Psychovertical Page 28

  I thought about what it had taken to get here – not just the hundreds of metres of rock directly below, but the hundreds of pitches, kilometres of rock, ice and snow that I’d climbed in the past to get myself to this point in my life.

  It’s just climbing, don’t be so melodramatic.

  The sun lit up the wall. I sat up and went and dangled my feet over the side of the ledge, enjoying the drop, and ate my last bagel, watching the light spreading down the wall below me.

  How long would it take for a crumb to fall?

  I thought about the pitch, what I’d been told, what I could see.

  The first part was yet another expanding crack.

  If you mess that up you might get away with just a broken leg.

  The next section was a leftwards-trending seam, probably requiring tiny copperheads and birdbeaks.

  Got to be careful there.

  I considered the consequences of a fall. Maybe I would survive, but I would probably hit the ledge on my side. Maybe it would be better to die straight away.

  You don’t want to lie smashed and semi-conscious, feeling sorry for yourself.

  At least close to the top I had some chance of a rescue.

  Only if someone sees you fall.

  The crux itself involved hooking a fragile flake. With no gear to hold a fall, any mistake would be terminal: a two-hundred-foot fall onto the ledge.

  These are only facts.

  It was strange and unexpected, but I felt no anxiety, no fear, no emotion. A river of clear water flowed through me. Everything I had ever done had led to this point and I was ready.

  I began by emptying all the water that remained in my bottles, and, along with those I had already used, placed them in my haul bags, to turn them into makeshift crash mats. The trick was to half unscrew their lids, so the air would escape neither fast nor slow. That way they would neither crumple too quickly nor cause me to bounce over the edge.

  I positioned the portaledge below the first part of the pitch. If nothing else, this took my mind off the rock beneath, and might even turn a break into a sprain.

  Lastly I emptied out the water from the bladder I carried on my back like a rucksack, inflating it instead. I knew I’d be too busy to drink. It would save a little more weight, and being inflated meant it might protect my spine.

  It’s all an illusion.

  Next I laid out all my equipment: cams, nuts, pegs and hooks, checking each one for damage before I clipped and racked them on my harness. We had many things in common: tired, beaten up, scarred with a thousand wounds, a thousand placements. We were older. My hands were still swollen but now the pain felt good. They felt like the hands of someone who could feel.

  Either way, you’ll soon get a long rest.

  I clipped my hammer to my harness, its once square head now rounded with abuse, its hickory handle stained with sweat. I thought back to the day it had arrived in the post all those years before, new, shiny, a blank page. Now every scrape, scratch and impression told a story. We had travelled a long way together and I was glad we’d made it this far.

  I stacked my ropes, once a hated task, now one I savoured, a therapy of hands and Perlon, first the lead line then the haul line. I felt for damage as they passed through my fingers.

  I put on my helmet. New when I began, it was now scratched and beaten, sponsors’ stickers flapping like old skin, unimportant now. Lastly I slipped my sore naked feet into my shoes, left then right, always the same. I tied my laces, thinking back to how difficult I’d found this simple knot as a child, just as I found it difficult to tell the time, to read, to write. I wished I could go back in time and hug my then self, take away the feeling of inadequacy, and whisper that one day all these things wouldn’t matter, that one day I would be more amazing than I could imagine.

  It was 9 a.m. A beautiful cool morning. The snow stretched clean out across the Sierras on the horizon. It was quiet. There had never been a more perfect moment.

  I began.

  * * *

  A Lost Arrow.

  A Skyhook.

  A small cam.

  The climbing is automatic. There is no emotion, no fear, no doubt. There is only the correct option.

  A knifeblade.

  A cam hook.

  A knifeblade.

  The hours pass more slowly than the metres, but this is immaterial. I can only climb as well as I can.

  A birdbeak.

  A birdbeak.

  A copperhead.

  I finger peg scars in the rock to judge what once fitted best and fill them again. I bounce as hard as I dare on the gear to test its strength. I don’t look down at my landing. I won’t fall.

  A copperhead.

  A copperhead.

  A birdbeak.

  I hook up to a huge crumbling flake, a rock celebrity. It’s unstable, it’s weak, it threatens to kill, that’s what I’ve been told. I have to ride it, as if it’s a wild animal. I put my hand on it and stroke it calm. It’s misunderstood. I hook it and step up slowly. It lets me.

  A hook.

  A hook.

  A smaller hook.

  The flake ends.

  Thank you.

  I hang there for a moment and wait for my fearometer’s flickering needle to settle again, breathing slowly, conscious I mustn’t rush.

  Savour this moment.

  I feel so at peace, conscious that this is not what I had expected. Something has changed in me. I feel calm.

  I’m enjoying this!

  I look down and marvel at my position, immune now to the exposure. I try to take in everything around me. I won’t be here again. I notice two people standing on the rim of El Cap a few hundred metres away. It seems strange to be watched after so long alone. Then one of them begins shouting: ‘Psycho, psycho, psycho!’, the words drifting over the huge void between us. It makes me feel that people are thinking about me. I wave back.

  I can see a crack up to my left. I know when I reach it I will be safe forever. That will be it. I will survive. Between me and salvation lies a blank stretch of rock, its surface covered by a mosaic of small round pancake-sized exfoliating flakes. It seems you could peel them off with your fingernail. Like me, they barely cling to the wall. I look hard at the flakes. I must hook one, the one that is attached just enough to hold me. Make the wrong choice and that’s it. Pick the right one and that’s it. There is no hesitation, only thought. I imagine what others must have thought. I choose the one which looks the most secure and hook it, stepping, swapping my weight over to it.

  It holds me.

  It defies reason to do so.

  This flake is a time-bomb, but I already have the next piece in my hand, ready to fire into the crack.

  I step up higher, my hand outstretched, the cam retracted waiting to spring.

  Once 8,000 kilometres stood between me and tomorrow. Then only 900 metres. Now it is measured in centimetres … and now millimetres.

  I hold the cam’s trigger back, knowing that when I let it go, the cam will expand and lock within the crack. That will be it. But instead of letting go, my fingers hold tight. I am no longer connected to the world.

  I enjoy the sensation of the void all around me, of choices, so many made to reach this moment: everything I ever did, the good and the bad, all I wanted, every experience coming to just this moment.

  This very moment.

  I let the trigger slip from my fingers.

  I lay in the dirt with my shoes off. It was almost dark. A cool breeze carried away my smell and replaced it with that of the manzanita bushes all around me. Alone for so long I’d wanted to find someone, to tell them where I had been, what I had done, not for ego or glory, but so I could believe it myself. But there was no one there to listen. I realised then that I had not spent so long alone since I’d been in my mother’s womb.

  I wondered if I should have a cry. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

  Don’t be so melodramatic.

  Happiness can make you cry.

>   I looked at the pile of hardware and ropes beside me, my helmet, shoes and harness, spotted my dad’s wire, and wondered what he’d say. What would anyone say?

  I felt sorry for all my pegs and hooks and cams; life savers for so long, they meant nothing to me now, simply heavy things I had to carry back down. It seemed appropriate to thank them, and my ropes, and my haul bags, and my body, so I did, then said it again to no one in particular.

  I pulled out Ella’s toy train and held it up against the sky. Then I kissed it.

  The crux had taken less then four hours. A blur. Clipping the belay had meant nothing, I already knew I was safe. Once it was over, I raced to climb the final easy pitch, a crack that led to a roof. I should have known that it wouldn’t let me just walk away. It surprised me, harried me, played tricks and scared me. I became frustrated, annoyed it was making life tough; hadn’t I suffered enough? Didn’t it know who I was, what I’d done to get there? I was too tired to realise that this was all part of the wall’s grand plan.

  It had one final lesson to teach me.

  I reached the roof, the path across it a line of old pegs, placed by my heroes, Royal Robbins, Warren Harding and Charlie Porter, and many others. Clipping from one to the other I became aware of how they must have felt as they passed this way, with many routes converging on this last section. I looked down at the tiny trees, nearly a kilometre below, and felt a tingle of vertigo, a shiver of fear. Some would think of me as a hero for soloing a route like this, but climbing a wall only makes you feel mortal.

  I had just soloed one of the hardest big walls in the world, but, probably like my heroes, I felt only humbled and transformed. I had my answer.

  I pulled over the roof and arrived at a small ledge, the wall leaning back now, the top very close. The smells began to change, from an austere stink of toil and fear, to the simple aromas of earth and trees and life.

  I kissed the rock one last time and scrambled on to the summit.

  Now I lay on the soil. I closed my eyes and listened. The world sounded more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. There was only silence, both without and within me. Like a junkie, his arm full of heroin, I no longer thought about my next fix. I had overcome myself.

  I lay there for a long time, relishing the new-found space, along with the lack of clawing gravity.

  I can’t fall off the world any more.

  Finally, I knew it was time to go, so I packed one haul bag, leaving the other for later collection, and began walking down from the summit, along the rim, heading for the series of abseils that would take me back to the base of the wall.

  My legs felt weak under the load; my body was much thinner than when I’d begun nearly two weeks before. My headtorch picked out the right path down steep slabs, yet all of a sudden I felt exhausted. I sat down again and tried to compose myself. Then I noticed something, something so beautiful it’s impossible to describe. Voices.

  I followed the sound, scared for a moment that I’d imagined it. It had happened many times before. Then I heard it again. Then laughter. Now I felt like crying. I stumbled down and came across two men sitting in sleeping bags behind a rock. We were strangers, but we were also fellow travellers. They smiled at me. I smiled back. We were the same.

  ‘Hello, do you mind if I sleep here with you guys?’

  It had been a long time since I’d talked to anyone but myself.

  ‘Sure thing – pull up a rock,’ they said, switching on a battered CD player. New music spilled out.

  They were silent as one rolled a fat joint, which he offered to me first. ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Smoking’s not good for you,’ I said. We all laughed.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ asked one of the climbers as he dug out their remaining can of beer, wrapping it in their last few wet wipes to cool it down.

  ‘The Reticent.’

  No one said a word.

  ‘How was it?’ asked the climber with the can, pulling the tab.

  ‘Not too bad,’ I said. After all, it couldn’t have been, I’d climbed it.

  Down

  WE WOKE TOGETHER and talked. We didn’t want to rush from the place we’d worked so hard to reach. We had a lot in common. We talked about music, we talked about drugs, we talked about women. We didn’t talk about climbing.

  Finally, we knew we had to leave. The descent was long and pretty tough, especially with our huge haul bags, and if we were to make it down before dark we knew we had to go.

  I’d descended this way after every previous ascent, so I thought about all those other times, touching familiar trees, scraping down the same old rocks. The abseils were as scary as ever, sliding down the ropes with the haul bag pulling at my harness. Eventually all that was left was the long dusty trail back to the parking lot.

  As we staggered through the trees, talking to take our minds off our aching knees, trying to keep our distance from each other’s smells, it occurred to me how normal I felt. Everything seemed the same. I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t changed up there – or if I had, I had quickly reverted to who I had been. I began to think about the route, how it hadn’t been so hard, how two years and several other ascents might well have reduced the difficulty. I felt a tinge of disappointment. I wondered what was harder. What could be next?

  Finally we broke out of the trees and stepped onto the parking lot. Dumping our bags, we collapsed on top of them and tried to stretch our sore backs, our clothes soaked with sweat. Never again.

  I looked up and saw something familiar through the trees. I stood and walked forward until it spread out across the sky above me. It was the Dawn Wall of El Cap. Even though I’d seen it so many times, its beauty and size remained undiminished. I traced the line of the Reticent with my eyes.

  How did you climb that?

  The others joined me and we stood together and marvelled.

  Who would have thought I’d become a climber?

  Two decades later and little has changed, well, apart from the rope. The author on Lost in America, A5.

  Aaron learning it’s best not to play with strangers – about to abseil off a thumb-sized flake of rock

  The Boss – as in, he was my boss, the inspiring and loud Dick Turnbull on the approach to the Dru Couloir

  Aaron trying to smear in crampons on day two of our Frendo epic

  Big and bad, the North Face of Les Droites and the North-East Spur

  ‘Men working overhead’ – rescue on the Dru Couloir

  El Cap – the second wonder of the world, the first being the Humber Bridge

  Paul Tat sky-hooking on A4 terrain and loving it. Pacific Ocean Wall.

  A storm hits us on the Shield headwall. The only way out was up.

  The author reaching the top of El Cap for the first time, a thousand metre drop at his heels

  Andy Perkins, a bit of a hero

  Just about hanging on, but never been happier. My shadow (right) on Lost in America

  Jim Hall, Paul Ramsden and Nick Lewis, on our way to Fitzroy. All strangers – I couldn’t have asked for better partners for my first expedition

  ‘Like sheep in a haunted abattoir.’ Nick’s eyes say it all. Two a.m. on Fitzroy

  Thin fragile ice, no protection and nowhere to run. Super Couloir

  Our homemade tent struggles against hurricane winds on Fitzroy

  Jim Hall prepares to descend 56 pitches

  Fourteen hours later and the strain is showing

  Es Tresidder learning the hard way on the North Face of Les Droites

  A long way up, much further down. Es retreating off the Maria Callas Memorial route.

  Contemplating a close-run thing

  ‘You lucky bastard!’ Matt gets the cosy hammock on our attempted one-day ascent of Tangerine Trip, one of El Cap’s steepest routes.

  My kingdom for some socks… and gloves. The water torture begins

  So near… Matt reaches the ledge almost hypothermic

  The altar
of the gods – Rich breaking trail towards another disappointment. Patagonia 2000.

  Most Alpinists just do it for the food and the sex

  By day five we had run out of food

  Going home empty-handed – the walk of shame

  The best remedy for an overhang is plenty of water – twenty days’ water ready for the Reticent Wall.

  From the roof to this point.The biggest fall of my life.

  Like going to the gym or pulling a train, hauling on El Cap is best savoured when it’s over

  Looking down from the last pitch of the Reticent Wall, a climb I’d begun twenty-nine years ago

  Dizzy on the summit

  An open door. El Capitan as beautiful as the first day I set eyes on her

  Glossary

  ABSEIL. To descend a rope using a descender.

  AID CLIMBING. Climbing using gear for resting or making progress.

  AIDER. A ladder-like sling used to climb up when aid climbing.

  ANGLE PEG. See Peg.

  ARÊTE. An outward pointing bit of rock; a ridge or rib.

  ASCENDER. A device for climbing a rope when all else fails.

  AXE. Climbing ice axe that can be swung into ice or turf. Used in pairs.

  BEAK. A tiny peg the thickness of a credit card.

  BELAY (noun). A place where you attach yourself to the rock.

  BELAY DEVICE. A piece of equipment which you use to control the rope when belaying.

  BELAYING. Fixing a rope round a rock, pin, or other object, to secure it.

  BERGSCHRUND. Crevasse that forms between a mountain face and the moving glacier at its base.

  BETA. Knowledge of trick moves or protection or just about anything about a route available before you start.