North American Wall

“Can I help you with your bags?” This phrase flashes to mind as Bobo Dave shouts “BLUE LINE FIXED” from above, which sends Keith and Jeff into a muttering process of assembling their various ascension devices. It is at this moment that I realize I have become gravity’s bellhop; a glorified gnarly bagman bringing human luggage up one of the world’s greatest granite monoliths. El Capitan has always captivated me. It holds me transfixed in its eponymous meadow, neck craned, thousands of feet of igneous rock looming, promising nothing but the prospect of Sisyphean toil. It both compels and repels the climber in a paradoxical spasm of infatuated love at first sight mixed with pangs of obsessive fear and loathing.

Jeff Johnson suggested climbing the North American Wall on El Cap’s southeast face as one-part: homage to the “old dads” Chouniard, Robins, Frost and Pratt who established the route in 1964, one-part: ill-conceived introduction to Big Wall climbing for Big Wave crusher, pro surfer Keith Malloy and two-parts: hellacious adventure, with a dash or two of big wall rat, namely, Timmy O’Neill and Dave Turner.

On October 1st, 2007, the four of us convened in the browning fall meadow and compiled the requisite equipment to reconnoiter the 28 pitches, packed the haul bags with a weeks worth of water (25 gallons) and meals (mostly hard cheese, meat stick, canned fruit and coffee), and trudged to the base of the wall. Complete with our two porta-ledges with accompanying expedition rainflys, our flotilla of multiple dangling bags stretched 15-feet long and required Meaty Malloy’s 200+ pounds and at least one other person to counterbalance and haul the load upwards. Keith actually ascended the length of El Capitan twice. He would jumar to the anchor then immediately descend on the other end of the haul line; as the bags came up Keith disappeared into the abyss: repeat process ad nauseam.

We spent six nights bivouacked on the side of the precipice. I shared a porta ledge with Keith, his broad surfers torso constantly threatened the blood supply to my lower extremities. He remarked positively about my ability to sleep, dead to the world snoring away, as he tried in vain to get comfortable, tossing and turning in both body and brain. In the Cyclops Eye, a massive concavity of ledges and overhangs 2,000-feet up the wall, we were pinned in our portable shelters for a day, as Mother Nature coated the valley rim and us with a frigid dusting of snow and ice.

Our top out on the seventh day was splendid. The final pitches went to me and I dispatched the slabs with a few pins, assembled a belay, brought the team up and hauled the bags one last time. We split the gear into four bags, hoisted them on our backs and descended to the ground just as darkness enveloped the Valley floor. We cracked beers, ate pizza, laughed about the calamities and convulsions of wall life and eventually showered the grime away.

The pain and frustration of the climb have faded, time’s crucible reducing the memories to a distilled essence of what it means to be alive above the ground: adventure, exhilaration, commitment, and the brotherhood of the rope. It is through these experiences that I define my life, my vocation and my willingness to bring others into this elevated state of being, even if it means donning a bellman’s cap, checking the bags and holding the door open.