A DAY IN HELL
The Palisade Traverse (VI 5.9) in 22 Hours

 

 

I’m running. Lungs bursting, feet burning, eyes raw from staring into the blackness ahead.

 I’m scared. Too scared to push forward, too scared to stop. It’s out there, somewhere, trying to take my life. Dissident drums pound their deep rhythms into my chest. I can’t see, I can’t breathe, gravity takes hold of my legs and I stumble. A flash and suddenly the world is blindingly bright. I force myself to turn and suddenly my father, dead seven years prior, screams into my face, “Here I go to Hell!”

 I only thought I was scared, piss runs down my leg.

 Squirming between reality and dreams, I pull myself from the nightmare and with nervous effort, finally open my eyes to the full moon shining in my face. The luminescent glow had reduced the ground around me to black and white. A rumble to the north brings my attention to a storm over Mammoth. The warmth of reds and yellows belies the danger of a storm as they streak beneath a curtain of dark clouds, stark contrast to my bleak surroundings.

 Rough trade, this mountaineering gig, I mutter to myself. Only seven hours in and the adventure has taken its toll on the body and the mind….

 Almost one year to the day prior, Matt Samet drove in from Colorado and introduced me to the Sierras in California. Topping out on Temple Crag, Matt pointed out the incredible Palisade Traverse and told me it was his dream to travel the ridge one day. The previous two ascents had taken seven days and twelve days respectively, Matt wanted the third ascent with no pre-cached food, and bivy sacks to keep the packs light. He was positive it could be done in two days or less. My interest at the time was focused on keeping food down thanks to the altitude, but over the remaining month of summer, I went back to the mountains and found solace in the adventure those peaks possessed. Training started in the winter and as the time came near, I grew antsier by the day. Three weeks before we were to meet up, Matt suffered an accident near home and suddenly I was without a partner. More to the point, Matt was to be the navigator.

It is no secret that my trail finding experiences usually end with bruising, bleeding, or a hospital visit. To top this off, my training for the alpine experience had been limited to the hills of Malibu while searching for the perfect decaf nonfat mocha-latte from various coffee shops. Matt’s enthusiasm to go for it, coupled with my recent finding of a really good decaf nonfat mocha latte prompted me to keep the plans and forge ahead.

Driving west from the lazy town of Big Pine, I was confronted with massive storm clouds that had kept the surrounding areas in enough water to warrant an ark. Sunshine desperately tried to sneak through, which was enough for my personal mantra, “it never rains on a climbing day.”

Maybe it’s a rest day.

I hiked in to the base of Temple Crag for both the familiar comfort of where I lost my Sierra cherry, but also to acclimate. A handful of campers and climbers intermingled together and tossed the occasional strange look as I unloaded my gear; tent, sleeping bag, bear canister, stove, panties, and various other items of interest.

A proud card-carrying member of the Sierra Club, dressed in the latest high tech clothing, wool socks and Birkenstocks, stood over me and gave a snort when he saw the panties.

“Three for ten dollars at Wal-Mart,” I explained. “Can’t pass up a bargain, especially when you see how much fabric they put into these things,” to which I held open a pink and paisley patterned size 14 as an example. Mr. Sierra snorted his discontent. “They’re my prayer flags,” I offered solemnly, letting the fabric billow in the wind. Another snort and he was gone.  

Some people just don’t understand a bargain.

The next two days were spent climbing and hiking in between mild bouts of rain. Topping out once again on Temple Crag via the “Venusian Blind Arete”, I spied the Palisade Traverse in all its wonder. My fingers reached out and traced the path few had traveled. Starting from the appropriately named South Fork and working my way north toward Bishop Pass, I gently touched the six major peaks that marked the way, each of them holding fort above 14,000 feet. A pup by true alpine standards, the line looked every bit the big dog for this set of seaside lungs.

Anyone else with an understanding of the mountains would have noticed the snow level higher than normal, the storm clouds that drifted by every afternoon, and the couloirs touching each of the notches rendering a safe retreat difficult at best. Instead, I was trying to figure out how many panties would be needed and which t-shirt to wear.

“Cotton kills,” came the warning from Mr. Sierra as I packed, to which I could only respond, “and so do long-haired addicts fresh from rehab,” followed by my best Nicholson smile from The Shining. Left alone, I checked the supplies again: 

Cotton may kill, but Donatello, known for getting out of tight jams with his McGyver-like abilities, was my lifeline.

 

Picture: Donatello mugging for the camera

I checked the topo, and using the time-honored measuring technique of thumb-widths, discovered that Contact Pass was a much shorter approach than the normal trail ride full of horse shit, dog piss, and natural oat hippie bar wrappers.

I left camp and quickly discovered that the squiggly lines on the topo had something to do with the terrain. Alternating between trudging uphill or sliding down talus scree, I spent the better part of the day attempting a straight line and teaching the wildlife new words worthy of any porno. Along the way, various formations capable of being destination spots of their own were dwarfed by the ridge high above. I visually marked as much of the path as I could, naively trying to keep track in case of an emergency bail-out.

Several pounds of flesh later I reached the final watering hole, a couple hundred yards from the starting point of South Fork. Striking views compensated for the altitude, while the remaining sun and running water provided inspiration for one last nap.

At 7:00 pm the adventure officially started as I traversed along the snow line at the base of the Thumb. Moving along the jumbled blocks of Balcony Peak, my retinas became forever painted with a stunning sunset that was quickly replaced with a full moon so bright, I kept the headlamp in the pack until I arrived at the first major peak of Middle Palisade. A minor catch of a softball-sized rock against the thigh on the next peaklet caught up to me on the top of the next major peak, Norman Clyde Mountain.

Named after one of the most prolific first ascentionists in the world, N.C. Mount was a personal milestone. For several decades beginning in the 1920s, Clyde was a master of the Sierra domain. A school teacher by trade, Clyde showed his passionate side early in his career, by firing a gun over the heads of some unruly students, which in turn gave him plenty of time to entertain his inner lunatic with first ascents throughout the range. The summer of 1925 alone provided more than 48 first ascents, 42 of which were done solo!

Legendary as he was, the memory I carry involved his slide down a long snow chute towards a deadly bergschrund. Clyde, in what he assumed was his final moment on this plane, hit the ramp and screamed, “Here I go to hell!” Instead of hell, Clyde found himself alone, with a broken ankle that he dragged to a nearby lake and remained until it healed several months later. It was only fitting that upon his death in 1972, his climbing partners spread his ashes on the mountain bearing his name.

Sitting there, I looked over the valleys on both the west and east sides, numb thinking what it must have been like back then. No cell phone, no e-mail, no high tech weather gear, or any other advancements we’ve become so accustomed to - just a man, the mountains, and the sheer determination to do whatever he wanted regardless of the viewpoints of others. Cotton may kill, but modern trappings of safety are capable of far worse. They create mediocrity, false comfort, and the inability for people to push beyond their means. Clyde understood this more than anyone, and proved it every season he lived. Shooting over the kid’s heads was obscene or sensible depending on your point of view. Soloing in the mountains without any chance of rescue, climbing in wool knickers, doing the same routes in purer style than before, doing different routes, or any other sundry detail the mind can conceive – all obscene or perfectly sensible. Choice with the appropriate training is life, anything less is merely forestalling the inevitable.

I stubbed my toe on the summit register and made my choice. For almost two decades I dealt with every kind of negative jerk-off the climbing community can provide because I dared to defy convention and solo. As word spread of what I enjoyed doing, these miscreants who claim to be part of the community of brotherly love have lied, slandered, impersonated me in my business dealings, stated abusive comments about my family, and in one instance even sent a death threat. My previous attitude forced direct confrontations and a bloody nose, but cowards never change and I decided that my enjoyment will always come first.

The summit register remained empty of my words, but prior to this point and along the rest of the way, buried out of sight for those wishing to enjoy the ridge and various routes, tubes of Vagesil lay in wait for those pussies with the need to itch like an ass – to medicate as needed. The panties are for me, they really are my prayer flags. Very BIG prayer flags and a reminder that climbing is supposed to be fun first, everything else second. A quick scramble and the Firebird Ridge snaked eastward to a comfortable bivy, then my father screamed.

Taking my shirt off, the sweat quickly dried as the heat of fear sprayed from my pores. When terror has penetrated every cell, there is nothing left but the sobering truth of a determined will. I look back to the decaying moon and howl as the old man winks goodbye to the glow of the rising sun.

Packed and ready, I purposely leave my sleeping bag and rain jacket behind. A potential blunder, but the risk is worth it. Donatello and a thin bivy sack would be my comfort if the ridge proved too formidable.

I work my way back to where I left off and discover that 15 years of California living has addled my understandings of snow. High school teaches us that heat rises, but the professors haven’t made it above 10,000 feet. What was to be a minor third class scramble has morphed to 5.10 crimps over bullet-proof verglas that formed while I slept. I wrap my fingers over the delicate edges but my tennis shoes refuse purchase on the shiny veneer. A change into the comfort of sticky rubber climbing shoes is pointless, but I try it anyways. Slowly I make my way until only thirty feet of crusted ice lay between me and the section known as the Palisade Crest. Three options define the future – a right hand slide to my death down 1,000 feet of hardened snow, a left hand slide to my death down 500 feet of talus scree, or blue balls.

Nadia Comaneci earned a perfect 10 for her Olympic performance of style and grace. My pommel horse straddling of the ice left me with a wet crotch and a scraped up ass straight from the Story of O. I can already hear myself stuttering to my wife’s disbelief as I explain yet another round of scars from climbing. Finally I’m at the technical crux of the route.

Picture: Blue snow, blue shirt, blue balls just before the Palisade Crest

The Palisade Crest is a series of twelve wizard-cap peaklets, each named after characters in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Route finding is sacrificed for speed as I remain on the western side, choosing the shortest distance between two points. Between the second and third peaklets I find a perfect place to leave a satin blue reminder, when Donatello decided to take my backpack for a 200 foot tumble.

It is amazing how focused one can be when the niggling details of food and water are taken out of the equation. Three of the looser summits prevent me from touching every peak at their tippy-top, but 75% would be worth millions in baseball. A touch at the finish line of Gandalf Peak and I jog down to where my backpack lay.

 

Picture: The east side of the Palisade Crest

A short rest by running water from snowpack provide me the relief I need before topping out at Jepson. On the way, I stumble across two hikers who inform me that it is almost lunch time. At the summit I leave another marker – cotton with reinforced crotch – turn to chat with the hikers, and find myself alone in the massive talus field.

Hallucination?

I shudder off the thought, and continue forward. Snow and loose rock with the consistency of pudding leave me stranded fifty feet above a sandy notch that leads to the summit of the next major peak, Mt. Sill. The constant exposure, with drops upwards of two thousand feet below my feet, give me the immortal thought of just jumping to the notch. Another shudder snaps the reverie and I quickly boulder-hop my way down the west side and back up until I’m 200 feet from where I had stopped. From below the 50 feet look just as hard as from above. I envision where I would have landed if I jumped and my legs give out from underneath, forcing me to sit.

Picture: Donatello enjoying the silk

I spent the next twenty minutes eating, drinking and double-checking my reflexes to ensure the dreaded bonk had not occurred. For the uninitiated, bonking is slang for cooked, worked, game over, or just plain fucked up.  All signs told me otherwise, but when the insane are in charge of the asylum….

I try reaching Mark, my friend and climbing partner for more than a decade who was willing to slog the approach to meet me for dinner whatever day I finished, on my Motorola Walkie Talkie, but instead catch the conversation of a party I met at Third Lake. They were now on Middle Palisade, apparently a bit perturbed about a pink silk flag flapping near the summit.

“I couldn’t agree more, a lacy black thong would have been much more appropriate,” I say to Donatello. Mark never answered because, as I would find out later, he found himself going through a mini-epic of his own, soloing along the Palisade Glacier without crampons or an ice axe, but two others that I met earlier in the week provide the enthusiastic emotional support only true climbers can give to one another.  

Another liter of water and I could see that Donatello was chomping to get going. Green muscles extending his skin, the little bastard even condescendingly offered me his staff to use as a walking stick. A few porno pleasantries and we were off. The next four peaks were fairly uneventful as I made sure to save my energy for the 5.9 commitment of Thunderbolt Peak. Apparently I saved so much energy that I quickly found myself at the summit without having changed my shoes.

One of the great secrets to mountaineering is that ratings can sometimes be a little soft to compensate for the altitude, but also, that certain pitches of climbing may only have a few moves with plenty of ledges. Thunderbolt is the latter. The only 5.9 I encountered was the ten foot summit block. I double-checked my map and saw the summit register on the ground. I had passed the technical stuff and realized all that was left was a slog to the finish. Elated, I chalked up my hand as much as I could, then ran, jumped, and with the energy of a one-night stand fanny smack, slapped Thunderbolt’s peak with a cloud of white dust. My fingerprints were perfectly outlined on the summit.

Knowing there would soon be an end to my suffering, I jog to the top of Mt. Winchell as my stomach suddenly rebels and violently hurls the remains of lunch out in full Technicolor. A two foot line of spittle attached to my lip flutters in the breeze and the world starts to spin. I’m not cramping, but I know that if I don’t get moving, I’m going to be stuck up here for the night. I wipe my face and shake off the vertigo – the bonk kicks in. I am worthless meat as I crawl, cry, and scream my way up the final peak of Mt. Agassiz.

I should be excited when I place my last flag, a classic beige with cellulite support, but still have a few miles to go to reach the actual end of the ridgeline. Another hour passes as I half-jog, half fall down to Bishop Pass. It’s not even fumes that get me to the use trail, it’s something more primal as I crash into the dirt a few times until finally the path widens and I find the sure sign that I’ve reached the end of my journey - fat tourists. Two of them, waddling in from their car a few hundred yards behind happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time as I crater in front of them, looking every bit like a used up meth head fresh from a two week binge. The time is 5:00 pm, 22 hours from when I started. In tears from surviving, and muttering incoherently, I celebrate by dry heaving over their feet for 20 minutes.

As the world comes back into focus, the tourists ask what happened, to which I can only respond, “I went to hell.”

Picture: On Mt. Sill during another trip that included Temple/Galey/Sill car to car in 19 hours.