Life shouldn’t be all work and no play. So a couple of months ago we began publishing Side Roads, an irregular, infrequent feature here at the Minding Gaps blog. It will recognize and celebrate passions, milestones, excursions, pleasures, relationships—everything that we ultimately work for. It’s all about life’s joys, both little and large.
We’ll post these diversionary Side Roads columns only on occasion and only on weekends. The rest of the time, we’ll stick to the mission of this column, as summarized in the masthead above and explained more fully in the Welcome! and Our Philosophy posts.
In our inaugural Side Roads column on August 15, I shared my recipe for pesto. If you haven’t yet tried it, be sure to do so soon, before fresh basil becomes difficult to find for the winter.
Today, in the second installment of Side Roads, we will revisit one of the most phenomenal days of my life—the day I climbed Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. If you have ever climbed it, you know just how exhilarating a hike can be.
That’s me. In the navy blue shirt, waving to you. From the top of Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. It was ten years ago today. Look closely, and you will notice the orange date in the lower right corner.
The view from the summit of Half Dome is spectacular, as you can see for yourself. That little bluff a couple of miles behind my arm is the legendary El Capitan—its own face so very intimidating.
From where I am sitting to the valley floor below is just about one mile, straight up and down. Starting from the valley floor, I climbed Half Dome in a single day, and I took the long way. My route was closer to twenty miles, plus the vertical mile on the ascent and the vertical mile on the descent.
It was pitch dark when I started around six o’clock in the morning, and it was pitch dark when I finished around eight in the evening. (The trail itself is only about eight miles horizontal and one mile vertical, each way. But without an overnight camping permit you cannot park close to the trailhead, and if you are embarking before dawn there are no shuttles to the trailhead. So you walk.)
By comparison, running the Chicago Marathon was easy and brief. I was in pretty good shape for this climb, and yet it was so debilitating that I couldn’t walk for three days afterward. I could scarcely stand. Even sleeping was painful, even with prescription-strength doses of ibuprofen.
Because I was hiking in the autumn, when the waterfalls are comparative trickles, I was able to climb right alongside the Vernal and Nevada falls. In springtime, thunderous cataracts prevent anything of the sort. It was straight up, rock upon rock, each a foot-high step. When I got to the top of each waterfall, I expected to see the bald head of Half Dome ahead of me. But the trail kept going and going.
At times, I thought I was lost. It was nearly noon before the rocky promontory showed itself, and I still had two more hours to the top. The last mile of the climb (from where I am in this picture) is extremely strenuous. Multiple switchbacks lead upward to the shoulder. There you discover a pair of iron cables draping down the final 150 meters of bare granite at a slope of maybe 40 to 55 degrees. To reach the summit, you pull yourself up hand-over-hand, and you hold on tightly. If you let go, you die.
When I finally stepped onto the peak, I had an odd feeling of disappointment that the climbing had ended. The journey was so exhilarating; now I would just turn around? Then I looked out across the valley. Oh. My. Gosh. Under a pure, cerulean sky, I could see probably fifty or sixty miles. A mile below, Yosemite Valley looked like a child's playset. Maybe, I thought, this is how we appear to God.
I noticed a little cairn of rocks in the middle of the summit. Each climber could contribute a stone or a rock to it as the only evidence of his presence. I placed mine alongside the others. In parks, as you know, you leave nothing behind but your footprints, and you take nothing out but your pictures.
Naturally I took quite a few pictures. Though climbing alone that day, I traded cameras with other climbers so that we all had photographic proof of our success. For the picture of me on the summit, I ventured daringly close to the sheer cliff. I felt eerily invulnerable. Below, I could see nothing smaller than a shed.
Though the hike would take fourteen hours, I could remain on the summit for only thirty minutes at midday. The descent would be long and grueling. Fortunately, the most frightening moments were the initial return down the granite slope to the shoulder. It took more upper body strength to go down the cables than up, and it was scarier—owing to the fact I was looking at where my body would land if I fell.
The sun set an hour or so before I got all the way down to the valley floor. Fortunately, I had brought a halogen flashlight. The last few miles were excruciatingly painful. My quads and hamstrings were piercing with pain. Neither leg wanted to move. I needed both, and I forced myself to keep walking.
Only after my descent did I learn that an early explorer of the High Sierra had once confidently predicted that no one would ever reach the summit of Half Dome. The bald head of steep granite was just too forbidding. Eventually someone did summit, of course. Today, hundreds of climbers reach the peak every year.
A few weeks after this adventure, I was flying back to San Francisco, and the pilot took us right over Yosemite. By then it had already snowed. But I could clearly make out Half Dome and the Vernal and Nevada falls. The memory of agony and of ecstacy they had given me that day in October brought a satisfying smile.
What a day it was. What a day.
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