The Heart Route
Chuck Kroger
Late in March Scott Davis phoned at midnight one night and screamed that we had to get going right now because some barbarians were going to start the WML day after tomorrow (the WML means Wall of the Morning Light on El Cap; barbarians are hairy guys who live in the Valley and run around in funny-looking tennis shoes and play on impossible short-hard-free-climbs and boulder moves). The next day I packed my gear and drove 700 miles to Yosemite, picking up Scott along the way. We arrived well after midnight. In the morning we were sorting pins by eight, ready to start at ten, when the big boss barbarian (let's call him Jim) arrived on the scene. He made it pretty clear that his stuff was already on the WML and that we'd be pretty dead pretty soon if we tried to steal the route from him and his partner (we'll call him Kim), who has a bit of a killer instinct.
Not wishing to contribute to the problem Chouinard mentions of "an aura of unfriendliness and competition between climbers, leaving a bitter taste in the mouth" (and especially not wishing to be torn limb from limb by the barbarians), we immediately changed our plans. Two hours of reconnaissance convinced us that we could try a route to the left of the Muir Wall, and right of the Dihedral Wall, and crossing the Salathe Wall at Heart Ledge, 1,000 feet above up. It may sound like nitpicking - doing a "new wall" within a few hundred feet of three other " walls." We settled on the name "Heart Route" to get away from the corny idea of calling every new route a wall. Overly presumptuous of us, perhaps, since we hadn't climbed it yet.
Neither of us had climbed during the winter. Dragging 180 pounds of gear half a mile up the talus was a supreme test. It made us wish we had done the WML, with its shorter approach, even if it would have meant risking a horrible death at the hands of the barbarians. A couple of half days of easy climbing and strenuous hauling, and all our gear was finally at the top of the Slack, a short practice climb at the base. Two fixed ropes led down to another bivouac on the Valley floor. We consoled ourselves by saying, "Oh, well, Royal and Tom and Yvon and all those guys fix a rope or two now and then."
On the wall for good the next day, we traversed up and right across one and one-half pitches of slabs. My pitch used mostly bolts, with a hook hear and there. Not being aware of the tricks of bolting (neither of us had placed a bolt before), we had taken only six drills and a whetstone. Now we regretted it. Every free moment was spent sharpening drills. As the drills got dull it became impossible to get the holed deep enough for good bolts. Most of the bolts were tied off and several fell out while we were cleaning pitches. We bivouacked 350 feet off the ground the first night. The next day Scott finished the second pitch. The third pitch, involving many more bolts, took the rest of the day, with each of us working at it for a while.
Finally in the dark, I led a free pitch to Heart Ledge. After two days in slings and a night in hammocks, Heart Ledge was like a spacious hotel suite: running water, huge, soft (sandy) beds, and a spectacular view. Smog and traffic noise also contributed to the impression.
Our third day was spent climbing the left side of the Heart. We ascended five or six pitches of dirty but easy aid and hung in hammocks near the top of the Heart that night.
Next morning the No Reverse Traverse out of the Heart fell to Scott, fortunately. After a long pendulum, some free climbing, and a bolt, he nailed an A1 crack out the left corner of the roof. As I joined him above the roof, we noticed it would be pretty hard to retreat from here on, since we were above the 50-foot overhang. ("Oh, well, we can't go down anyhow, because someone else would just take advantage of our bolts and rip off our route.") I led another pitch up, then left, to our fourth bivouac, hanging again.
The fifth day I hit a psychological low point. I had just reached a handhold above an overhang when the knifeblade I was using for aid pulled out. There was no way to go free, and I couldn't get an aid pin in with my free hand. Scott, belaying below a roof, couldn't hear me yelling to take up rope. After about half an hour of clinging with one hand, I slipped and plummeted thirty feet, almost hitting a ledge. I ended the pitch on the ledge I had missed. Scott went up and eventually got past my nemesis, ending the pitch with a fifty-foot unprotected lieback which led to the top of Black Tower, which was a dead end. Rappelling from a bolt, he returned to a ledge 100 feet up and tied me off. As I stepped onto the jumars, the rope pulled off a huge flake which just missed my head and ripped through the pack I was carrying. That night, though spent on a ledge, was the low point of the climb for me. We both hurt all over. We wished we'd gotten in shape. We wished we'd taken more food and clothing. We even wished someone had talked us out of the climb or beaten us to it. Even a superb dinner of salami, squished cheese, and melted chocolate did not lift my spirits.
The next day things went better, in spite of my premonitions of doom. I led an aid pitch around Black Tower. It looked pretty hard, since it had many blades in a row, but it was a confidence builder when I didn't fall. As Scott let onward, I could see that he was beginning to go berserk, which made me feel better, since I was beginning to think maybe he wasn't really even human (he's always so calm and cool). Just below the start of Rainy Day Woman Crack, he came sailing down, stopping in mid-air just above my head. He began laughing hysterically, waving his aid slings, which were clipped into a hero loop, still tied around a tiny root which had broken off, causing the fall. A little higher, he was placing a pin in a stream of water, 100 feet above me. He leaned out and started screaming at me. As he yelled over and over again, louder and louder, I finally realized that he wasn't calling for "slack," "tension," "a three-inch bong," or anything like that. He was saying, "Turn off the water! Turn off the water! Turn off the water! Turn off the ..."
So, knowing Scott was feeling the pressure, it seemed logical to me that I should not have any trouble doing my part on the next pitch (in retrospect, I can't completely follow my logic)."Go up to the left," he said. I didn't even think of questioning him, even when the crack widened to four inches and my biggest pin was three inches. I just left the pins behind and started jamming, not worried that it was getting dark, that Scott was asleep, and that none of the pins or belay anchors below me were much good. Eventually Scott woke up to tell me I'd reached the end of my rope, just as I mantled onto a tiny stance. Scott caught some more sleep while I placed two bolts for our hammocks.
The next morning Scott led to a large white tower, the third good ledge on the climb. Since "White Tower" has a nasty connotation these days, we called it "Tower to the People." We had planned to traverse right under a huge, triangular roof, but discovered that there was no crack. So, instead, I spent most of the afternoon leading a pitch up and left. I belayed from two bolts at the end of the crack. Scott came up and placed our last bolt (our twenty-seventh), then traversed right for a few pins. We returned to Tower to the People for a generous meal, and extra water ration, and a comfortable bivouac.
Next morning Scott finished the "A5 Traverse" (which was A2, but every other El Cap route has an "A5 Traverse", so we figured we needed one too). Three pitches up Fat City, a huge gray dihedral, and I was ready to mantel onto the summit. First I stopped to comb my hair and pick the dirt out of my eyes - so Royal and everyone else on the summit would like me. Then I stepped onto level ground. No one in sight. ("Oh, well, they're probably nearby.") I tied the rope off, hauled the bags, and still no one had shown up. Scott came up and we started running around looking behind trees and boulders, screaming, "All right, you guys, we know you're up here somewhere. Don't play games with us. You can't fool us."
The story should end happily here. Instead I'll always remember the eight-mile hike through the snow, carrying all our gear. I kept slipping in my smooth PAs. It got dark. Scott fell into a river. Our eighth and last bivouac was in the snow. A cold one. Celebration took the form of peanut butter, jelly, and cold beer in the Valley the next morning.
Not wishing to contribute to the problem Chouinard mentions of "an aura of unfriendliness and competition between climbers, leaving a bitter taste in the mouth" (and especially not wishing to be torn limb from limb by the barbarians), we immediately changed our plans. Two hours of reconnaissance convinced us that we could try a route to the left of the Muir Wall, and right of the Dihedral Wall, and crossing the Salathe Wall at Heart Ledge, 1,000 feet above up. It may sound like nitpicking - doing a "new wall" within a few hundred feet of three other " walls." We settled on the name "Heart Route" to get away from the corny idea of calling every new route a wall. Overly presumptuous of us, perhaps, since we hadn't climbed it yet.
Neither of us had climbed during the winter. Dragging 180 pounds of gear half a mile up the talus was a supreme test. It made us wish we had done the WML, with its shorter approach, even if it would have meant risking a horrible death at the hands of the barbarians. A couple of half days of easy climbing and strenuous hauling, and all our gear was finally at the top of the Slack, a short practice climb at the base. Two fixed ropes led down to another bivouac on the Valley floor. We consoled ourselves by saying, "Oh, well, Royal and Tom and Yvon and all those guys fix a rope or two now and then."
On the wall for good the next day, we traversed up and right across one and one-half pitches of slabs. My pitch used mostly bolts, with a hook hear and there. Not being aware of the tricks of bolting (neither of us had placed a bolt before), we had taken only six drills and a whetstone. Now we regretted it. Every free moment was spent sharpening drills. As the drills got dull it became impossible to get the holed deep enough for good bolts. Most of the bolts were tied off and several fell out while we were cleaning pitches. We bivouacked 350 feet off the ground the first night. The next day Scott finished the second pitch. The third pitch, involving many more bolts, took the rest of the day, with each of us working at it for a while.
Finally in the dark, I led a free pitch to Heart Ledge. After two days in slings and a night in hammocks, Heart Ledge was like a spacious hotel suite: running water, huge, soft (sandy) beds, and a spectacular view. Smog and traffic noise also contributed to the impression.
Our third day was spent climbing the left side of the Heart. We ascended five or six pitches of dirty but easy aid and hung in hammocks near the top of the Heart that night.
Next morning the No Reverse Traverse out of the Heart fell to Scott, fortunately. After a long pendulum, some free climbing, and a bolt, he nailed an A1 crack out the left corner of the roof. As I joined him above the roof, we noticed it would be pretty hard to retreat from here on, since we were above the 50-foot overhang. ("Oh, well, we can't go down anyhow, because someone else would just take advantage of our bolts and rip off our route.") I led another pitch up, then left, to our fourth bivouac, hanging again.
The fifth day I hit a psychological low point. I had just reached a handhold above an overhang when the knifeblade I was using for aid pulled out. There was no way to go free, and I couldn't get an aid pin in with my free hand. Scott, belaying below a roof, couldn't hear me yelling to take up rope. After about half an hour of clinging with one hand, I slipped and plummeted thirty feet, almost hitting a ledge. I ended the pitch on the ledge I had missed. Scott went up and eventually got past my nemesis, ending the pitch with a fifty-foot unprotected lieback which led to the top of Black Tower, which was a dead end. Rappelling from a bolt, he returned to a ledge 100 feet up and tied me off. As I stepped onto the jumars, the rope pulled off a huge flake which just missed my head and ripped through the pack I was carrying. That night, though spent on a ledge, was the low point of the climb for me. We both hurt all over. We wished we'd gotten in shape. We wished we'd taken more food and clothing. We even wished someone had talked us out of the climb or beaten us to it. Even a superb dinner of salami, squished cheese, and melted chocolate did not lift my spirits.
The next day things went better, in spite of my premonitions of doom. I led an aid pitch around Black Tower. It looked pretty hard, since it had many blades in a row, but it was a confidence builder when I didn't fall. As Scott let onward, I could see that he was beginning to go berserk, which made me feel better, since I was beginning to think maybe he wasn't really even human (he's always so calm and cool). Just below the start of Rainy Day Woman Crack, he came sailing down, stopping in mid-air just above my head. He began laughing hysterically, waving his aid slings, which were clipped into a hero loop, still tied around a tiny root which had broken off, causing the fall. A little higher, he was placing a pin in a stream of water, 100 feet above me. He leaned out and started screaming at me. As he yelled over and over again, louder and louder, I finally realized that he wasn't calling for "slack," "tension," "a three-inch bong," or anything like that. He was saying, "Turn off the water! Turn off the water! Turn off the water! Turn off the ..."
So, knowing Scott was feeling the pressure, it seemed logical to me that I should not have any trouble doing my part on the next pitch (in retrospect, I can't completely follow my logic)."Go up to the left," he said. I didn't even think of questioning him, even when the crack widened to four inches and my biggest pin was three inches. I just left the pins behind and started jamming, not worried that it was getting dark, that Scott was asleep, and that none of the pins or belay anchors below me were much good. Eventually Scott woke up to tell me I'd reached the end of my rope, just as I mantled onto a tiny stance. Scott caught some more sleep while I placed two bolts for our hammocks.
The next morning Scott led to a large white tower, the third good ledge on the climb. Since "White Tower" has a nasty connotation these days, we called it "Tower to the People." We had planned to traverse right under a huge, triangular roof, but discovered that there was no crack. So, instead, I spent most of the afternoon leading a pitch up and left. I belayed from two bolts at the end of the crack. Scott came up and placed our last bolt (our twenty-seventh), then traversed right for a few pins. We returned to Tower to the People for a generous meal, and extra water ration, and a comfortable bivouac.
Next morning Scott finished the "A5 Traverse" (which was A2, but every other El Cap route has an "A5 Traverse", so we figured we needed one too). Three pitches up Fat City, a huge gray dihedral, and I was ready to mantel onto the summit. First I stopped to comb my hair and pick the dirt out of my eyes - so Royal and everyone else on the summit would like me. Then I stepped onto level ground. No one in sight. ("Oh, well, they're probably nearby.") I tied the rope off, hauled the bags, and still no one had shown up. Scott came up and we started running around looking behind trees and boulders, screaming, "All right, you guys, we know you're up here somewhere. Don't play games with us. You can't fool us."
The story should end happily here. Instead I'll always remember the eight-mile hike through the snow, carrying all our gear. I kept slipping in my smooth PAs. It got dark. Scott fell into a river. Our eighth and last bivouac was in the snow. A cold one. Celebration took the form of peanut butter, jelly, and cold beer in the Valley the next morning.
Climbing 5 (January 1971)