The Shield (Grade V) 5.9 A3 July 1999 Craig: It’s the first day that is the most difficult. OK, actually it’s the whole week preceding it. When the “what ifs” infiltrate all thought and reason. It is when the worm turns the hardest and the palms sweat the most. It is when the brain needs to be shut off, or at least filtered. But when the rock is met head on; when blood mixes with sweat, and is burned by the sun and dried by wind, then the brain is an ally. As the ground recedes, and the birds become your constant companions (except when those bastards whiz by going mach looney, or they float down with their chirp that sounds like laughter since I’m here, stuck on this granite slab, while they are free to frolic in the currents), then worry and fear get lost behind hunger and fatigue, tucked far back in the recesses of the psyche. Well, until it’s your turn on the sharp end. Then all of a sudden doubt is kind, and fear is let loose to torment your being, until piece by piece, inch by inch, altitude is gained and fear is willfully and skillfully subdued. Anchors clipped, and a sigh at first, then a scream of joy. The door is slammed shut. For now. We are granite sailors, sailing the currents of rock that is now our home. The crazy thing about walls is that it never feels like home until it’s almost over, and then when you get ‘home’, you wish you were back on the big stone. For now though, this is home and slowly she reveals her lines and curves when you pursue it from the right angles, with the right tactics. And while the path may be laid out, it is our skill and judgement that afford passage. Fear is ever-present as the sun, shrieks with the might of the wind, yet can be as calm as the days end, as soft as the fading light’s ray. I guess it’s all perspective. Well, that and whether or not that little swage of copper I’m standing on is actually worth a damn. More work than pleasure, the question is oft asked: why? Well, I am not here to say “because it’s there” or some other such cliché phrase. I am merely here to say “it beats the bloody hell out of me.” All I know, is when all is said and done, it was one bitchin' trip and I’m better than I was 3,000 previous. Excuse me, however, for I have digressed. ………………………..The ropes are blowing sideways. I’m not sure if it’s the constant wind, the third straight day of hanging belays, or the 3 hour sits per pitch, but I’m going crazy. I freakin hate big walls…. Dammit if these bags don’t weigh a freakin TON. Two haul bags, 5 days of food and water, and enough aluminum to build a few hundred bikes. At least 175 pounds of gear. “Jump on the rope Matt, I can’t budge these things by myself.” Somewhere in the middle of the double-body space haul, it dawns of me there is no backup to the haul, and essentially, us. Well, that’s no good…Aaaahhh don’t even thing about getting caught on that lip….. ….Sweat drips from my nose as we wrestle the last pig into place. Enough with the work, lets climb already. It’s later than we expected, so haste is needed. Matt heads off; I sit back, and take in the scenery. Holy crap, I’m on the freakin shield!!! People already look like ants on the ground; cars are like little matchbox toys. Sweet, Matt’s already done, now it’s my turn. Matt: Its only the first day, and I already feel like I owe the water bank like five deposits. The valley is hot in July. Now that Craig is climbing the pitch I just led, I can relax, belay and let the bags hang until he gets up here. I’m enjoying myself and soaking up the view with a casual belay now that I’ve secured my first moment of the climb to sit back with only one thing to do. I hang my feet off the ledge and bask in the sun like a lizard coming out for some rays. The party above us is just starting the headwall and it looks fierce, but the super-topo says that there’s nothing harder than A3 so we’re psyched. Just as I’m slipping into the surreal moment I had been working for, I hear a whizzing noise like you might hear if someone hit a baseball in your direction, with it passing overhead by 2 inches. When I looked up to see what was falling in my direction, I had about 6 feet of sky to react. Luckily I was not in the path of the five piton rack on a biner that was falling about 33 ft/sec. It hit with enough force to put a pretty deep chisel mark in the rock…a mark about 3’ from where my leg was dangling over the edge. It probably hit rock 15 times before shattering the biner on the ground below. It was a scary illustration of how overhanging the shield headwall turned out to be, since it took a direct path from where they were at to my ledge. Craig: I’ve been here before just a month earlier. The C1 pitch is dispatched in good time, and I even get the piggies up with out the extra body on the line. The last pitch of the day falls to Matt. Thin cracks lead to a gaping maw. Goodness, I’m glad I’m not leading that mother. Matt spends himself inching up the ugly trough and throws himself on the ledge exhausted as light begins to fade. The true nature of the chimney/gash from hell only reveals itself once in it. I curse, sweat, gasp, inch forward. And I’m on jumars. Matt is spent, sitting on the ledge, barely able to move the bags, or himself. I tell him to sit back and go to town , wrestling the bags and ultimately getting them on the ledge. First things first, I find Matt some food and Gatorade, then, set up the ledge…… Morning dawns way too soon. Paper bags are filled and tucked away in relative privacy, as the ledge affords us some distance for the morning ritual. Of course, this happens after our tasty breakfast of fruit cocktail is rudely interrupted by the drops of piss around us. Cussing, slandering, and threats against offspring and the violators instruments are all shouted, then, back to breakfast. What can you do? I really dislike leaving the belay. It’s usually the worst moment. When the safety of the wonderfully equalized anchor is left behind for the marginal mank going into the rock. Luckily this pitch is easy and soon I’m bringing up those heavy whores again. I sit and wait, shift around and try to get comfortable on this 5” ledge. I’m reminded of the big wall mantra: “hours of boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror.” Finally Matt’s done. It’s getting steep. The bats creep as I slowly and methodically clean Matt’s pitch. Damn this was some thin stuff. I always marvel at how I’m glad to have not led a certain pitch, but am sure that should the task have fallen to me, the fear associated with following never materializes. Whatever. Fun time is over, a hard lead is up for me and we’re on The Shield for real now. Matt: It took a few drops to figure out it was pee. Walls are like warfare, the normal rules of civilian life no longer apply. Anarchy is the rule, which is to say that the rule is that there are no rules. There are however karmic consequences for all of the things you’ve been doing before the route started whether good or bad. You’ll see, they’ll get theirs. Craig: Just as I’m setting off Matt pops Metallica into the radio. Maybe it’s the setting, or the tunes, but just now I snapped at the audacity I feel from realizing that I’m hanging from a tiny wire more than 1000’ off the deck. Whatever it is, a “moment” is had, and energy surges through me, not unlike that nervous anticipatory energy felt when riding the chairlift on a bluebird day after a couple feet of fresh has fallen overnight. All I can do is throw my head back and scream like a naked man howling at the moon. Damn this is some fun booty. Well, until the first really crappy piece of gear is thrown in. Excuse me for a minute, it is time to get scared, and back cleaning between undercling cam hook placements does wonders to the psyche. I tend to slow down when I’m scared. This pitch just took me over 2 hours to lead. Day fades to night, as I wrestle my way under and out the roof Matt just led. It is by far the wildest thing I’ve ever done. Lowering myself out, I just let the ropes fly and swing out into space. Now this, this is being alive. Exhilaration kills any fear that might creep its way into my mind. No, this is too freaking crazy fun to be scary. Soon fear replaces exhilaration, and doubt rears its ugly head as I take note of the international climbing museum that constitutes our anchor. We manage to set up our ledge in a corner. Great, this is where we’ll be sleeping tonight. Whatever it ended up being, the lone rivet to hang the ledge from on Zodiac was way worse. Dawn finds us doing the usual, and somehow finding a way to laugh at each other as we conduct the “business” on the morning agenda close enough to give a high 5 between wipes. Once again, the morning finds me sitting out on the sharp end, but this time it’s a low angle cake walk. The rock is steep, and the game begins. Fortunately, steep as it is, the individual placements are relatively easy and the only thing that slows me down is the unrelenting overhanging nature. But soon it’s my turn to relax as Matt takes on the infamous Groove Pitch. Infamous because it is a veritable museum of junk. Ratty slings, frayed cables, blown out mankyness. Imagine taking a piece of copper, smashing it into a small seam, then putting a small hook on top of it, hoping it holds your weight. Only, you didn’t put that little hunk of aluminum in there, and you’re not real sure how long its been there. Yeah, then do that for a hundred plus feet. Throw in some old fixed pieces of chromoly no larger than a tamp, not thicker than a credit card. See the aid climbers mantra again if you will. Our attempt at leaving the hammers in the bag ends with this pitch, as Matt finds solace and comfort in a nicely placed bird beak. But as most things inherently evil, this too is endured with courage and patience, and soon bolts are clipped and my little island of comfort featuring Pearl Jam in concert must be abandoned as I clean in awe and wonder at the absolute junk Matt clipped to send the Groove. Matt: The wall is getting steep and feature free, with the exception of single splitters…very thin ones. I could not believe the supertopo that had notes for certain pitches like "no cams on pitch". I took cams anyways. I think the biggest piece we placed on the whole headwall was a blue Metolius TCU. The Groove was so thin on top, that I didn’t even bother placing gear, I just threw bird beaks behind copperheads without cables, in several places. Now the fun starts that Craig is getting ready to do the Triple Cracks pitch, one of the most famous pitches on the Capitan. I’m proud of the progress he makes in short time, and since the light faded during my laborious cleaning job, I never took note of the pitch that was to be mine in the morning…one of the cruxes. Craig: The threat of rain creates a palpable feeling of doom as the steep, blank headwall looms above.  Route finding is a no brainer.  Follow the thin, boxed out crack until it ends, traverse right, rinse, and repeat.  I always love starting a pitch out with a bird beak.  Like the pitch says: “hey, how are ya?  Yeah, you want to get up?  Prepare to suffer.”  Sawed angles rule the world and I inch my way up.  The real barometer of my feelings and nerves can be seen as Matt cleans the pitch, having to wail away at the pins I have unceremoniously welded into the crack.  Yup, I was freaked the whole time.  But dangit if that wasn’t the raddest thing I’ve ever done. Fear and the subsequent tension slowly fade away as the wind dies down and the sun creeps up the wall, illuminating the shield first yellow, then gold, orange, and finally pink.  No grander bunk could ever be found and the stress of the day oozes out of the pores as the ledge is set up, we lean back against the wall as our feet dangle and cold bean burritos are consumed. Matt: It’s morning, and I have to throw down fruit cocktail and broken-up granola bars. It makes a mix so sugary that I swear the fruit tasted like starburst…good right? Not a big can of it at 6:30 in the morning before the crux pitch. The climbing is straightforward, put stuff in the crack and stand on it. There was however a problem when the crack ends in places, and there is already a cableless (and therefore useless) RURP fixed in the crack. What do you do then? To make things worse, my pro consisted of a #2 HB offset, like three placements before…the previous placements were copperheads that I hooked behind with an A5 Birdbeak and then back-cleaned; a routine practice by that point. The crack was shaped like a long buttcrack on the crux…a funny idea, but it’s pretty irritating when the fat end of the hammer hits the buttcheeks when trying to nail in the back of it. I finally resolved to stack RURPs using the pointey end of the hammer to get it started, and then finishing the bashing with the nut tool. The placement stuck on the second try after the nut tool was pretty maimed. The first placement ripped as I was high- stepping for another RURP placement. I probably went for about 40 feet. It was scarey as hell, falling on the big stone approximately 2500 feet off the floor!! Afterwards when dangling from the end, it was kinda fun. I hurried off the rope, since I’m still only on a #2 HB brassie. The placement worked, and I was eventually able to clip the bolted traverse to the anchor. Craig: And so it goes.  So much of a wall is routine and monotony; dink around with iron widgets and aluminum gadgets, creeping up, up, up at a glacial pace; curse, sweat, and strain hauling the bags; kick back, relax, and take in the view; and the fourth and fifth day melt into one as elevation gained equates to growing confidence and diminished fear.  Even a fall 2500 feet above terra firma does little to phase the enthusiasm, thinly masking the rising summit fever.  Impossible to suppress, but essential, it spurs action but favors haste, and thus harbors impatience and short tempers.  Conversation at belays becomes short and curt, usually punctuated by grunts of dissatisfaction, and sniping remarks with whatever the person is (or rather what the other perceives isn’t) doing.  At this point, the goal is level ground, friendships be damned.  Fortunately for both parties, that level ground looms nearby and, lack of communication notwithstanding, somehow the bags and the blokes all make it up in one piece. And it’s over. Just like that. Heavy breathing fades away with the stress that bore it.  Smiles crease sunburned faces, and with them any misgivings between partners vanishes.  And so it goes.  The seemingly unattainable, out of reach, out of sight, and out of mind summit (for the first few days, at least) is gained.  Now what?  Well, that’s easy, start planning for the next adventure. Matt: I remember only a few things about the summit. It took forever to walk that last little bit of third class to the top dragging the load over bushes etc. I also remember having hands that were totally jacked. I was dehydrated like crazy…made more evident when we got out like 9 liters of water to donate. Shortly after exchanging the summit praises, I had to run and take a fat dump. After that, it was an evening of relaxation on the summit in a cool and starry summer night, the kind I lust for as they get more and more rare as I have less and less time to pursue climbing goals. No wonder some people check in to the valley and never leave.