Tuolumne Triple
© 2022 Roddy McCalley
I wake with the sun, sky turning light behind a canopy of pines. Dan and Michelle are still in their sleeping bags. Leaving quietly, I drive to Tenaya Lake, park and head up the trail. Sun still behind the mountain, but almost immediately I am warm. Shouldn’t have brought the jacket, put it in the pack. After a mile or so I reach the north face of Tenaya Peak, 1,200 feet of gradually steepening granite slabs. Moving slowly but steadily, I pass several roped parties, and see three other unroped climbers who I gain on but don’t catch. It’s an hour to the summit, where I stop to eat a granola bar. To the southwest, the top of Half Dome marks the fold in the hills where Yosemite Valley is hidden. To the northeast, Fairview Dome gives away the location of Tuolumne Meadows, the other pole of the Yosemite climbing world. Many miles to go, and two more climbs: Matthes Crest and Cathedral Peak.
Though I will spend today alone, in communion with this place, climbing is the sacrament of my strongest friendships. Today is a moving meditation, and present in my practice are all the people with whom I have shared a rope. Some are ingrained in the way I move—Dan, probably drinking coffee by the meadow now, taught me to jam my hands and feet in cracks. Ethan, home in Joshua Tree with his family, has shown me again and again the power of balance and footwork. Fifteen years I have been climbing with them. Many others cross my mind as I cover this terrain—how many friends have I climbed Cathedral Peak with? Twenty? Thirty? More? Thankful for each of those days and each of those friendships.
Leaving Tenaya, heading east into the morning sun, I cross sandy hillsides with views south over the Merced River headwaters. Moving quickly, focusing on my feet, the mountains are abstract, a brushstroke on the horizon. Pausing to drink, they come into focus and are populated by memory with detail. A slide down a snowfield, a carpet of flowers in a brief summer meadow, a plunge into clear cold water, a certain shade tree. Post Peak, Triple Divide Peak, the Clark Range and the Lyell group, the familiar peaks of the high country where I worked as a backpacking guide for most of my thirties. Many summers in the folds of these mountains.
As I cross the ridge south of Tresidder Peak, the dramatic fin of Matthes Crest comes into view. The hillside steepens, can’t look around, don’t roll an ankle. No more wandering mind, focus on here and now. Sidestep, hand down, over the log, through the trees, into the meadow. Grass dry and firm, late summer, ferns starting to yellow. Silent creek bed, dry year.
Up the other side, breathing harder, pushing a bit for speed—chance of afternoon thunderstorms in the forecast, hoping to climb Matthes Crest before any buildup occurs. After that I can decide whether it’s safe to climb Cathedral. Just a few streamers of cloud, so far. I jog a bit on a sandy stretch, notice my heart rate is too high, slow down. Long day ahead. Find the right balance of speed and fluidity.
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Climbing is the lodestar that pulls me towards healthy practices, away from excess. When I push my body in this way, I feel the effect of all that has come before. Through climbing, I’ve felt my body age, and learned to be careful. Forty-two years old and healthier than I was at thirty-two, though I have some pain in knees and shoulders. Twenty years working as a guide, carrying packs, coiling ropes. For years I drank, smoked, ate too much. But climbing is the greatest joy—this body, this muscle and bone, makes possible all the days of beauty and companionship. So I adapt. Climbing rewards good practices—I don’t drink or smoke anymore, and I am lighter and more balanced. I run in the mornings, and I feel stronger. I eat less sugar, and my stamina improves.
Dropping into the next valley I see a small lake, outlet stream silent this late in the season but visible as a sinuous curve through yellow meadow-grass and bracken. I jump from rock to log to avoid creating a new trail across the soft grass. Up the other side, steeper and steeper, the crest looming above. Weaving through small pines I flush a grouse, but it doesn’t go far, which feels right. Nothing to fear. It’s just me. I belong here too.
At the base of Matthes Crest, gusty winds race across the ridge and push cumulus towers through the sky above. The clouds are passing by, piling up on the Sawtooth Range many miles to the north. The coast seems clear enough, so I embark on the traverse. Immediately upon leaving the notch the route climbs several hundred feet to a knife-edge ridge. The exposure is extreme, but the climbing not too hard. Though I hustled all morning to get here, once on the crest I feel joyful, calm and unhurried. Every move is worthy of consideration, each new view worth stopping to savor.
A peregrine falcon sits on the next tower. I pause to look until it soars away to the east into shafts of sunlight, over the ridge and out of sight. I climb through, noting the accumulation of guano on its perch. I feel outside of myself, as though I’m merging with this place.
The crest goes on for most of a mile. Sometimes nothing exists but the rock in front of me. Other times I’m aware of the valleys on either side and the mountains beyond. The clouds pass on, and the high-altitude sun becomes fierce. I sit in a shady alcove to rest, drink water, eat one of the quesadillas I made the night before. There are two other climbers on the crest, a tall thin bearded man and his younger friend. They too are focused on the rock, and when I catch up with them the bearded man exclaims in surprise.
Eventually there is no more crest. The last tower gives way to a short fin like a miniature of the entire traverse, and then I am on slabs leading towards the Echo Peaks. I head around the eastern end of the Echo group, into a north-facing gully with one last lingering snowbank, across loose tilting talus and down to the grassy shore of Budd Lake. I dip my water bottles and drink, dip again. Wonder briefly if there might be Giardia in this water. Unlikely, up here. Not worth worrying about. The joy of drinking from a pure mountain lake far outweighs the small chance of an easily-cured illness that would not arrive for weeks anyway. We take far greater risks for lesser rewards.
Across the valley west of Budd Lake stands a shining beacon of white granite, the southeast flank of Cathedral Peak. I’m feeling tired now, but this is the most familiar part of today’s journey. I arrive at the trail. My feet know what to do now, I’m just floating along. As I climb the final switchbacks, a voice snaps me out of my reverie, saying my name. It’s Rob, who I last saw at the Needles, down by the Kern River, 8 or 10 years ago. We chat for a minute and I continue up the hill, realizing after a while that I should have told him to stop by the campsite later and say hi to Dan and Michelle. But I’m not in the world of people right now. I feel fuzzy around the edges; my feet sink just a bit farther into the earth than usual. My mind is slow, but my vision is very clear.
At the base of Cathedral is another familiar face. Chris was in this exact spot last time I was here, maybe a month ago. “Do you live here?” I say. We laugh and talk for a while. I’m feeling pulled upwards, and eventually I go. The clouds are still piled up on the northern skyline, and above me is blue sky.
As I climb this most familiar of routes, tired and elated, each tiny knob and edge is sharply in focus, and I am aware of the entire landscape around me. My borders are blurring; I flow effortlessly over the warm granite; I am part of it. My body is solid as rock and light as air. My often-busy mind is empty, and my heart is full.
Climbing has brought me great friendship and steered me towards good health, but what really captivates me and draws me back to the rock, again and again? It is this experience of purity and focus. I feel very small, yet one with the vastness and beauty around me.
I’m in no hurry to reach the end. Amazingly, no other climbers are in sight, though this is the most popular climbing route in the area. I stop on a ledge and take pictures looking up, down, and out. I feel very strongly that I belong here on this ledge. After a while I think of the summit, and continue up the last few hundred feet.
Near the top, I hear voices above. As I pull over the final headwall one of the voices says my name. Hey Roddy! It’s my friend Crystal, who wasn’t climbing until recently, recovering from shoulder surgery. It’s great to see her up here, and to meet her friend Sarah who I learn is also recovering from major surgery. All smiles, what a team!
We take summit pictures and I make conversation with half my mind, slowly emerging from my trance, still absorbed in the landscape. To the north I can see the green expanse of Tuolumne Meadows, center of the known world. Beyond it, the striking pyramid of Mt. Conness, which I’ve climbed by three different routes with four different partners. Matterhorn Peak farther north, lost in storm clouds but vivid in my mind’s eye—I crossed the ancient glacier to climb that peak with an old friend last month, and we shared a spectacular campsite by a stream clouded with glacial silt, spilling over a cliff into the deep green valley below. To the east I see the familiar slopes of Tioga Peak and Mt. Dana, and to the southeast Mt Lyell, which I climbed with my father years ago. Half Dome is now clearly visible to the southwest, and the brow of El Capitan peeking into view. Many weeks of my life on the side of that rock, many months in the valley below.
Directly west is the rocky descent I’d planned, past the Cathedral Lakes and down the steep slopes by Pywiack Dome to where my day began. Crystal and Sarah are hiking the trail down Budd Creek to Tuolumne Meadows, and offer me a ride from there to my car. I hesitate, tempted to spend another hour alone with this place, but then I thank them and accept. It will be nice to walk the trail with friends.
Gradually I let go of my attempt to drink in this landscape and become one with it. The world of people is my world. By the time we arrive at the road I am just me again. We drive to Tenaya Lake and jump in, and I’m shivering and hungry and human through and through. We all go back to camp, there’s room for one more car, we eat and play music and later Sarah suggests a walk into the meadow to see the stars and watch the lightning which is flickering cloud to cloud on the western horizon.
I sit apart from the others, just a bit. The cold of the night sky presses down on my body, heavy and tired. Beneath me the soil is warm, late summer, almost dry. I hear the river to one side, the road to the other. The voices of my friends wash over me and the edge of the meadow is outlined in treetops and starlight.
I will be in my sleeping bag later when the storm arrives. I will hold my bivy sack over my face to keep the water out, but some will trickle in around the edges. In the morning when I wake, my pillow will be soaked but warm from the heat of my body, and the storm will be a distant dream, like everything else but what is in front of me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roddy McCalley grew up in Palo Alto, California. Family vacations were spent backpacking in the Coast Ranges and Sierra Nevada. After graduating from Yale University with a degree in biology, he spent many years leading outdoor education programs, with no fixed abode and all his worldly possessions in a Toyota Corolla. In 2009 he settled in Joshua Tree, where he teaches rock climbing during the fall-winter-spring season. He spends summers backpacking, climbing, and jumping in lakes in the Sierra. Playing in the outdoors has brought Roddy great happiness, and his work is to share that with others. If you’d like to learn about guided climbing adventures, visit www.climbwithroddy.com …to learn about outdoor education programs for youth in underserved communities, please visit www.californiaore.org …and to see images and read more about all of the above, feel free to visit www.instagram.com/roddymccalley/.
Posted by mkeane on Wednesday, March 30th, 2022 @ 12:42AM
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