On the ledge that night, I felt at home and at ease. We were on the rock of our dreams. And Dave was the perfect partner. He was better at figuring out the logistics of hauling and jugging. Dave was the ying to my yang. Plus, we’d struck a deal: I would lead the infamous Hollow Flake, and he would lead the notoriously wet Sewer pitch.
I slept well, but, once we began the climbing for the day, there was intense dread running through my entire being. It was Hollow Flake. Supposedly it was a solid 5.9 off-width that didn’t have much gear. One guy told me that, after leading it, he was unable to move for the rest of the day; he just collapsed at the belay and didn’t have the desire to climb any higher. Others just looked at me as if I were about to go through a rite of passage, which I was.
Excerpt from Luke Mehall’s memoir: American Climber
Photos by Tom Evans
The knot in my stomach grew tighter. Finally, after a couple straightforward pitches, it was the moment of truth. I climbed up to a pendulum, lowered out, and swung over the off-width. I fiddled with some gear to no avail. The crack was too wide. I called down to him at the belay, “Dave, can you send up that Big Bro?”
“We didn’t bring the Big Bro,” he yelled back.
So I sunk into the crack with a thousand feet of granite below me and performed the off-width techniques I’d learned over the years. I’ve always liked off-widths, in that masochistic, fucked-up kinda way, but most of my experience was at Indian Creek. Well-protected off-widths they were, where I could always hang on gear if needed. Here I was climbing higher and higher, above the void, with my last piece of protection in the void as well, a good thirty feet down and ten feet over to the right. If I were to fall, it would be a monster.
For the next seventy feet, I climbed through a lifetime of climbing fear with no gear other than a tipped out #6 Camalot. At one point, I thought I was facing the wrong way and did that ridiculous shuffle, switching sides in the middle of a pitch, which was like wrestling a wet alligator, and if you let go of him, your climbing career could be over then and there. I was terrified. Then I realized I had to get this thing done. The climb, the dream, could not be sustained if we were unsuccessful on this pitch. I’d never dug my arms so deep into an off-width, and I prayed to the gods of the vertical for passage. My heels and toes were equally pressed as firmly into the crack. After a while, I was completely in the moment, with my body and muscles giving their best efforts. When I finally arrived at that belay, an ocean of relief washed over me. Adrenaline covered every cell of my being. I whooped, “Off belay,” to Dave and fixed the line for him.
There was more off-width that day, but it was better protected, so it is not as etched into my memory. Dave took a block of pitches that led us into the night, and we arrived just below the El Cap Spire to a nice ledge with plenty of sleeping room. The friendly guys attempting Free Rider were there and kindly offered us the best sleeping spots. They had a portaledge, and we had nice spots to sleep. It was a long and tiring day, and arriving to such a welcoming spot was much needed. We exchanged pleasantries, and we were equally excited for each other. Their attempt at free climbing was successful thus far, and we were more than halfway up The Captain. We didn’t speak of the horizontal world below; no one resorted to the “So, what do you do?” question. We were just brothers of the vertical and shared food, drink, and smoke.
They were off early in the morning, and we sat around lazily and drank coffee. Now this is why I like Dave; he’ll get business done when it’s time, but he recognizes how equally important it is to sit and take stock of your surroundings. It’s not every day the towering pine trees below seems like small bushes in the garden of life, and it’s equally as rare for me to feel free and unchained on a big wall. We just barely had everything we needed. A small space to sit, a little water, some food, and coffee—that fueled the high of the morning. It didn’t matter how much money was in our bank accounts, or what jobs we had, or where we came from, and where we were going. It was the reunion with the original spirit of rock climbing I loved so much. Plus, we recognized that this might be a one-time thing. Many climbers make countless trips up El Cap, but we knew this might be the only time we would ever be up there…..
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