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Overview
In entertaining short pieces enlivened by his iconic black-and-white images of Yosemite's big wall legends, Denny reveals a young man's coming of age and provides a vivid look at Yosemite’s early climbing culture. He relates such precarious achievements as hauling water in glass gallon jugs up the east face of Washington Column, nailing the 750-foot Rostrum in a punishing heat wave, and dangling overnight on El Capitan’s Dihedral Wall in a lightning storm. Each true tale captures the spirit of historic Camp 4, where Denny and others plan the next big climb while living on the cheap and dodging park rangers.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781930238695 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Yosemite Conservancy |
| Publication date: | 05/10/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 18 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Valley Walls
Memoir of Climbing and Living in Yosemite
By Glen Denny
Yosemite Conservancy
Copyright © 2016 Yosemite ConservancyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-930238-63-3
CHAPTER 1
Learning to Climb
My first job in Yosemite was bussing dishes in the Yosemite Lodge cafeteria. My roommate, Rob McKnight, ran the dishwashing machine. He was from Chicago, and after a year of college he had come out west in search of adventure. I convinced him that climbing might be the answer to his quest.
I had mail-ordered some gear from the Ski Hut in Berkeley: rope, boots, ice ax, carabiners, and fifty feet of one-inch nylon webbing for making runners and rappel anchors. I didn't order any pitons because that seemed too advanced. First we would learn the basics before going on to more complicated techniques.
On days off we would take the gear and walk up to the rocks with a guidebook in one hand and a how-to book in the other, and try to figure out how this kind of thing was done. By now I was used to class 3 climbing, where you didn't need a rope, but if you fell you might die. Next was class 4, where you used a rope because, without it, if you fell you would surely die, but the rope would save you if you used it correctly. So we studied the how-to book very carefully and learned how to belay and rappel.
It was the spring of 1959, and we started with climbs the guidebook called class 4: Sunnyside Bench, Lunch Ledge, and the Gunsight. These climbs got us to some exciting places but gave us only a small taste of the real thing.
I went over to Camp 4 because I'd heard that was where climbers stayed, and one day I met Warren Harding. He was easy to recognize from the photos that had been in the newspapers about the El Capitan ascent the previous November.
He was short, wiry, and intense, with long, black, swept-back hair that made him look more like a motorcycle gang member than a climber. But he laughed easily and liked to make jokes. He referred to Gaston Rébuffat, the French climber, as Ghastly Rubberfat. And he had put a bumper sticker on his car. Someone named Bonelli was running for sheriff in Sacramento, his hometown. Warren had altered the spelling so that it read "Bonatti for Sheriff," after the famous Italian climber Walter Bonatti.
I told him about the climbs Rob and I had been doing, and how we wanted to do bigger things.
"Well, come on, then," he said with a grin. "Let's go do some real climbing."
This was a breakthrough — now I could learn from an expert. I told Rob about it.
"Are you sure that was him?" he asked. "Why would he want to climb with beginners like us?"
"I don't know, but we've got to do it. This is our big chance."
On our next day off we got in Warren's car and drove down the Valley, past Rixon's Pinnacle and the Three Brothers. Before reaching El Capitan, he turned right onto a narrow dirt road that had no sign. After two hundred yards I could see a small, windowless cement building on the left. Painted on the door, in big red letters, were the words: DANGER! EXPLOSIVES!
"That's where they keep the dynamite for trail building, clearing rockslides — stuff like that," Warren said. "And over there, on the right, is the biggest pile of horse manure you'll ever see. It's from the stables. I hear the gardeners use it for plantings around the buildings."
By now the road was just a pair of tire tracks. After another hundred yards it ended at a rock wall.
"So here it is," Warren said.
We got out and looked up at a steep wall several hundred feet high. "It doesn't really have a name. Sometimes I call it Powder House Buttress or Dynamite Buttress, but it's not impressive enough for that. So I guess it should be Manure Pile Buttress. Anyway, it's a good place to practice. The main route goes up that corner."
He pointed at a right-facing open book that shot up the wall. It looked much more serious than the things Rob and I had been climbing.
Warren opened the trunk of his car. Inside was a tangled heap of climbing gear: ropes, slings, hammers, and racks of pitons mixed up with ice axes, crampons, and even tent poles and a car jack. "I've got to get organized someday," he said as he grabbed a double armful and tossed it on the ground. He pawed through the pile, glancing up at the corner a couple of times, and picked out a dozen pitons of various sizes.
"That should do it," he said, clipping them onto a sling over his shoulder.
He pulled out two ropes and some other gear, and we walked over to a tree close to the wall. It would be the belay anchor.
Warren uncoiled a rope and said, "OK. Lesson number one: How to tie in."
I thought we already knew how to do this but figured it wouldn't hurt to hear it from a real expert. We might learn some new tricks.
Warren put one end of the rope around his waist. He made a small loop with one hand — the beginning of a bowline knot — and brought the end of the rope up to it with his other hand. Then he started reciting the story that helps you remember how to tie it.
"So," he said, putting the rope end through the loop, "the squirrel comes out of the hole in the tree, runs around the trunk, and ... no, that's not right. You know, every time I look at one of those how-to books I get totally confused." He paused, scratching his head.
"Oh, now I've got it. The rabbit comes out of his hole at the base of the tree, runs around the trunk, and then ... and then ... what does he do? I can't remember where he goes next."
Eventually he got it figured out. He anchored me to the tree, explained how to hip belay, and walked over to the rock.
"Now, before you start up, you always recheck everything. Bowline, shoelaces, pitons and carabiners on this side, runners on that side, hammer ... oops, forgot my hammer." He walked rapidly back to the car. I couldn't pay out the rope fast enough, and he pulled on it, nearly knocking me over. The rope was getting caught on some rocks and bushes. Warren got to the car and started banging around in the trunk, shouting, "Where is that damn thing?"
While he was doing this, Rob came over to me and whispered in my ear: "Are you sure this is the right guy?"
I found out later that this was one of Harding's comedy routines. Anything that people took extremely seriously, he had to turn into a joke.
Warren returned to the wall and looked up. A small tree was growing horizontally out from the corner, about forty feet up. "I'll belay at that tree. This rope isn't long enough to reach the top of the corner in one pitch."
He climbed up the smooth face, just right of the corner. I couldn't see the holds he was using, but he made it look as easy as climbing a ladder.
After twenty feet he stopped and hammered in a piton, clipped the rope into it with a carabiner, and then continued up, jamming his left hand and foot into the corner crack and using invisible holds on the wall for his right hand and foot. He reached the tree and sat on its trunk, with his feet braced against the wall. After tying in and pulling up the extra rope until it was tight on my waist, he looked down between his legs and said, "OK. Come on."
This wasn't what I expected to hear. Rob and I had been studying the how-to book. In situations like this, the belayer and follower were supposed to exchange a precise sequence of commands.
Belayer: "On belay."
Follower: "Ready to climb."
Belayer: "Climb."
Follower: "Climbing."
I had mentioned this to Warren earlier, back in Camp 4. "Oh, really?" he chuckled. "I always wondered how they did that. Sounds like being in the army. I usually say something like: 'OK, Cliff King. Haul ass!'"
Rob pulled a second hammer out of the heap. I stuck it head down in the back pocket of my Levis, looped the sling over my shoulders, and started up my first pitch of class 5 rock.
Up close, there were more holds than I had expected: little edges for fingertips, wider places in the crack for my left foot, shallow dished-out pockets for my right foot. The problem was using them in the right sequence so I wouldn't fall off. I figured it out and arrived at the piton. After hammering it out, I looked up. The next section looked harder, with fewer holds. I moved up, trying to use the jam crack like Warren had, and searching for holds on the face. Warren started making suggestions, pointing out tiny holds between the big ones and saying, "Just put your toe in the crack and twist it. It'll stick."
My new Italian mountaineering boots weren't right for Yosemite. The toe was too thick to fit in the crack. Warren's rock shoes were thinner, more flexible, and fit his feet like gloves. The soles were cut flush with the uppers. On my boots the soles stuck out a quarter of an inch, leaving a flexible rim that rolled off small holds. But I made some long reaches past the hardest places and soon was sitting on the tree trunk next to Warren.
"How was that?" he asked.
"Great."
"Yeah, you did fine."
He was looking up the wall.
"Liked it, huh?"
"Sure. You bet."
"How'd you like to lead the next pitch?"
I took a quick glance to see if he was kidding. For once he seemed to be quite serious.
The route above the tree looked more difficult than what we'd done below. I pretended to look it over carefully, while trying to think of what to say. I wanted to do it, but I'd never even followed anything that hard, much less led it. This was too soon. I had never placed a piton before, but I didn't tell Warren because this seemed like my big chance.
"OK," I said.
He handed me the sling of hardware and some runners and put me on belay. I stood on the tree trunk and looked up. The rock here was steeper and smoother, but the crack in the corner ran all the way up, so at least I could place pitons for protection.
I stepped up onto the rock. The left wall bulged out, and I couldn't get my foot into the crack. The face on the right had no holds to stand on.
"Try cross-pressure," Warren suggested. "See the vertical edge of that little flake out on the right? Put your foot against it and push, like you were in a chimney."
This wasn't anything like a chimney, but there was nothing else to do, so I put my right foot out against the tiny flake and pushed, pressing the left side of my body against the bulge. By alternately wriggling my shoulder and hip up, I managed to gain a few inches.
"That's good," Warren said. "Do it again."
I found a little hold for my left foot in the crack, shifted my right foot to a higher flake, and moved up again.
"That's it. Keep going," Warren said.
I repeated the move, got past the bulge, and came to a ledge big enough for half of each foot.
"Great," Warren said. "That was the hardest part of the climb. Now, put in some protection."
I picked out the widest piton, a one-and-a-half-inch angle and inserted it halfway into the crack by hand. The how-to book said that was just right. As I hammered it in, it made a sharp, rising tone — also just right. After clipping the rope in, I suddenly felt much better. I told Warren what I'd done, and he said, "Sounds good. Go ahead."
Down on the ground, Rob was looking smaller. He waved and yelled up, "Looks wild!" I agreed but thought it might be a good idea to try out these new things closer to the ground.
Above me the corner looked a little easier. I climbed up about ten feet and began to feel the need for a second piton. I hammered in a horizontal.
It made a dull, hollow sound as it went in and didn't feel as solid as the first one. I clipped in and went on until the corner suddenly got steeper, leaned to the right, and looked much harder.
"You might want to traverse out onto the face there," Warren said.
I could see his point. A series of tiny, ledge-like holds ran across the smooth face to the right. Protection was definitely called for. I needed another big angle but didn't have one. Instead, I found a small crack near the corner and hammered in a horizontal. After it was two-thirds of the way in, it starting making buzzing and twanging sounds and wouldn't go in any farther. It was the best I could do.
After clipping in, I stepped out onto the face and started edging across it, moving from one foothold to the next. This face climbing was much more enjoyable than the strange maneuvers I'd made below, but as I got farther from the corner — and my last piton — I became intensely aware of the empty air beneath my feet.
"Hey, Glen," Rob shouted up. "That looks great. But where are you going?" I heard laughter from down below and talking between Rob and Warren. Then Rob yelled, "What are you climbing on? Lichens?" More laughter.
But I was too busy to reply. I was at the end of the traverse, standing on a small ledge, trying to figure out what to do next. The ledge was about six inches long and two inches wide, comfortable for one foot at a time. Ten feet above me I could see some big holds that led to easy rock and a large ledge, the end of climb. My last challenge was to figure out how to climb those ten feet.
After a careful examination, I found a sequence of three footholds. A very small one for my right foot, then a tiny one above it for my left, and then a larger one for my right. If I could stand up on that third hold, I could reach the big holds above, and my problems would be over. But there was very little for the hands.
I rested a minute and wiped my fingers on my pants and on the rock, making sure they were quite dry. I wanted to cinch up my bootlaces but couldn't do it without falling off. If only I could get in a piton — but there were no cracks. That last piton looked very far away.
After taking several deep breaths, I placed my right foot carefully on the first hold and stood up on it. Next, I put my left foot on the tiny foothold, very precisely, and moved up on it. As I was raising my right foot to the third hold, I felt something shift in my left foot. I looked down and saw it all happen — in very clear, very slow motion: the edge of the boot sole bending and the tiny hold coming back into view and the boot sliding off. I saw my right foot going back down to the first hold, but too fast, glancing off and slipping past it. All my weight was on my fingertips, and I felt them straightening out. I saw my right foot hit the six-inch ledge. I tried to make it stay there, but too much weight was coming down. I saw the ankle bend outward and the foot slide off.
Instantly the rock was rushing past my face. I heard someone yell. The rope would catch me in a second. I felt a tug on my waist but it didn't slow me down. The top piton had pulled out. The rock was blurring past. I felt a second tug. It had no effect. Why wasn't the system working? Why had the rope broken? The ground was coming up with an incredible rush.
Then it stopped.
I was dangling on the rope twenty feet above the ground. Warren lowered me down. Rob came over with a startled look on his face. "Are you all right?" His eyes were wide with astonishment.
I seemed to be OK. I hadn't felt anything when Warren's belay stopped me. Due to stretch in the rope I had nearly hit the ground before it recoiled and left me hanging twenty feet up. The two pitons that had pulled out were still clipped to the rope, resting against my bowline. I stared back up the wall. The point I had fallen from looked shockingly far away.
Warren was still sitting in the tree, grinning down at me. "Not bad. A fifty-footer on your first fall. And done in perfect form. All the way down!" He curled his fingers into claws and put them on the rock. I looked at my fingertips. They were covered with blood. They had never given up trying to hold on.
I untied and walked over to the car. After washing off the blood and putting on some bandages, I sat down and thought about what had just happened. I should have been happy to be alive, but I was angry. Beginners' mistakes had let death come too close. I had to learn more. That climb couldn't defeat me. As soon as my fingers healed, I'd come back and finish that lead.
Warren was tired of sitting in that tree. "Anybody else?" he called down.
Rob wanted some action. He climbed up to the tree, and Warren took the lead. Rob went second, and I followed with a top rope. Despite my aching fingers, it was surprising how much easier it was when there was no need to worry about falling.
From the big ledge we scrambled down to the car and had some lunch. Warren said there was more good climbing on the wall, farther to the right. My fingers were throbbing, and I didn't feel like using them, but Warren said, "Don't worry. We'll do friction climbing. There won't be anything to hold on to."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Valley Walls by Glen Denny. Copyright © 2016 Yosemite Conservancy. Excerpted by permission of Yosemite Conservancy.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Foreword Steve Roper ix
Author's Note xii
Acknowledgments xiii
Prologue: Into the Valley 1
1 Learning to Climb 7
2 Royal Arches 19
3 One Day on Whitney 33
4 The Endless Night 49
5 Base of El Cap 57
6 The Wall of Conness 63
7 Early Season 71
8 The Ledge 83
9 Bad Weather 89
10 The Icy Game 103
11 One Inch 109
12 Climber Central 117
13 Dihedral Wall 131
14 Nice Catch 139
15 The Grove 147
16 The Rostrum 151
17 Dog Days 159
18 Staircase Falls 169
19 Planet Half Dome 173
20 Season's End 183
21 The Nose 195
Notes 215
Glossary 217
Index 221
About the Author 225