Archives for 1993

After two days climbing through brambles and over obstacles nearly vertical, we arrived at the bottom. Having made the decision that we were well over our heads, we decided to take it easy and not climb the 5.9 route.

Working on the assumption that any route down would be better than the one we had ascended, we then made our way around the side of the north face of the dome. It involved still more climbing and we had been warned about a massive glacier field we would need to traverse.

Upon approaching the field, still wearing tennis-shoes, we did our best to kick foot holds through the snow and maintain our balance. the field became increasingly steep, and upon cresting the ridge, we were looking out at a 1/2 mile traverse across a field where one slip would send us sliding downward over 3,000 feet, pausing only momentarily where the ice changed to granite at about 5,000 feet elevation.

We did not have the proper gear for this. We had grabbed several long sticks to use as stabilizers and for "protection." I went out first, trailing a line to my brother who was anchored as best he could be given the situation.

Slowly and deliberately I stepped out onto the ice. Using the sides of my feet I’d kick hard to break through the hard packed snow, and test each step for sturdiness before committing my weight to it. There was a large section of the ice wall that showed signs of collapse and fracture nearly 1,000 feet below. Pieces of snow larger than automobiles had simply let go of the main block and fallen — their own underlying supports having already melted and washed away.

I faced up-hill, and tried to keep my mind focused on the section of ice that directly effected my well being. Kick-Crunch-Step-Transfer-Breath… over and over, I repeated this process as the line of rope grew longer and longer. Even with the rope, a slip at any point would send me tumbling downward like the weight on the end of a pendulum. I took one of my sticks and drove it deep into the snow. I draped the rope over the top, and knew full well that in the event of trouble, that stick would be little more than psychological protection.

There was a large tree about 40 feet away, and I could only hope that I would reach it before coming to the end of my rope. Despite the fact that larger trees had already been toppled by the weight of sliding snow, this one still stood tall and served as a gauge for my progress.

Continuing on, the snow beneath my left foot suddenly gave way and sent me sliding. I instantly dropped to my side and punched my fist deeply downward through the snow with speed, strength, and determination. I came to a stop only 10 feet below where my feet let go, but it served to harshly reinforce the realities of the danger we were dealing with. I was lucky, and I knew it.

So it was with great relief that I finally reached that tree, and the sound of my carribiner securely clipped to a quickly tied anchor was music to my ears.

Yosemite National Park
Vernal Falls
Ass Holes on Ice Hills

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Simply overwhelming. Nothing I can say even comes close to representing the sheer grandeur of the world before my eyes.

For the last three hours, we have been hiking towards half dome. Here and there, we struggled over various rocks and scree slopes that had yet to find their final resting place in the valley below.

Our only guide has been ‘up’ and ‘towards that massive rock, far above us’. As we make our way generally East, we come to a spring — two, in fact, both cascading over the rock, forming a series of smaller water falls.

At some point, we would need to traverse across the streams, so we decided to cross at the base, which was a large pocket of snow and ice maybe 75 yards wide. "Avalanche", I thought, but the snow was quite packed. The other possibility was a cave-in, since it was clear the stream cut under the bed of snow.

Slowly, we made our traverse, and shortly before the end, decided to descend rather than move forward. Upon reaching the ‘land’ again, we saw we had only barely missed crossing an incredibly intricate network of tunnels and passageways carved by the water. The snow had formed a dome 10′ over the water, and chances are good that we would have fallen through.

10:15p

It’s dark. Very dark. Though we pushed on and on, I was simply unable to go any further with any safety. Like a gauge, I saw my reserves go from ‘warning’ to ‘critically low’ to ‘Danger! — find water and stop immediately.’

I do not recall ever pushing myself so far out on physical limits. Breathing was labored, and balance was beginning to fade.

At our ‘bivy ledge’, I got a terminal case of the giggles — everything was just so absurd. We’d been hiking since 2:45p, dusk was upon us, and I started moving rocks around to make a more comfortable sleeping area — moving rocks! "Lets see… this one would go nicely in the kidney, and this one is ideal for my ribs…"

After diner, we were better. We have a good bit of food — we need to eat it to lighten our load. We had planned to arrive at the base of the climb tonight. We are about an hour away.

I had one real scare on the ascent today. My pack had gotten caught on a branch in a rather precarious spot. I knew I was in trouble. I was not afraid of dying, just of getting badly hurt. It shook me up a bit, and I’m not fond of certain trees now.

From where we now lay, I can see scattered campfires from the valley below, oh so very far away. The sky is amass with stars, and a waterfall tumbles 20′ away from where we have decided to bed for the night.

On the ascent, there were a great many details to observe, and each presented its own unique challenge: rocks, trees, talus, and dirt. But now, with everything shielded in darkness, my world is bounded by the width of my flashlight, and the sounds from all around.

I am several thousand feet high, but can see no more from here in the darkness than those in the valley below. It is as if not only am I about to sleep for the night, but my whole world is sleeping too, and will awaken me in several hours when the sun finally comes around again.

Yosemite National Park
Vernal Falls
Ass Holes on Ice Hills

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman

Sunrise, Saturday morning. For the last 10 minutes, I’ve been watching the sky reveal ever more detail of the splendor she holds. As daybreak proceeds, the blanket of darkness is pulled back, and an incredible picture of rapidly moving clouds and changing patterns begins to take its place.

It has rained for the last 2 days, and everything is covered in a fine sheet of ice. The grass makes a brittle crackling noise as it reluctantly bends under the weight of my steps.

Yet despite the cold, the morning has the feel of an early spring day — the number of birds calling from afar fills the air with a variety of unique and intricate sounds.

And slowly, the call of morning doves begin to fade, and a dog can be heard barking in the distance. As I write, a whole flock of tiny somethings fly overhead, each and every one calling out to its neighbor in flight.

On the edges of this field, in front of the houses, a few people step outside momentarily to fetch their paper or let out their dog. The people are bundled up like Eskimos — their bleary eyed bodies not yet ready to face the day.

But the animals — they are out in force. For they know that just as sure as the newly melted ice beneath my bottom, winter is on its way out, and spring is almost here.

 

3/21/93

March 21, 1993 — the first day of spring has finally arrived. Though there have been several days in the last few weeks when spring gave the appearance of having already arrived, winter then dumped a foot of snow on us last weekend to violently assert its power and right to be here.

So spring waited quietly around the corner and upon the duly appointed day, with equal strength and beauty did banish the snow and cold for yet another year.

I awoke this morning at the crack of noon, and knew that it was time to go for a run. The moment I stepped out the door, the light was blinding, and the air simply forced its way deep into my lungs, exclaiming "Breath me! Come alive and be free!"

As I walked through mounds and puddles of lingering snow scattered about along my path, it crumbled and let out an agonizing CRUNCHING sound beneath my feet. It tried desperately to cling to my leg and hide in my shoe, but as I burst into full speed on the pavement, the snow was hurled to the ground as drops of water, destined to continue its never ending journey back to the seas.

In fact, as I continued on my path, every crevice, gully, and curb side was over flowing with the water from melted snow that simply could not run fast enough to escape the energy of the fresh spring weather.

At the entrance to roadside sewers, the snow had formed gigantic overhangs where the rushing water had eroded the base faster than the crown. At the slightest touch of my hand, a 2-foot section of ice collapsed, falling flat on the ground and shattering. Defeated, the winter has no choice but to retreat.

There is no pre-defined path I am following today — I am simply running, going wherever I fancy. The road comes to an end, and I decide to continue forward through the forest until I again intersect a more navigable path. Along my way, I pass playgrounds that are teaming with children yelling and screaming their hearts delight. They are covered in mud, but one would think they were just let out of prison, and have more energy than they know what to do with.

Eventually, I cross a wooden bridge that I have never seen before, due more to my lack of exploring than its desire to remain hidden. An old crow lands on the railing close enough to me that I could touch it if I tried. It seems to be staring me in the face as it CAWS out at me with volume I have never before experienced. It stayed for only a moment, then flew off into the distance.

In the cracks of the railing beneath where the crow perched, there are a few dead leaves left over from last autumn. As I reach for them, they crumble into dust and slip through the cracks of my fingers. A gust of wind carries the fragments to the forest floor, and I know that as the cycles of nature forever repeat themselves, those pieces will one day live again.

 

Copyright (C), 1998, by Ashley Guberman