above my last  placement, a medium-size nut.  The solid footholds all but disappeared in this last section, and it looked like I would be placing protection while hanging on by my fingertips.  As I contemplated the difficulty of placing pro, and the security of that single nut, I felt my confidence recede like a dropping tide.  That’s when I noticed a big, beautiful bolt about 4 feet to my right.  It must have been the top bolt for the adjacent climb Golden Nugget (5.10).  Poor style or not, I carefully reached over and clipped the bolt (no one else was on the climb) and then topped out.  A fun day.

Heading home

El Cajon Mountain

This tall, wedge-shaped wall of granite is less than an hour’s drive from downtown San Diego, but it’s the approach that must keep people away.  We parked along El Monte Road, near the gated entrance to the El Capitan Reservoir, and then started up what I thought was the climber’s path.  After 20 minutes of painful bushwhacking, I admitted with some reluctance that we were off-route.  Instead of turning around, I used my somewhat shaky “wilderness sense” to guide us back to the path.  A few more minutes of thrashing around in waist-high brush and we were on the trail.

Bushwhacking - my fault

The approach

The guidebook calls this approach 3 miles with 1,800 feet of elevation gain.  That sounds about right.  The weather was overcast and a thick layer of fog obscured the crag, but this helped us stay cool as we hiked up the hill.  A little more than an hour later, we were standing at the base of the cliff.

We followed the climber’s path along the base of the crag, moving from east to west.  Looking up, I saw many unidentified routes; most of which appeared to be liberally bolted.  As an inexperienced climber with a decided aversion against running it out, this is exactly what I like to see.

We were looking for the start of Bright Eyes, and having scoured the internet for beta (route info), I knew what it would look like.  One of my fears, as a new trad leader, is the thought of getting off-route and onto sketchy territory.  It hasn’t happened yet, but the thought of casting off onto some unknown face is really very frightening.  For this reason, I brought along pictures of the route from various angles, as well as the description from a couple of guidebooks.  One day, I hope to acquire the skills to safely lead up some adventure route in the Sierras.  For now, I’m content to stick with the easier stuff.

Racking up

Ready to climb

A bit about climbing.  The Yosemite Decimal System was developed by the Sierra Club in the 1930′s, as a way of classifying the difficulty of a hike or climb.  It goes something like this:

Class 1 – Walking on a trail.  Little chance of injury.

Class 2 – Easy scrambling, occasional use of hands for balance.  Still pretty safe.

Class 3 – Scrambling with some exposure.  A fall might be fatal, but not always (still trying to figure that one out!)

Class 4 – Easy climbing, with increased exposure.  Falls will usually be fatal, and ropes are often used for protection

Class 5 – Technical rock climbing, use of ropes and gear, an unprotected fall would result in serious injury or death.

It’s important to understand these grades, because the guidebook might casually mention a “Class 3 approach” or a “Class 4 descent”.  If you’re not comfortable with exposure, or if you have a heavy pack on your back, a class 4 descent is something you want no part of (trust me).  In 2009, I attempted to backpack into The Enchantments (Washington’s Alpine Lakes Wilderness).  I was carrying a 60 lb. pack, it was snowing, and I found myself skating across icy slabs in bona-fide Class 3-4 territory.  Screw that!  I tucked tail and ran, only to return the following year, under better weather conditions.

Technical rock climbing is Class 5, which starts at 5.easy all the way up to the current ceiling at 5.15 (expert climbers are constantly pushing the grades higher, in the same way that swimmers or runners are always breaking old records).  Someone who is in reasonably good shape should be able to claw their way up a 5.6 or 5.7 climb without too much difficulty.  Athletes might manage a 5.8 or 5.9, depending on the length and type of climb.  I’ve heard it said that “real” climbing begins at 5.10.  If you’re going to climb at that grade (or higher), you probably have some experience, and decent technique, or you possess uncommon natural talent.  I’ve met people who, after years of climbing, have yet to break into the 5.11′s.  I’ve also met people who were able to cruise up an 11 after a few weeks of experience.  It’s really variable.

The first pitch

Entering the chimney

Approaching the top of the first pitch

There is a lot more to it, though.  Aside from the grade, or the difficulty of the climb, there is the ever-present fear of falling.  The number grade gives no indication whatsoever to the availability of protection or the consequences of a fall.  Thus, there are 5.13 climbs that can be climbed safely, and 5.4 climbs where a fall would result in serious injury.  There are no guarantees on the rock – you’re responsible for your own life and you had better have a clue what you’re doing.

I started climbing in 2005.  During those first few years, I did a lot of indoor top-roping and bouldering.  When you’re climbing on top-rope, there’s very little risk in taking a fall.  The rope runs from your harness and up to an anchor, so if you slip, you only drop a few inches (assuming your belayer is paying attention, and I hope he is).  I’ve always been able to climb my best while on top-rope, because it allows me to concentrate 100% on the moves.  Top-roping is fun, but there are lots of climbs (most, in fact) that have to be led from the ground up.  Lead climbing is more complicated, and requires more skill.  It’s also more exciting and fun.

The semi-hanging belay

Johnny and Wei

Belaying off the anchor

Sport climbing, which only became popular in the late 70′s and 80′s, is also considered relatively low-risk (as compared to traditional or adventure climbing).  Here, the climber ascends the rock and clips the rope into sturdy bolts, which have been strategically placed to protect against a fall.  Every route is different, but a typical sport climb might be bolted every 8-10 feet, limiting the length of a fall.  The bolts themselves are usually considered bombproof.  As in, they simply will not fail.  This offers some extra peace of mind, because there’s few things worse than falling and having your protection rip out from the rock.  It’s worth noting that you never really know if a bolt is bombproof.  It’s one of those things that, inevitably, you just have to take for granted.  The climb here, Bright Eyes, is a mixed route (a few bolts, but areas where I also placed protection).

Starting the second pitch

Looking down towards El Capitan Reservoir

At the top

Traditional or “trad” climbing is the real deal (IMO).  Until recently, all rock climbers were, by necessity, trad climbers.  You ascend the rock, placing specialized gear (protection or pro) into cracks and crevices, safeguarding against a fall.  Pro doesn’t prevent a fall, it just limits the length of a fall – preventing you from hitting the ground (the deck).  Climbing trad is a lot like sport, except there aren’t any pre-existing bolts to follow.  The climber is responsible for choosing where, when, and how to attach himself to the rock.  It’s nerve-wracking business, to say the least.  When climbing on top-rope, or even a bolted sport route, it’s possible to focus solely on the movement.  Climbing trad is more of an adventure; a puzzle that you’re forced to piece together while you’re hanging on by your fingertips.  There’s so much going on; route-finding, the art and science of placing gear, fear management, and of course, the climbing.

Wei

Wei

Wei

My first exposure to rock climbing was during a family vacation to Yosemite, in the early 80′s.  I was young and impressionable, and I was fairly awe-struck by those crazy people we watched through binoculars.  Little specks on the rock, half a mile up.  This was back in the day when people were allowed to base-jump off El Cap with parachutes, and we watched a movie in the visitor’s center about the Camp 4 dirtbags and their alternative lifestyle.  I was a clean cut little kid from Los Angeles and to be honest, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the sport.  It seemed to be a mix of pure athleticism, love for adventure, and unabashed crazy.  I must have filed the experience away as being “cool” but I never got a chance to actually try it.  Thankfully, my uncle got me into backpacking and I found an outlet for my thirst for outdoor adventure.  I still remember perusing the REI mail order catalog (pre-internet, of course) for hours on end.  The climbing and mountaineering gear, in particular, always interested me, even though I hadn’t a clue how it was actually used.

So here I am, age 36, and I’m finally living out some childhood dreams.  A bit silly and nostalgic, but true.  I’ve grown tired of pulling plastic (gym climbing) and I’m really interested in getting on some adventure routes.  This will take some time, and I’ve got a lot to learn, but I figure I’ve got at least 25 more years to tick off some of the classics.  In the next year or two, I hope to get on Yosemite’s Half Dome (Snake Dike route) and to the summit of Cathedral Peak.  We’ll see…

Rapping down

The end of a long day

The day before we were scheduled to leave, I learned that the shuttle’s opening day would be delayed due to excessive snow and rockfall – we would need to find an alternate entry.  I consulted my TOPO! software and found another route that looked good.  We would drive the June Lake Loop and park at Silver Lake.  The Rush Creek Trail climbs out of a horseshoe-shaped valley and quickly ascends to 10,000 feet at Agnew Pass, reaching Thousand Island Lake after a relatively easy 6 mile hike.  Perfect!

The ride

Perhaps it was an omen, but on the way home from work, my passenger-side window stopped working.  I was lowering the windows to get some air, and the window jammed with a horrible crunching sound.  A few miles later, it outright fell and disappeared into the door.  Wonderful timing.  I hastily taped it up using some heavy plastic sheet and hoped for the best.  Scott and I were forced to shout at each other during the drive up to Mammoth.  We arrived in the evening and ate a tasty meal at Angel’s.  I recounted the story of Lopez and the Hot ‘n Gooey, from a trip in 2003.

Ready to go

We picked up our permit the next morning, and hit the trail at 10 am.  I didn’t pack any mosquito repellant, and came to regret this decision within minutes of leaving the parking lot.  After a mile of easy hiking, I was already feeling winded from all the furious arm swinging and frenetic swatting.

Steep section

The ranger told us that we would probably need snowshoes once we got into the high country, so we brought them along.  He said that a cross-country skier had been up the trail a couple of weeks earlier, and that he had gotten as far as Gem Lake the previous week.  “It will be interesting” were his exact words.

Short detour

Rush Creek

The amount of water flowing down the canyon was impressive; I’ve never seen anything like it in the Sierra.  Legitimate waterfalls were steaming down the sides of the mountain.  I started to worry that these stream crossings would involve swimming.  Water was flowing over the spillway at Agnew Lake, and one of the drain aqueducts (3 feet in diameter) was shooting a crazy amount of water down onto the ground – it looked like some sort of blow-off valve to prevent damage to the pipes.  I’m pretty sure it was strong enough to kill a person, so, of course, I decided to climb on top for a photo op.

Flowing over the spillway

blow-off valve

I call this "Riding the pipe"

We were hiking along the north shore of Agnew Lake when Scott asked me, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”  We could see a trail on the other side of the lake, and sure enough, we had taken a wrong turn at the junction.  A few minutes later, we were back on the trail and headed in the correct direction.  From the outlet of Agnew Lake, we could see the steep slope that would eventually lead us to Agnew Pass.  Large patches of snow here and there, but it was a warm day and kicking steps shouldn’t be a problem.

The trail switchbacks up this slope and over the saddle

The trail was in poor condition, having been buried under several feet of snow a week or two earlier.  Some sections were strewn with fresh rockfall, and water was running down other parts.  I got off-route a few times – at one point finding myself in some 3rd class terrain with a 50 lb. pack on my back.  Rather than try and down climb to meet back up with Scott (who was negotiating his way around the lake by skirting the shore), I retraced my steps and crashed through a thicket of shrubs to regain the trail.

Scott above Agnew Lake

Jason

We were about 2.5 miles into our hike by this point, and nearing 9,000 feet of elevation.  Thus far, the hike had been relatively easy, minor route-finding errors aside.  The weather was warm and the snow was soft, and I never felt as if the footing was insecure.  I can’t say the same for Scott, who was much less enthusiastic about traversing the snowy sections.  We reached the south end of the lake, and just as the trail began to switchback up the steepest section, it vanished under the snow completely.  We would have to kick steps to make slow, methodical progress the final 1/4 mile to the top of the saddle.

Testing the slope

A little dicey here

I removed my pack and headed up a little farther, to investigate the best approach.  Without a trail to follow, we would need to find the path of least resistance that offered the most security.  There was no real exposure here, but the slope was angled steeply enough that a slip might turn into an uncomfortable 30′ slide.  With our heavy packs, it would definitely be difficult.  An alternative would involve scrambling up the loose scree and zig-zagging our way up the slope above, but Scott wasn’t thrilled with that idea, either.  I didn’t want to give up after coming all this way, but we came as a team and I knew that the conditions might be a deal-breaker.  We discussed our options and decided to return to the trailhead.

A few hours later, we were driving along Tioga Pass through Yosemite, which was also a flooded mess.  Tenaya Lake, which had been frozen over the week prior, was nearly at the level of the road.  Small waterfalls were spilling over onto the highway and portions of Tuolumne Meadows looked like a shallow lake.  Our backup plan was a hike into Cathedral Lakes, but the conditions didn’t look appealing at all.  The clear, blue skies sapped our enthusiasm for other Eastern Sierra hotspots like the Alabama Hills or the White Mountains, and feeling tired and disappointed, we decided to make haste back to San Diego.  I climbed into bed at 2:30 am, after 5 hours of hiking and 10 hours of driving.  I slept well.

Photo gallery below – same pictures as above, but bigger versions.