by Bob Madgic
In 1967, Liz Robbins, wife of Royal, became the first woman to climb Half Dome; she followed the same route as her husband’s first ascent of the northwest face a decade earlier. Her accomplishment signaled the revolution in women’s climbing that would soon follow. Greg Lowe and Rob Kiesel made the first winter ascent in January 1972, overcoming a fierce storm with howling winds. Their hands were nearly frozen.
The route that Robbins and his mates blazed is called the Northwest Face Regular Route. By 1971, that and three other routes up the northwest face—Arcturus, Northwest Face Direct, and Tis-se-yak—were active. Today rock climbers can choose from among a dozen technical climbing routes to reach Half Dome’s summit.
THE CLIMBING WORLD, in which scaling big walls had become the ultimate measure, needed a way to grade the difficulty of ascents. As early as the 1930s, a five-point grading system was devised to rate hikes and climbs in the Sierra Nevada. Technical free climbs were consigned to Class 5. But because they varied widely in the level of difficulty, Class 5 was subdivided in the 1950s into nine ratings—5.1 to 5.9. As climbers became more accomplished and skillful with each passing decade, this Yosemite Decimal System* was extended up to 5.15, the most difficult climb ever completed up to that time. Subcategories (a through d suffixes) in each numerical category were added to delineate the variations even further.
Up to 1970, the adventure in climbing was conquering virgin vertical terrain. Fierce rivalries took root on the floor of Yosemite Valley. Tested Yosemite climbers jealously guarded their turf and were contemptuous of others who didn’t meet their standards. For them, it wasn’t just a question of which route someone climbed; it was also a matter of technique and speed. Some of the world’s greatest climbers—the so-called granite astronauts—achieved major breakthroughs on Half Dome and that larger, even more imposing mass of granite nearby, El Capitan, with its thirty-two-hundred-foot face—“the Crown Jewel of American Rock Climbing.” These breakthroughs included many first ascents on new routes. Among the climbers in that Golden Age of Climbing were Royal Robbins, Yvon Chouinard, Tom Frost, Warren Harding, David Brower, Galen Rowell, George Whitmore, and Allen Steck. Some parlayed their success into business ventures, such as sponsorship or work in commercials and movies. Robbins, for example, established a successful line of clothing; Chouinard started an outdoor equipment retail firm, Patagonia, which was initially based on climbing devices he invented.
Yosemite climbers settled in a campground in the park and made it their own. Camp Four was a much-abused place where a motley assortment of climbers hung out and slept, a number for the entire climbing season. Some lived on as little as fifty cents a day and ate mainly oatmeal. Like a gypsy camp, Camp Four had its own subculture whose members felt they owned Yosemite. Its scruffy ambience and characters aside, Camp Four gave birth to the sport of rock climbing as the world would come to know it.
IN THE EARLY DECADES, nearly all climbing involved the use of aids, particularly pitons and expansion bolts. When Warren Harding completed the first ascent of El Capitan—the Nose Route—back in 1958, he hammered in more than one hundred bolts. The entire climb, which involved many descents to the Valley floor and returning to the spot where he had left off, took forty-five days over a year and a half. But the sport had become so popular by the mid-1970s that piton scars and abandoned hardware and bivouac webbing were degrading the formerly pristine rock walls. So climbers sought ways to reduce the impact. Purists used as few aids as possible, heeding John Muir’s exhortation to “leave no mark except your shadow.” As Royal Robbins said, “It isn’t getting to the top that’s primary, but how you climb there.” Not all climbers bought in to this newfound sensitivity, however.
Climbers invented new kinds of low-impact aids that could be wedged into rock crevices to prevent a fall and then removed, leaving no trace. These included a variety of metal chocks, stoppers, and hexes—essentially, rectangular or hexagonal pieces of metal— that are still in use today. In clean climbing, as this approach came to be called, climbers didn’t hammer any new protective devices into the rock; they employed only removable items.
A natural progression in the sport of rock climbing was free climbing—climbing without any gear that you could stand on or use to pull yourself up, including rope. Free climbers used only the natural rock surfaces to ascend; they adapted themselves to the rock rather than trying to shape the rock with mechanical devices. Free climbing had its own techniques* and demanded a higher level of gymnastic flexibility and fitness (especially for the most difficult climbs), along with exceptional strength and unique muscular development. Climbers in Yosemite developed new techniques that revolutionized so-called crack climbing. Previously, climbers relied on gaston—putting their fingers in a crack and pulling outward, as if opening a sliding door—for support. Now they were jamming hands and fingers into cracks, squeezing them to create tension within, then hanging by that limb, a technique that required far less strength than gaston. The skeleton rather than muscles did the work.
Free climbing the major walls in Yosemite wasn’t really where the action was up until the mid-’70s, mainly because few thought it possible. Events on June 15, 1976, dispelled that notion.
That day, two Colorado climbers, Jim Erickson and Art Higbee, launched an audacious attempt to free climb Half Dome’s Northwest Face Regular Route and thereby scoop the Yosemite fraternity in its own backyard. Beginning in 1971, Erickson had attempted this climb nine times and failed. Still, he believed it could be done. Underlying his latest venture was a movie project. Cinematic technique, like climbing technique, was undergoing its own revolution of sorts. It had evolved to the point where a crew could capture an ascent on film from above, below, and the sides.
Everything began as planned. Erickson and Higbee inched their way up the face. From Ericksons’s previous attempts the two climbers knew they could not free climb the Robbins Traverse. In order to circumvent the smoother section, Erickson spotted a possible option. He climbed straight up two hundred feet, and when he couldn’t go any further, he traversed forty feet to the right, and then he descended forty feet, arriving at the ledge at the end of the Robbins traverse. Higbee followed suit. This free variation approach has since come to be known as the Erickson Traverse. The pair contined up to Big Sandy Ledge, where they spent the night.
In the morning, staring down on them from above were the Zig Zags, a four-hundred-foot course of narrow cracks that offered the smallest of toe- and fingerholds. Indeed, cracks in the third Zig Zag were so tight, only fingertips could squeeze in. Previous climbers always relied on aids here. Erickson and Higbee each fell several times trying to surmount this stretch. But eventually, Higbee, taking to heart his belief that a climber “has to push himself through the doubt,” found one more crack to wedge his hands into, one more potato-chip flake to crimp with his fingertips, and the strength to pull himself up onto Thank God Ledge. Erickson followed. Success seemed to be within grasp. After thirty-four hours on the face, after twenty-two pitches, after twenty-one hundred feet of successful climbing, only one hundred feet remained. This last leg would take thirty minutes at most.
However, Erickson and Higbee were shocked to encounter yet another granite slab blocking their ascent, not very high but smooth and slick. They scoured the rock again and again looking for something to grasp but came up empty. Finally, an exhausted and feverishly hot Erickson used aids to scale this one last obstacle, thereby ending the free climb. Although the two men called their effort a “magnificent failure,” the climbing community called it a “magnificent achievement.” They had showed the climbing world what was truly possible. From then on, free climbing took center stage.*
Erickson returned to Yosemite later that summer. First he went to Half Dome’s summit and affixed a top-rope that hung down over the northwest face. Then he repeated his and Higbee’s climb. When he reached that last troublesome slab, Erickson free climbed it with the top-rope for his protection, thus completing the task he and Higbee had se
t out to achieve. Technically, however, the top-rope compromised the ascent as a pure free climb. Recognition for that feat would go to Leonard Coyne in 1981.
SMOOTH GRANITE, OVERHANGS, unstable granite flakes, bivouacs on the narrowest of ledges—all of these and much more test the tenacity, skill, strength, and endurance of climbers. The commitment is such that, beyond a certain point, the only escape is up. Mountaineers live for—and sometimes die for—this challenge.
Each year there are more than a hundred climbing accidents in Yosemite. Nearly all of the 51 climbing deaths between 1970 and 1990—an average of 2.5 per year—were due to trauma injuries; hypothermia caused 4 of them. In the intervening years, the fatality rate has slipped to two per year. Yosemite’s search and rescue division typically performs fifteen to twenty-five rescues of rock climbers annually.
In addition to the obvious risk of falling, there are numerous weather hazards, including thunderstorms that seemingly erupt out of nowhere. Torrents of rain may fall. Often the rain is near freezing and intermingled with hail. Sheets of runoff soak climbers, reducing visibility and rendering the granite slick. If a storm rides in on a cold front, packing chill winds, potentially fatal hypothermia can overtake unprepared climbers.* Sometimes the wind is so fierce, it whips climbers from their moorings or sends their tent and supplies flying into the void.
Another serious danger is lightning, which imperils anyone exposed on a rock face. A direct lightning strike is unlikely, but lightning branches may lash the granite, shooting deadly electrical charges in any direction.** Stifling heat and insufficient water can also be dangerous. Some climbers become so dehydrated, they can’t continue. Absent more water or a rescue, they die a slow death.
Anyone climbing Half Dome is particularly prone to weather attacks, because a system can slide into lower Yosemite without causing a disturbance, then unleash raw fury when it hits the Dome. Two climbers got trapped on its south face in October 1968 when a storm brought snow and freezing conditions. Hypothermia and a shortage of supplies threatened their lives. Expert climbers flown to the summit by helicopter rappelled down the face and rescued the pair.
DESPITE THE DANGERS and discomforts, climbing is for many an all-consuming passion. They interrupt, end, or never start their careers, focusing exclusively on completing the next climb. Climber Todd Skinner said free climbing means “going right to the edge” of your capabilities. For many climbers, this closeness to death—the risk of dying—produces an adrenaline rush that most other life experiences simply can’t. It is what keeps many of them married to the sport. Probably no other sport creates such a feeling of oneness with Mother Nature. Attached to a mountainside by fingertips and toes, the climber necessarily becomes part of the rock—or else. One climber says that while scaling a granite face, she felt close to God, so intense was her relationship with the natural world.
Climbers speak of “floating” or “performing a ballet” over the rock, each placement of foot and each reach into a crack creating unity with the mountain. The sport is one of total engagement with the here-and-now, which frees the mind from everything else. Climbers’ concentration is complete and focused. Their only thought is executing the next move.
Rock climbing has been called the King of Sports, not only because of the skills, courage, and mental conditioning it demands but also because it takes place in the grandest of places. There is no stadium, court, diamond, gym, field, or track that can rival nature’s arena.
Ken Bokelund, who was on the face of Half Dome the day Rice, Esteban, and company battled nature at the summit, and who went on to become a highly accomplished climber, said: “Climbing for me has always been the strength of the body over the weakness of the mind. If you train so that you are very strong physically and you have mastered the techniques, then all that’s left is believing. Freeing your mind of fear is the key. This is very difficult to do, but when you can achieve it, then you are in true harmony with the rock. Fear is just one more thing to worry about and is very distracting. It can make you fall.
“What sometimes happens when fear enters the climber’s mind is sewing-machine leg—a leg that starts shaking out of control. It happens to all climbers at one time or another and obviously is very dangerous when one is clinging to the side of a rock. But when you know you are strong enough to complete any maneuver, once that level of physical confidence is achieved, then you are able to put fear out of your mind. Climbing becomes a very simple pleasure. It’s just you and the rock. It’s a total clarity of being, a time when nothing matters, you’re moving without any thought, you’re in a place where time stands still. Even when you’re on a wall for days, when you get down, everything seems exactly the same, as though time never passed.”
BOKELUND AND ROB FOSTER, his climbing buddy, first hooked up at Burlingame High School in Burlingame, California, just south of San Francisco. Bokelund was five foot eight and weighed 140 pounds, undersized for most sports but just about perfect for rock climbing. A mountaineering school introduced him to the sport when he was in elementary school. In short order, he became a very good climber.
Before Foster got involved in rock climbing, he was generally unmotivated. He hung out with a group of other anti-establishment types in high school who cut classes, didn’t do homework, smoked pot, and earned poor grades. Then Foster discovered climbing through Boy Scout camp. It changed his life. Like Bokelund, he was slim: 150 pounds on a five-foot, ten-inch, frame. He began eating well, exercising to build muscle, and climbing instead of bumming around. His schoolwork improved.
Rock climbing brought Bokelund and Foster together. With only a modest amount of climbing gear, the two started clambering up trees, buildings, rocks, stone bridges—whatever was available. Then they put their budding skills to the test at Castle Rock above the town of Saratoga in the South Bay, a big training rock for climbers. Each took a few falls and got banged up. Foster’s mother insisted they get climbing instruction, so the pair enrolled in a two-day course at Lovers Leap near Lake Tahoe, where they learned technique and safety skills. After that, as Bokelund put it, their commitment to rock climbing soared “off the Richter scale.” They saved money and bought more equipment, and built a plywood climbing wall in Bokelund’s backyard.
After graduating from high school in 1983, all Bokelund lived for was climbing. His lifestyle for many years was spartan; he earned just enough money at various jobs to pay for shelter and food. Unemployment checks sometimes filled the gaps. He played guitar for enjoyment.
Foster, a year behind Bokelund in high school, was also addicted to climbing. When few climbing challenges remained in the Bay Area, he and Bokelund set their sights on Yosemite. They developed climbing muscles—in their forearms, triceps, and lats— and worked religiously on technique. The pair was ready to tackle a big wall.
In summer 1984, they successfully scaled the south face of Washington Column, one of Yosemite’s easier wall climbs. The next summer they planned to climb the face of Half Dome.
Their intent was to complete the ascent of the Northwest Face Regular Route in three days, beginning on Thursday, July 25. The two teens possessed the zeal of youth but not much in the way of sophisticated gear or clothing. With little money to fuel their passion, they scrimped and scrounged to get by. For the Half Dome ascent, they decided to go light, carrying only the bare necessities. All of the climbing gear weighed about thirty pounds. They chose not to bring their sleeping bags, which were too bulky and heavy. And they couldn’t afford new, lighter ones. So each packed a canvas sack to sleep in, along with rain gear, wool pants, a synthetic shirt, and sleeping pad. They didn’t pack gloves, although later they would be grateful to discover a stray pair in the bottom of a pack. Their single haul pack was an old army duffel bag. It contained their sleeping sacks and other items plus ropes, food, and climbing paraphernalia. By packing lean, they could lug eighteen liters of waters, which weighed about forty pounds—half the total weight of their stuffed haul bag.
Bokelund and
Foster planned to employ several climbing techniques. Portions of the ascent would entail clean climbing—that is, using pitons and bolts already hammered in the granite, and their own removable protection. For sections rated above 5.10, they would do aid climbing—ascending their ropes using nylon ladders (called etriers), slings, and daisy chains. Otherwise, the pair would free climb—use only their hands and feet on the natural rock features while hitched to rope in case of a fall. They arrived in Yosemite on Wednesday, July 24.
Just reaching the base of the northwest face poses a physical challenge for climbers who are carting loads of gear. There are two approaches.
One involves hiking to Sub Dome, as do those headed up Half Dome via the cables, and then skirting the hump and traversing the base of the cliff to its bottom. This stretch alone takes more than six hours. Some climbers, especially guides with clients, rent mules to haul their gear—including cushy sleeping bags, por-taledges, wine, good food, and other comforts—to the staging area.
The second approach entails a three-hour scramble through the slabs, a rocky jumble at the bottom of the face where the footing is treacherous and the route so confusing that climbers may not arrive at their intended destination. A spring at the base supplies drinking water.
That first day, Bokelund and Foster hiked the eight-plus miles to the base of Sub Dome and then descended the circuitous route to the bottom of the face, where they camped for the night. They began their climb at sunrise on Thursday.
Their first day on the rock went well. The only others ahead of them were a guide with his female client, about half a day up. Clouds materialized, but no storm. Light showers doused the mountain that night. Although it was midsummer, moisture, wind, and low mountain temperatures made for chilly nights on Half Dome’s face. Bokelund and Foster slept tied in on a sloping ledge, snuggled in their canvas sacks and wearing wool pants and synthetic shirts for additional warmth. Each wore one of the two gloves from the stray pair that fortunately showed up; each tucked the other hand inside his clothing.