Shattered Air: A True Account of Catastrophe and Courage on Yosemite's Half Dome

by Bob Madgic

  Zigzag lances of lightning followed each other in quick succession, and the thunder was so gloriously loud and massive it seemed as if surely an entire mountain was being shattered at every stroke.—John Muir

  Well ahead of their companions, Esteban and Rice reached the bottom of the cables at 5:40 P.M. and appraised the impending storm. Heavy dark clouds in multihued layers already blanketed the sky and sagged into the mountain cavities. Lightning continued playing over the ridges and spires, and thunder rumbled like battleship guns nearby.

  They stared up at the top of Half Dome six hundred feet away, shrouded in mist. Nobody else was in sight. Their take-no-prisoners pace had put them ahead of the pack when Bill Pippey forfeited the lead due to a bilious stomach.

  Rice and Esteban now had to weigh their next move. A strong climber could ascend in less than fifteen minutes; they had done it themselves many times. Their thirty-five-pound backpacks would be a hindrance, but the threat of lightning would spur them on. At the top, they’d reach the cave’s shelter in less than five minutes.

  Roughly twenty minutes in all, then. Risk it or not?

  While a lightning bolt might possibly strike the granite slope near them or even hit the cables they would be clinging to, a strike higher up, on or near the summit, was far more likely. The trouble was, even if lightning struck at the top, a potent charge could streak anywhere on wet surfaces. Anyplace on the mountain would be dangerous if Half Dome were coated with water.*

  As Esteban measured the sky, he felt drizzle on his upturned face and blinked. Hard rain, he sensed, wasn’t far off.

  Neither of them spoke as they peered up the cables. Rice was the undisputed leader, and Esteban, ever the good soldier, would accept his decision. If Rice expressed doubts or caution, Esteban would mull them, but he didn’t really expect dialogue. When the pair faced challenges, they seldom resorted to reasoned deliberation and judgment. Instead, they trusted their guts and seized opportunities for adventure. From that standpoint, this storm was no different from past hazards. Together they would improvise to meet all threats. The two exchanged a glance and Esteban knew the decision had been made.

  Fuck it, Rice muttered. This is our mountain—let’s just do it!

  Okay, Esteban replied.

  He realized nothing would deter Rice now. Nor, despite some apprehension, did he really want to deter him. The two were connected by karma, were brothers in arms. Esteban wouldn’t let his brother down. The others would have to look out for themselves while they waited out the storm.

  It’s you and me, Esteban said, believing that only he and Rice would be heading into the vortex.

  Shirtless despite the growing coolness, Rice moved rapidly toward the cables, Esteban immediately behind him. As if cued by their movements, a mosaic of jagged lightning streaked the sky followed by rolling claps.

  Before the thunder had faded, Esteban’s sixth sense kicked in with a sensation of foreboding. He took a few more steps, then stopped and called to Rice.

  Whatever happens, he said, I want you to know I love you, man.

  Rice turned with a quizzical expression. After a moment’s hesitation, he gripped Esteban’s outstretched hand and said he loved him, too. Then he attacked the slope.

  Their legs drove hard against the granite and their arms strained at the metal cables. Atmospheric energy seemed to draw them magnetically as they ramped upward in a fury Esteban imagined the scene as a vast battlefield, explosions drawing nearer, the thunder a precursor to combat. Despite his repressed fear, or perhaps because of it, Esteban felt more alive at that moment than at any time in his life. His senses seemed heightened far beyond their normal range. Perhaps, he thought, this is the kind of rush other extreme thrill-seekers experience when they surf a twenty-foot wave, bungee jump off a high bridge, skydive, rock climb a big wall, or ski off a cliff. Never before had he and Rice felt this level of intensity.

  He became aware of Rice talking, of words spilling out quickly. Rice offered dire calculations about what could happen to them if lightning zapped the cables. Maybe he was just trying to ratchet up the thrill level. Or maybe he was indulging his engineer’s mind. In any case, they both jerked their hands off the steel cables each time deadly brilliance lit the skies.

  As if it mattered.

  With lightning, there was no margin for last-second adjustments.

  THE STRAGGLERS IN THEIR GROUP were spread out some distance behind. Closest to Rice and Esteban, and at that moment approaching the top of Sub Dome, was Brian Jordan. He’d split from the others early on, content to hike at his own pace. Proud of the stamina he was displaying and eager to impress the older men and make his mark as a budding outdoorsman, he followed in Rice and Esteban’s footsteps without a second thought.

  Farther back were Frith and Weiner. The warning sign at the base of Sub Dome stared at them as they approached the stairs. A concerned Weiner wondered aloud if they should stop and wait out the storm. Frith assured him that refuge—the cave—awaited them at the summit. Once there we’ll be safe, he said, repeating Rice and Esteban’s mantra.

  Weiner’s legs were still cramping. He doubted he could make it up those stairs. If he delayed much longer, however, his muscles might tighten further and completely rule out a final ascent, even after the storm passed. Soon it would start raining. Where could they find shelter in a drenching downpour? As the newcomer in the group, Weiner didn’t want to hold anyone else back, especially Frith, whose heart and soul were committed to summiting Half Dome on this day.

  We’re close, Frith urged. We’ll be able to dry off and rest in the cave.

  Believing he had little choice at this point but to continue, and mustering every last bit of his physical strength, Weiner forced his aching legs to move step by step up the punishing staircase.

  Once atop Sub Dome, they caught a glimpse of Rice and Esteban nearing Half Dome’s summit just as clouds unleashed pouring rain. There it is! Frith said excitedly. One last push and we’ve made it! The two donned ponchos, dropped down to the base of the cables, and started up the granite slope.

  The possibility of mortal danger occurred to neither of them.

  RICE AND ESTEBAN SURMOUNTED the final incline and hit the summit running. Though they had ignored the signs warning of danger, they still were acutely aware of their vulnerability. Lightning would strike the Dome—it was only a matter of when. In effect, the pair had engaged nature in a round of Russian roulette. But the rain-drenched air remained mercifully free from that terrifying flash as they dashed across the summit toward shelter.

  They dropped their packs at the cave entrance and scrambled in. We made it! they yelled jubilantly and high-fived each other, then reclined on the rocky floor, energy and emotions spent.

  It was 6 P.M.

  Minutes later, Esteban heard someone yell his name. He clambered back out and was astonished to see Brian Jordan standing on the summit and peering around, a worried look on his face. Esteban beckoned to him, motioning urgently. As the boy hustled over, Esteban saw Frith and Weiner appear at the summit’s edge. Esteban and Rice’s presumption that they alone would challenge the storm by summiting Half Dome was flawed.

  Come on! Esteban yelled.

  It’s absolutely bitching! Frith gushed when he reached the cave entrance. It’s everything you said it was!

  Rice, who had stripped his drenched clothes in the cave, emerged nude to greet the new arrivals. Laughing, he broke into a dance of celebration, feet jigging on the rough granite, rain pelting his body. Caught up in his euphoria, the others slapped hands and shuffled their feet; that is, except for Weiner, who was near collapse.

  Bring on the lightning show! somebody yelled as they settled down in the enclosure.

  The newcomers cast off their backpacks and sought space in the tight quarters. After pushing so hard up the mountain, they were relieved to be in the cave’s shelter; in their minds the thick granite walls and ceiling provided an invincible fortress against the raging storm. Later, when the
storm ended and the others rejoined them, they would celebrate their accomplishment in full.

  Brian Jordan was flush with pleasure. The youngster had demonstrated he could aim high and hit his goal. If he could climb Half Dome in the face of a storm, he could accomplish just about anything. He sat squeezed between two backpacks, savoring the glow of his triumph and pleased to be there with the veterans Esteban and Rice.

  Bruce Weiner had amazed even himself. He’d completed his first hike—to the top of a famous mountain, no less. Though practically numb from pain and fatigue, he felt supremely proud. The easterner had proven he could measure up when it counted. Best of all, he’d done it in the company of Bob Frith.

  If Frith was tired, he didn’t show it. He exuded his customary jovial spirit. Being there on the top of Half Dome, he told everyone, was the high point of his twenty-four years. Now that he’d discovered the wonders of mountains, he intended to make these marvelous treks many times. Nowhere but in California could he experience something like this. He and Weiner would share many future adventures. Life was very good indeed.

  In his quiet manner, Esteban also enjoyed a sense of profound fulfillment. He believed he was right where he belonged, having journeyed once again to his personal mecca. While he couldn’t find the precise words to describe this feeling, he was one with the elements in this spot, no question about it. Others might find their mystical connections elsewhere, but for Esteban, those connections were here, with Rice. Sharing the sanctity of the moment with newcomers only deepened his appreciation.

  Rice, too, had reason to be pleased. He’d seized the moment and led the way up the granite monolith. He’d inspired the others to confront their fears and challenge the storm. More than ever before, Rice’s bond with this mountain seemed firmly cemented. The Dome was sacred, a primal link to nature. What he found here transcended the material realm and imbued him with a higher purpose: to remain physically and morally fit.

  The rain turned colder. Hailstones began clattering on the rocks. The five men dug into their packs for dry clothes—long pants, sweatshirts, sweaters. The small cave obliged them to huddle, which generated a soothing body heat. Some broke out trail mix and granola bars. Rice, now clothed in shorts and a sweatshirt, reached into his pack for a small head of broccoli to munch on.

  Anyone got beer? Esteban asked.

  Only Pippey, somebody answered, which drew laughter and speculation about how long it would take their usually hard-hiking companion and the other Jordan twin to join them.

  Esteban slid over near the cave’s entrance and lit his camping stove. He brought water to a boil, then carefully carried a tin cup of tea with him out to the ledge. The hail had ceased and the rain slackened.

  Come check out the greatest scene in the world! he called back to Frith as he settled down on the King’s Chair.

  Frith crawled over the boulder and came face-to-face with the twenty-two-hundred-foot drop to the rocky slabs. He swallowed nervously and cautiously lowered himself down beside Esteban. With his legs dangling over the edge and nothing but emptiness before him, Frith confessed he’d never experienced anything like this before.

  This is unreal, he said, searching for the right words. It was worth everything to get here.

  Esteban nodded pleasurably

  We’re on top of the world, man, he said. The gods are smiling on us.

  The time was 6:25 P.M.

  EARLIER, BILL PIPPEY, having voided his stomach and intestines, finally was ready to move on. With Bruce Jordan he retraced his steps up Sub Dome and started up the cables in the chill rain, dense, ominous clouds overhead. The two men were only twenty feet up the cables when an enormous bolt lashed the rounded surface of North Dome directly across the Valley. Like a laser light show, the jagged streak shuddered in place for almost a full second.

  Jordan halted and said he was scared and wanted to stop. Pippey studied him. Under normal circumstances, he might have cheered the youngster on. But now, dehydrated and severely weakened from diarrhea, he was in a different frame of mind. And this was hardly a normal situation.

  Got no quarrel with that, he said agreeably.

  Actually, he thought, it’s damn sensible.

  They headed back down to the base camp, where they quickly pitched their tent. At about six fifteen, they hunkered down to wait out the storm. Pippey fished beer from his pack. While consuming it, they had little concern about the tremendous light show flashing all around them outside, feeling secure in their shelter. The pyrotechnics peaked at six thirty with a ferocious explosion that lit up their nylon tent as if a billion flashbulbs had detonated.

  FARTHER DOWN, Brian Cage and his group reached tree line during the storm’s crescendo. The edge of the forest provided a good view of Half Dome. In disbelief, they spotted men moving above the cables, seemingly among the storm clouds.

  Shaking their heads, Cage’s group put on all available rain gear and gathered under the arms of a big Jeffrey pine. There they clustered against the trunk, fairly warm and dry and in good spirits, although not as protected as they might have assumed.* They broke out crackers and salami, passed around a bottle of Yukon Jack, and settled back to wait. There was still plenty of daylight to get to the summit if the storm let up. If it didn’t, they would camp somewhere near their present position.

  From beneath the Jeffrey pine, they watched the lightning grow ever more intense as flash after flash illuminated the sky. It seemed to pinpoint Half Dome. Suddenly an enormous, radiant blast shattered the air, followed immediately by a piercing boom—the loudest thunder crack Cage had ever heard. Another flash arrived moments later. He watched as the bolt shot across the summit of Half Dome, then made a 180-degree turn to strike at the lip of the overhang there. Though he had grown up in Oregon and seen his share of electrical storms, Cage was awestruck. Never had he seen lightning take such a radical path. Nor had he ever heard anything to match the brain-splitting craack-boom that resonated off the granite walls.

  He later described his group’s reaction:

  Frankly, it scared the crap out of us.

  MIKE HOOG’S group made shelter in an open area by spreading a plastic sheet on the ground and covering it with a large tarp overhead. The hikers lay under the tarp in their sleeping bags and ate trail mix, salami, cheese, and crackers. Although they were close to Half Dome, they had decided to complete their hike the next day. Meanwhile, the storm raged. Linda Crozier felt as if the clouds were closing in around them, which made everything murky and ominous. The pounding thunder was louder than ever, a relentless assault on her ears. Lightning, it seemed, was striking everywhere at once.

  In fact, though, at the eye of this hell broken loose stood Half Dome.

  THE OPENINGS IN THE CAVE afforded eerie, fleeting images cast in ghostly hues. Lightning tracers glowed—the veins of an irate god?—as thunderclaps battered the granite formations again and again. Inside the enclosure sat Rice, Weiner, and Brian Jordan. For the moment, Rice had little to say. The youthful Jordan was sandwiched between two pack frames. Weiner was bent forward, adjusting his bootlaces.

  Outside, Esteban and Frith sat in the King’s Chair.

  Did you hear that? Esteban asked suddenly.

  What? Frith looked at him. Hear what?

  That funny buzzing—it seemed to fill the air.

  You must be high, Frith told him. I didn’t hear anything.

  Esteban laughed. Whatever, he said. True, he was high. But not on drugs. No drug could produce the kind of elation he was feeling.

  He sobered slightly as the buzzing sounded again. This time, Frith heard it. Their hair bristled. The air seemed to crackle, like sizzling bacon, but neither man grasped its portent. Frith relaxed and began to say again how unbelievably bitching all this was, just awesome, the greatest experience of his life.

  Distracted, Esteban turned to crawl up over the boulder back into the cave. With his left hand on the rock for balance, he pushed off on his left leg, his right poised in midair. At that i
nstant, the cave exploded with a cataclysmic roar as lightning ripped across its surfaces.

  Esteban was slammed against a wall, his left hand pinned there as if by an electromagnet. He thought he saw his arm inflating and warping and twisting like something grossly overcooking in a microwave oven. He felt as though he was imploding, being fed into a vacuum. He screamed but didn’t hear his voice. Everything grew dark. He was somewhere above his body, peering down at himself and those in the cave. He was being transported far away.

  No! he bellowed.

  Suddenly, somehow, he was back in his body. But it was numb and couldn’t move.

  I’m dead, he thought.

  Electricity had entered through a single knuckle and shot down his body, departing simultaneously, as buckshot might, from the cheeks of his buttocks, left thigh, and left heel. Esteban had no way of knowing then how lucky he’d been. At the instant of the strike, his limited contact with the granite had confined the charge to the left side of his body.

  Weiner also had been lucky. Bending to adjust his laces, he was touching the wall only with his buttocks and thighs. As the lightning whipped about the enclosure, residual moisture on his clothing and skin served as a conductor and restricted the charge to the surface of these two body parts.

  When the cave exploded, Weiner felt that the detonation was in his head and he was being sucked into a vacuum, his body being wrenched in a thousand directions simultaneously. For one long instant he couldn’t feel, see, or hear anything. Everything was black; he didn’t know where he was. When he regained his senses, he heard himself screaming. He had no feeling from the waist down. His first thought was that Esteban’s portable stove had blown up. But then he heard Esteban moaning:

  Oh, my God, we’ve been struck by lightning. I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead.

  Weiner looked at Brian Jordan next to him. Eyes vacant, Jordan deadpanned, We’ve got to get out of here. His chin then dropped to his chest.