Page 31 - 20145 AMA Spring

Zack and I scuttle along a pine needle strewn trail through the rapidly warming air to our chosen climb for the day. We are starting early because our route up Cathedral Rock is about 2000feet high, and is likely to take us most of the day. Slower parties are often forced to spend an uncomfortable night shivering on a tiny ledge if they fail to reach the top before nightfall. I’ve heard through some other friends that Zack is a quick and competent climber, so I am not too worried about this possibility. As we make steady progress up the vertical rock face, the tops of the towering pine trees shrink away below, and features on the ground start to lose their definition. We are absorbed by the strenuous moves, and the psychologi- cal challenge of the route – it contains several sections where a fall would mean serious injury or worse, so we climb with quiet concentration. On one section, I hesitate, swapping my hands on holds smaller than a matchbox. I rub chalk onto my fingers from a pouch that I carry on my waist to assist my grip. I consider the next move, which holds to grab and in which order? The consequences of a fall here do not bear thinking about, but I realise that I feel at home in this wilderness of rock, happy in a quiet, active concentra- tion. Far below me, the throngs eke a different rat race out of their annual vacation. I feel more akin, I realise to the ‘alien’ wilderness that I had sought than to the culture of the country that I was in, or many of the people who travelled in it.
Here, men in crisp uniforms package, sell and present a confection of ‘wilderness’ that is easily consumed through the coach window, the camera lens or the gift shop. This was the reason for my unease since arriving here, despite a powerful love for Yosemite Valley, there had remained a hollow disappointment somewhere in my experience of it.
The afternoon wore late; Zack and I reached our summit without incident, tired but still moving quickly as the descent was long and difficult. We took off tight rock shoes, clipped them to our safety
harness belts, and jogged barefoot down a steep, rough trail on the flank of the great monolith we had just climbed. Pine needles spiked the soles of my feet, and grit lodged underneath my toenails. My hands feel sore on tree bark, as I grab trunks to swing around each hairpin in the path. A thin trickle of dark blood coagulates in the hair on my leg from a knee scuffed earlier in the day. I feel utterly contented. A couple of hours later, a few stars start to show in a purpleorange sky as the air cools. We reach Zack’s shabby carhome, and drive to the store to buy some beer to celebrate our successful ascent. We sat on the floor outside in the parking lot and sip on beer so cold it makes your teeth hurt. Families and tour groups walk quickly past and risk only the briefest of glances at us, as though we were an unwelcome species. I glanced up with a grin when I heard familiar British accents. They gave us a wide berth, and deflected their children’s questions about whether we were climbers. Sometimes the most foreign thing anywhere on Earth is your fellow tourists.
ADVENTURE
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