Half Dome
An ascent of Snake Dike (5.7) on Half Dome, Yosemite National Park, with René Renteria, October 6, 2003
Notes on "Notes on Trout" (trip report authored by René Renteria):
The Merced River flows lazily and low in October, rappelling the Nevada Falls slabs in no particular hurry, experienced at the known route to Yosemite Valley below, where lines of bright-eyed ants follow each other west and home. With the yellow sunlight headed toward orange, fish rising ate bugs and whatnot while I dunked into the cold waters to rise clean or at least rinsed, well upstream of the falls, no doubt, waiting for purification a liter at a time. Our rising rings spread outward searching and met on the surface to mark quietly and momentarily the infinity of longing.
What a joke! A fifth class move with sixty feet of exposure led along a diminishing bench to where it disappeared into the vertical wall. A single, still cord formed a ring around a large, white, granite boulder. It was clear we had to reverse our punter moves or rappel. Out came the ropes, and we made another prayer ring out of our single webbing piece. We could hear other climbers approaching up steep tree and scree fields, and the morning sunlight continued to drain the darkness from the south face of Half Dome.
A second minor route-finding error (I think of this as a “course-correction”) had me hurrying to toss my pack at the base 30 seconds before Party #2, who were 10 seconds clear of Party #3 (who were themselves many minutes ahead of Party #4). (“Note to self:” #3's eyes suggested, “Must do more cardio.” “Note to self:” I thought, “Glad we camped in Little Yosemite.”) We all tried to look normal as we gulped air like caught fish. It was nine in the morning, and we had won the first place prize.
Romain led the first pitch as the gathered chorus chanted, “50 meter belay, 60 meter belay, the orange rock is the slippery rock!” Our white topo floated out of his pocket (“Oh, no--Gumbies!” I heard the chorus group-think, and many watches received a furtive glance) and slid to the first crack, where it stopped, accessible. “The topo never gets off route!” the chorus cheered.
Caffeine-impregnated GU lapped through my veins, mixing with adrenaline, as eight parties implored me (I imagined) to move quickly. Mick from the UK watched me from his stance at the roof. He continued to the belay above as we waited for him to get safe, gathering our rope.
These dikes lean lazily or curve majestically rising, depending on one's mood. A bolt waited while another out on the face held on to a sling and a biner. With this second at my waist, I looked down and could see why: Another bolt well below protected the traverse that I had missed. A note on the topo points to the dike I was ascending and says, “NO!” Bad dog! A pressure wave from the parties below blew by, but I downclimbed deliberately to cross over to the solution pockets, knobs, and crystals of the dike proper. These disappeared into the curved horizon of granite above, an accidental gift.
Party #9 blazed the alternate start, to the consternation of those below, whom we could see milling in agitation like ants in a tumbled nest. Soon their leader was clipping at our heels, pressing us forward by his presence, mumbling something clearly about unhappy Brits. Half Dome gently rolled beneath us as we pulled and pushed, gaining ground efficiently, leaving the others space below to sort themselves out.
Sixty to one hundred foot runouts on 5.4 to 5.2 ground were something we knew to expect, and I can't find words to describe what I felt, not because of any grand allusions that failed or fail to rise, that I want to draw out if I could, nothing so high-minded, nor because of illusory fear. Maybe it was the freedom of movement, and the attention needed in placing feet and hands each move on easy ground each moment that kept me from projecting any of my wants onto Snake Dike itself.
Is this meditation? Sitting on top of Half Dome, even amid the crowds from the cables, is this feeling of happiness and tiredness--with a mind as quiet, finally, as the blue sky--satisfaction in the absence of desire? I sat naked and wet by the Merced and watched the fish rise to the damselflies bouncing off the surface, as the river flowed, lazily and low.