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The West Ridge
By Dingus Milktoast

Burl and I are going climbing. Cool. We generally like the
same types of routes. We both like to hike. We prefer the
backcountry to the front. We even endorse the same training
programs. Which is to say, hot and cold, hit and miss.
Neither of us has been working that hard of late.
I've been in a funk. A funk for me is when my dreams and
goals fade into a surreal cloud, far too distant to be
meaningful or attainable. And I simply can't train unless I
have a reason. Burl on the other hand has a much better
excuse. He's recovering from a dislocated shoulder and more
recently, from lopping the end of his finger off with a buzz
saw.
     Nutrition and hydration are critical components of a
mountaineer's arsenal. So we start early, figuring that
since we're out of shape we might as well be REALLY out of
shape. Pop, squeeze, ahhhhh! An ice cold Corona goes down so
smoothly it calls for another. As light fades and we breathe
the scented mountain air, a warm glow of contentment
descends like a cool Central Valley fog. Comfortably numb,
neither of us dwells upon the coming day, the trial ahead of
us or the possible consequences. Wouldn't make any
difference anyway. We're gonna do the climb. Worrying about
it is pointless and only leads to a lack of sleep.
     I don't think there will be any T-head build up tomorrow.
Knowing my partner's propensity for sleeping in, I say we
shoot for 7 O'clock at the trailhead. Burl sets his alarm
for 6. I set mine as a backup; 5:30. This is slothfully late
for a mountaineer. But in the Range of Light it's probably a
safe bet. Before turning in I walk away from camp a short
distance.
      The 3rd Pillar of Dana towers above Lee Vining Canyon like
a mighty sentinel; a gatekeeper of the gods. We've bivied
along the base of the ancient lateral moraine of a glacier
so long gone that it took brilliant scientists many years to
agree that it ever existed at all. Seems pretty obvious in
hindsight, but it was a different world then. I'm sure our
descendants will scoff at our ignorance as well.

      I'm awake when the alarm goes off. The red glow of dawn
sets the eastern horizon ablaze in a glory of light. I'd go
back to sleep if I could, but I gotta piss and a deadly
thirst rages in my throat. My head is pounding even before I
struggle out of my sleeping bag. Yeah boy howdy, am I ready
for some mountaineering or what?
      We're both slow. It's why I set my alarm for 5:30 instead
of 6. Burl rouses but it's a good while before he realizes
I've hosed him again.
      "A quarter to 6! Dingus, you're an asshole!"
      "Yup, I am. But I'm also an awake asshole." He takes my
treason in good stride. In fact, he generously offers me a
vicodin in trade for a couple of liquid gel cap ibuprofens.
These gel caps are the greatest advance in over the counter
pain control since vitamin I itself became available. But
they're no match for a vike late in the day, when you're
feet and back are aching and several miles of trail remain.
I pocket the drugs, swallow 800 mg. of ibuprofen and choke
down some breakfast. I also begin swilling water, knowing
that I've incurred a water debt that must be repaid as soon
as possible. By the time we finish packing the car, the
headache has faded. I'm woozy though. I silently tell my
more sensible side that I'll make the decision to climb at
the appropriate time. He chooses to believe the lie.
      Amazingly, we pull up to the trailhead at 7 on the dot. Not
too shabby for a couple of reprobates. Packing goes quickly
cause we agree to go light. I take a wind breaker, a pair of
rock shoes, an extra shirt and a knit cap. Along with this I
bring some food, 4 liters of water and my ditty bag. That's
it. Many would be critical of this assemblage of gear.
They're free to carry more if they wish. I notice Burl
elects to bring about the same. I even throw both my chalk
bag and water filter back in the car. For food I have some
jerky, a big chunk of ketchup-covered meatloaf, two apples
and a candy bar. We hit the trail at 7:30.

      A few hours later we're standing on the plateau south of
Mt. Conness. It's been a trial so far. I've been dizzy a
couple of times; inner ear problems have plagued me for the
past two weeks. Vertigo is unthinkable on this outing, so I
don't think about it. I realized early that 4 liters of
water wasn't going to be enough. At a high source I drank
most of 2 liters and refilled. It was a smart move, one I
planned to repeat on the way out. I usually just take my
chances with the gut bugs.
      We're here to do the West Ridge. I've done it a couple
times before. Burl's done it once. It is truly a gem of a
climb. Climbers much better than I have said good things
about this route so I won't repeat them. I will say it is
one of my personal favorites and I hope to repeat it many
more times. We drop down a steep chute that leads to the
slopes beneath the great south face. Close to our goal, we
talk in muted tones, feeling somber and committed. The gully
is long and loose. Once I start down I know I'm committed to
the route. There is no way I'm going back. I'll take any
perceived horrors of the route in favor of a slog up that
loose slope. I just hope I don't get dizzy.
      We take a final break near the base of the ridge. I hear
them before I see them; other climbers. Lots of them. In
fact there are numerous parties strung all over the route,
top to bottom. I'd be depressed if I didn't know better. I
tell Burl with more confidence than I feel it doesn't
matter. We'll be passing most of them anyway. We amble over
to the base of the climb as another party arrives just
behind us. The last little bit is uphill to a staging area
most climbers use to begin the route. I decide slogging a
hundred feet up that debris cone is pointless, so I stop and
put my climbing shoes on.
      Instantly, as if shot with some Dr. Feelgood drug, my mood
improves as finger touches stone. I head up a series of
ramps, progressively steeper, until I clear them for easy
ground up to where the other party has stopped to gear up.
My extra hundred feet of climbing has served both as a warm
up and as a warning. I know from personal experience the
route ahead contains more difficult ground and while the
piece I just did was trivial, it made me nervous anyway. The
commitment of climbing ropeless, gearless and hopefully
fearless is as real, as palpable as the very stone upon
which I stand. I stop near the other climbers to wait for
Burl, who opted for the more traditional approach.
      A short disclaimer is in order here. This climb is easy. In
fact, it's very easy. There isn't a hard move on the entire
route. I could climb it a hundred times without falling
once. I'm not here to impress anyone. This after the fact
spraying bothers me some, to be frank. I would like to avoid
the impression of bragging. Nothing could be further from
the truth. Rather, I want to explore the mindset I need to
do this kind of climbing at all. Hopefully it strikes a
chord. If the reader suspects I'm simply spraying, then I
apologize right here and now. I have failed as a writer and
I shouldn't have tried at all. But if upon finishing this TR
the reader says, "Damn, I know exactly how he feels," then I
have achieved what I set out to do.
       The other party is from Truckee, same as Burl. They're
obviously experienced climbers and I know they're fast
hikers. They're debating whether or not to deploy their
rope. The woman's done the route, the guy hasn't.
      "It's moderate, isn't it? I don't remember." She asks me.
      "Yeah, a lot of 4th class. But there is some genuine 5th
class stuff, especially during this first part," I reply.
They continue their discussion as Burl arrives. Without
fanfare and with no further talk, we start up.

      The West Ridge descends from the summit of Conness to the
very spot upon which we stand. The lower 400 feet or so is
bifurcated like an upside down wishbone. The route takes the
left branch of the wishbone and eventually converges with
the right and continues more or less as one to the summit.
There are other ridges on the west side of the mountain, but
the West Ridge is the prominent cap to the south face. Our
line will essentially follow the top of the face all the way
up.
      The first party we see is about one pitch up, with the
leader currently on the 2nd pitch. I decide to head straight
for them. A few moves up the steepening rock and we're
engaged. It's like swallowing some terrible pill… just
because it's in your stomach doesn't mean the worst is over.
It just means you gotta live with the consequence of your
decision.
      The climbing is great. Move after move on solid granite,
numerous cracks and fissures for the hands and feet. We're
both old school crack climbers and usually choose a secure
crack over an exposed face, even if it's the harder line.
Especially now when a fall is unthinkable.
      Mindset is everything. Control must be continuous and
absolute. Fear is not an option. I know all of this; have
practiced it many times. It's for keeps right now, time to
pay the piper for my rashness. The jagged little pill. I
settle into a split personality; Control Freak and Coward
(CF and CW). CW blubbers and worries about everything; "One
slip here and I'm dead. Laybacks mean tumbling falls. I
can't afford to die. My kids need me. This crack is slimy.
Why did I leave my chalk bag in the car? Where's my momma?"
But CF instantly smothers CW, refuses to hear his pleas,
pushes him down deep and never lets him up. CF forces me to
relax, to set each and every jam as if it were my last, but
to do so without over gripping. CF constantly scans the
route for the most secure passage, but willfully sucks it up
when a sprint of 20 feet to safety is called for. CF is the
only one who is going to keep me alive and I surrender to
his domain completely.
      There are several honest to god 5th class sections and we
reach the first one about 80 feet up. A short vertical step
with a couple of secure cracks with small nubbins for the
feet requires that I exercise the utmost care. Halfway
through it CW tries to blurt that I'm going to die. CF holds
him down in a headlock, smothers his cries. Still relaxed, I
pull through the moves exhibiting more control than I feel.
Burl is right there with me. In fact, he does this step
first. But I might as well be alone for all the good he'll
be able to do me in the event of trouble. Yet his company is
welcome and even necessary. Having his steady presence along
gives me an added bit of confidence. Looking back down I
note our friends have elected to keep their rope in their
pack. They've just started up and are following in our
footsteps. I reach the guy at the top of the first pitch
just as he's cleaning his belay.
      He instantly offers to let us pass. We decline, thinking we
can climb out to the left and not bother or endanger him
needlessly. But a quick inspection reveals a lot of doubt.
So I decide to follow the guy as he climbs. I'll pass him at
the next belay. I'm about to do the crux of the route,
though I don't yet know it.
      This 2nd pitch is more sustained than the first, right off
the bat. It stays that way for it's entire length. About
halfway up the climber ahead of me tackles a layback crack
for 20 feet until it fades into nothing, then executes a
bold step left onto a jutting chock stone and the security
of another crack. As I watch it's clear CW has no desire to
repeat that move. It looks somewhat hard, but more
importantly, it looks insecure and scary. Burl looks for an
alternate out left but decides that's too nebulous as well.
Memory is a vague thing, but I seem to remember going out
left here before. But when Burl steps back CF quickly
decides to take the layback above. I KNOW it goes. It's just
a question of execution.
      Sure enough, the crack is shallow and tenuous. My feet are
committed to the ramp, standing on nubbins and in a couple
of cases, using outright smears. Two of the finger jams are
tips only. It's not vertical or even close, just tenuous.
The end of the crack arrives all too soon. Mentally, the
game is control and faith. Keep the demon coward down and
TRUST MY FEET! I do not allow myself the luxury of debate or
even conscious thought. I must simply execute. A fall from
here is certain death.
      The move is straightforward. Right hand in the crack, left
hand on a ripple of smooth granite. Feet are still below me
on the ramp. Now it's show time. Right foot up high near the
right hand, total smear. If it slips I'm gone. The right
hand finger jam is only to the first joint. The left hand
ripple is far too tenuous to withstand a sudden jolt. I'm a
hair's breath away from a personal appointment with the Grim
Reaper herself, a bloody thin line of my own ability, my own
confidence and my own desire separating me from whatever
ultimate fate we must all eventually face. This is as real
as it gets.
      Only a moron or a robot could stay in such a position for
very long without madness. I'm neither. So willfully
squelching the coward again, I commit fully to the move and
take the BIG step left to the jutting chock stone. It looks
loose. But I watched the other climber carefully and
intellectually know it's going to hold. CW doesn't believe
it but he remains mute, as engrossed in the spectacle as CF.
I can barely reach the thing and now I'm stretched out like
the skin of a drum. I simply don't stop. As soon as my foot
touches the stone I begin to transfer weight onto both it
and my left hand. It's a common rock-climbing move, but it's
difficult to describe. I believe Tai Chi masters practice
this sort of flowing movement, one thing into the next, an
observer incapable of detecting where one move ends and the
next begins. At some point my left foot has enough weight to
commit to the final part of the move, the most tenuous thing
off all. I trust that foot with my life as I let go with my
right and step across totally. WHEW! I sink my right hand
into the new crack with evangelical fervor. That required
everything I had mentally. There was nothing easy about it;
nothing at all.
      I climb up a bit and look back down as Burl negotiates the
layback. I can't watch him. It's not a conscious decision. I
simply can't watch him. It's unthinkable. So I continue to
climb. I hear him let out a loud sigh of relief as he
completes the step across and reply by relaxing a full notch
myself. I arrive at the belay right behind the other
climber. It takes him a few minutes to get anchored in. I
quietly chat with the guys and politely ask if we may climb
through.
      "I'd feel better if you would." Is the reply of the leader.
As I wait for them to get situated I look back down. Burl is
right beneath me and the other party is committed to the
layback. The woman complains about the exposure and the
commitment of the move. She's much shorter than me so I can
readily imagine her predicament. But again, I simply can't
watch.
      I'm almost as nervous passing this belay, but I do it
cleanly without touching the climbers or any of their gear.
Above the route remains committing and moderately 5th class
for a couple hundred feet more. Burl and I arrive at the
first big break in the ridge grateful that the hardest is
now beneath us. The next section is a couple hundred feet of
moderate 4th leading to another notch. It's easy, but now
the confidence of having suppressed the coward adds to the
climb.
      "Burl, I think we should stay on the very crest of the
ridge, all the way to the summit. The Warrior's Way. What do
you think? Don't mean to hog the whole route."
      "Dingus, I think you're doing one helluva good job so far.
Lead on Bro." So rather than take an easier line to the
left, I stay on the very lip of the ridge. I love this sort
of climbing. The devil and the South Face are to my right,
and the coward and an easier gully are to my left. Here I
am, both literally and figuratively between a rock and a
hard place, a choice 100% of my own making, as alive and in
the moment as I'm ever likely to be.
      Even though we're on easier ground we have nearly a
thousand feet to go. CF let's up, but only a little. There
is still no room at the Inn for CW though. I force myself to
look over the edge of the south face a few times, just to
test my resolve. Phew! It's a long friggin way down.
Madness! Climb on dude.
      We arrive at another notch, the biggest of the route. I've
stopped here twice before for a bite to eat. It's well
sheltered from the wind, offers an amazing window onto the
south face and is a dividing line of sorts. More than half
of the route is now beneath us. But I don't feel like
hanging around and I can tell Burl wants to keep moving as
well.
      Now we start passing parties, one after another. We're
polite. We ask permission to pass when appropriate and are
greeted cordially enough, if not warmly. Most look at us
like we're from Mars or something. I pass a woman named
Nancy and we chat about the stellar nature of the climb.
Just above her perch I go right where everyone is going
left. This choice forces me out on a short vertical step
directly over the south face. Orange granite and good cracks
take me up over this final obstacle. Earlier in the climb I
would have been very nervous about the situation. Now I just
take it in stride.
      We top a final arête and reach the broken talus of the
summit area. A few more yards of climbing and we're on top
of Mount Conness. The wind is blowing so we find a sheltered
spot on a sandy platform a little further down. A party of 3
from Orange County is sitting there, basking in the post
climb glow of the summit. Burl and I shake hands and relax
for the first time in two hours. It's all over but the hike
out and the obligatory stop at TPR for dinner. It will be
well deserved today.
      The views are stunning. I love to gaze down range and up,
spot and identify peaks I've both climbed and have yet to
climb. Today I see more of the former than the latter. To
the south Ritter and Banner hold sway, signaling the rise of
the mighty High Sierra behind them. Closer is Lyell,
shrouded with her ancient mantle of snow and ice. MacClure
and Florence flank the highest spot in Yosemite. Still
closer is Dana, Gibbs and the Crystal Range, holding
treasures that include Cathedral Peak and Matthes Crest. To
the west is Mt. Hoffman and the Grand Canyon of the
Tuolumne, making it's precipitous descent to Hetch Hetchy
and the canals destined for San Francisco toilets, shower
stalls and ice cubes. The Central Valley lies hidden beneath
her blanket of smog. That smog effectively shields the Coast
Range; can't see any of it.
The Meadows are partially blocked by intervening ridges. But
the familiar granite domes; Fairview, the top of Lambert and
smaller, less easily identifiable stones do make their
presence known. Half Dome and Mt. Clark stand out in the
distance. To the northwest is Tower Peak, that lonely
sentinel, the last remnant of the High Sierra. To the north
stands Matterhorn Peak and the Sawtooth Ridge. Behind, in
the distance, the Sweetwaters and the Pine Nut Range march
into Nevada, actually higher than the Sierra from which they
depart.
      To the east is Mono Lake, the Bodie Hills and the Inyo
Craters. Beyond them the mighty White Mountains dominate the
scenery. Boundary Peak stands tall and easily recognizable.
The sky is crystal clear and blue, though I spot the plume
of a huge wildfire somewhere deep in Nevada.
      We dawdle for a while, burn one for the gods and prepare to
depart. Just as we rise to leave, the party from Truckee
arrives. We chat for a few minutes about the route, the
views, of climbs past and climbs to come. One more pan of
the distant horizon, an ineffectual and futile effort to
sear the images into my brain, and we start down.

      Soloing a climb like the West Ridge is pretty cool. The
skills and head needed to safely climb the route reaffirm
all that I hold dear about mountaineering; judgment, will,
timing, skill and desire, all held in perfect balance. Fear
is there too, but the very nature of the climb forces it
into deep subterranean caverns of the soul, where it lurks
like an infectious boil, ever ready to spring forth and stir
my adrenal glands at some future time.
      Burl and I trade comments about how nice it is to relax,
how rigid the mind must be kept while climbing. It requires
absolute discipline of the mind. Anything less is stupid,
self-defeating and ultimately deadly. Yet for some strange
reason the climb doesn't sit well with me. I find myself
questioning my motives, my abilities and my commitments. I'm
a husband and father to two wonderful children. I have no
desire to cast them adrift to face the world. And I found
myself thinking of them on the climb. It is a self-indulgent
weakness and it has no place on a solo climb, yet there it
was. What ifs fly around my brain like moths around a bright
light on a cool summer's eve. A broken hold, a momentary
lapse of judgment, a simple mistake, an act of god; all
could lead to disaster. The fact that none of those things
even remotely occurred does little to assuage my guilt. And
truthfully, that's what I'm feeling; guilt. I can't explain
it and it doesn't fade away.
      Perhaps the guilt stems from my family's unwitting
participation in my risk. Perhaps I feel guilt because I
should know better. Maybe the guilt stems from a lack of
commitment. Maybe it's time for me to hang up my solo shoes
and call it a career. Am I ready for that? Fully half my
time in the mountains is spent doing solo peak bagging
trips, 3rd, 4th and even occasional 5th class routes such as
this. I have many, many more mountains to climb; hundreds in
fact. Am I prepared to leave that part of my life behind? Am
I prepared to chop off a leg or gouge out my eye? The loss
would seem similar, at least from this vantage point!
      I started climbing when I was 13 years old, imagination
fired by a James Ramsey Ullman novel. I so wanted to be a
climber I borrowed a "how to" book from a library, bought a
gold line rope mail order because I couldn't afford an
imported kernmantel, tied some slings into a harness and
taught myself how to climb. It was a long learning curve,
one that began in Tennessee and ever so slowly took me to
California and the Range of Light. Climbing is not some
passing fad or a bright passion of mine, to be set aside
when it no longer strikes my fancy, like an unused 10-speed
road bike hanging from the rafters. Climbing is as much a
part of me as any appendage; more so in fact. It reaches
deep into my soul and wraps it's tendrils around the fabric
of my heart. I'm a climber. These doubts I feel merely
reinforce my desire to face the demons within.
So in the end I resolve nothing this day. I simply let the
disquiet simmer on the back burner. Maybe an answer will
occur to me when the soup is ready. Maybe there are no
answers at all, only questions. Somehow I already know that
resolution will not be forthcoming. I laid my life on the
line, not for material gain, not for notoriety, not for
anyone else. I risked everything and I'm not even sure why.
I can't put the rewards in the bank. I can't trade the climb
for a loaf of bread. I will have to be content with the
knowledge that I fed my rat and got home safely. Some day
this war's gonna end.

DMT

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