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Two young, strong, enthusiastic climbers hit Yosemite for the first time and...get whipped. A fun, ego-bruising buddy story I think we can all relate to.
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“What are ya’ll getting on today?”
I shifted the beam of my headlamp down towards the friendly stranger’s question. Fall had replaced summer and the early sunset was defying our expectations of endless light. Craig lowered me out of the darkness and into the conversation. The base of the crag looked like the floor of a freshman’s dorm room; gear was strewn about and clothing spilled out of our raggedy packs. The stranger had stopped on her way back to the trailhead to engage in a neighborly crag-chat with my partner. Touching down, I curiously awaited Craig’s response.
"Well, we got destroyed on the Rostrum already so just mellow cragging today."
I had half expected Craig to begin our introduction this way. Since we had climbed the route the previous day, he had already detailed our time on The Rostrum as a pathetic whooping to multiple audiences. Each time, I had silently felt the offense of this poking at my ego. Our attempt at the route was too fresh for me to determine how severely the route had in fact made fools of us. In my mind, the climb was an unsorted blur.
“Yikes. Well, way to give it a go anyhow. See ya!”
I shrugged and smiled as a farewell gesture. The stranger and her partner trudged off towards the parking lot. My mouth quivered as if to stop them, set the record straight and preserve my dignity. Craig pulled the rope while I pried my feet free of their sweaty leather bounds.
“Dude! You you keep telling people we got worked on The Rostrum!”
“Well… we did, didn’t we?”
Huh. I considered Craig’s direct question. Realizing I had yet to begin any kind of considerate reflection about the climb, it was clear that I needed some assistance in getting there. Without these kind of cues from my partner, I may have allowed the experience to float deep into the obscure holdings of my memory. This time, the experience was still fresh enough to dissect.
Surely, it had been a meaningful day. The climb, a long term objective of mine, had thoroughly challenged us. Leading up to the attempt, the eight pitch benchmark that is The Rostrum had guided my day dreams and my physical training. Now it was done and my trusty partner was graciously reminding me to examine the memory and savor any emotions or lessons I may find there. As we packed away our gear and descended to the car, I began to reflect on The Rostrum.
Like many green Yosemite climbers before us, we fooled ourselves into delusions of conquest long before we ever arrived. We were under-qualified but over-confident with a non negotiable to-do list— like Ryan Zinke on a national monument roll-backs-bender.
I shifted the beam of my headlamp down towards the friendly stranger’s question. Fall had replaced summer and the early sunset was defying our expectations of endless light. Craig lowered me out of the darkness and into the conversation. The base of the crag looked like the floor of a freshman’s dorm room; gear was strewn about and clothing spilled out of our raggedy packs. The stranger had stopped on her way back to the trailhead to engage in a neighborly crag-chat with my partner. Touching down, I curiously awaited Craig’s response.
"Well, we got destroyed on the Rostrum already so just mellow cragging today."
I had half expected Craig to begin our introduction this way. Since we had climbed the route the previous day, he had already detailed our time on The Rostrum as a pathetic whooping to multiple audiences. Each time, I had silently felt the offense of this poking at my ego. Our attempt at the route was too fresh for me to determine how severely the route had in fact made fools of us. In my mind, the climb was an unsorted blur.
“Yikes. Well, way to give it a go anyhow. See ya!”
I shrugged and smiled as a farewell gesture. The stranger and her partner trudged off towards the parking lot. My mouth quivered as if to stop them, set the record straight and preserve my dignity. Craig pulled the rope while I pried my feet free of their sweaty leather bounds.
“Dude! You you keep telling people we got worked on The Rostrum!”
“Well… we did, didn’t we?”
Huh. I considered Craig’s direct question. Realizing I had yet to begin any kind of considerate reflection about the climb, it was clear that I needed some assistance in getting there. Without these kind of cues from my partner, I may have allowed the experience to float deep into the obscure holdings of my memory. This time, the experience was still fresh enough to dissect.
Surely, it had been a meaningful day. The climb, a long term objective of mine, had thoroughly challenged us. Leading up to the attempt, the eight pitch benchmark that is The Rostrum had guided my day dreams and my physical training. Now it was done and my trusty partner was graciously reminding me to examine the memory and savor any emotions or lessons I may find there. As we packed away our gear and descended to the car, I began to reflect on The Rostrum.
Like many green Yosemite climbers before us, we fooled ourselves into delusions of conquest long before we ever arrived. We were under-qualified but over-confident with a non negotiable to-do list— like Ryan Zinke on a national monument roll-backs-bender.
A precise depiction of our confidence level prior to leaving the ground on the Rostrum. Photo by Austin Beck-Doss of climbing partner Craig Chang.
The shopping list we waltzed into Yosemite with had been formatted as a progression:
“Alright dude,” Craig had said over the phone a few weeks before the trip, “let’s hop on Voyager first. 5.11c, mellow approach, should be a nice easy warm up before the bigger stuff.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, positively assured, “that looks super sweet.”
“Next up…” I said, keeping the conversational momentum going with a dramatic pause --
The Rostrum.”
“And I’ll lead the off width. I’ve got one number 5 and that’s all I need. So stoked.”
We were really egging each other on by this point, the vibe of our conversation gaining energy like the snare drum in an EDM crowd-pleaser. Pure confidence.
“Finally,” I added deftly, preparing for the momentous name drop, ASTROMAN!”
The call wrapped up with logistical planning and discussions of weather. Our path was laid out for us. All we had left to do was buy dehydrated soup, browse Mountain Project comments for Astroman, and do laps on the hand cracks in our respective gyms until our hand-jammies wore out.
The day before we planned to meet, I tossed my name and $10 into the virtual hat of Camp 4’s lottery reservation program. Just 24 hours later, there we were, eyes wide in the parking lot.
The first route on the docket went down fairly seamlessly. Voyager has many brief but excellent pitches that are friendly for the suggested grade. After a rambling and confused approach, we climbed Voyager with little issue other than a few hangs. The ascent was no help for our ballooning egos.
The shopping list we waltzed into Yosemite with had been formatted as a progression:
“Alright dude,” Craig had said over the phone a few weeks before the trip, “let’s hop on Voyager first. 5.11c, mellow approach, should be a nice easy warm up before the bigger stuff.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, positively assured, “that looks super sweet.”
“Next up…” I said, keeping the conversational momentum going with a dramatic pause --
The Rostrum.”
“And I’ll lead the off width. I’ve got one number 5 and that’s all I need. So stoked.”
We were really egging each other on by this point, the vibe of our conversation gaining energy like the snare drum in an EDM crowd-pleaser. Pure confidence.
“Finally,” I added deftly, preparing for the momentous name drop, ASTROMAN!”
The call wrapped up with logistical planning and discussions of weather. Our path was laid out for us. All we had left to do was buy dehydrated soup, browse Mountain Project comments for Astroman, and do laps on the hand cracks in our respective gyms until our hand-jammies wore out.
The day before we planned to meet, I tossed my name and $10 into the virtual hat of Camp 4’s lottery reservation program. Just 24 hours later, there we were, eyes wide in the parking lot.
The first route on the docket went down fairly seamlessly. Voyager has many brief but excellent pitches that are friendly for the suggested grade. After a rambling and confused approach, we climbed Voyager with little issue other than a few hangs. The ascent was no help for our ballooning egos.
The author, Austin Beck-Doss, begins a nicely-featured slab traverse on Voyager. Photo: Craig Chang
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A bit too pleased with ourselves after an ascent of Voyager. Selfie photo of Craig Chang and Austin Beck-Doss.
Back at camp, we recounted our day over beers with a neighboring party of partying neighbors. The experienced Germans advised us to get an early start the next day if we were to hop on The Rostrum—in Fall the base of the route could be backed up worse than the toilets in Camp 4. We organized our rack out of the back of my car as we watched the valley loop traffic slowly lumber along, each passing car sporting a $35 week-term parks pass. When we awoke the next morning, it was dark but warm and by no means quiet in camp. Several other parties were spreading out their gear on picnic tables, preparing for the day. |
It was a mid September Saturday morning, the infant stage of a bustling big wall season. The early arrivals had already landed in the valley, and we were eager to get on The Rostrum before a queue materialized.
I hurriedly consumed stale granola with almond milk while Craig stole an extra five warm-sleeping-bag minutes. Craig didn’t eat breakfast.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat this time?” I asked curiously when he emerged from the tent. He didn’t. He never does. Craig swears firmly by a barren diet of peanuts for lunch and a massive pile of calories for dinner. This intermittent fasting is an unwavering axiom on planet Craig. I ask him about it constantly, and he’s steadfast.
“Makes me feel light as a feather,” he explained to me the previous day while perched at a belay, pouring peanuts straight into his mouth from a Zip-Loc. As long as he didn’t get dizzy with the GriGri in his hands, I accepted this, but couldn’t understand. I snuck in bites of bars all day long and could never satisfy my rumbling belly. It’s remarkable how different the needs of two bodies can be when faced with the same task.
The stars were being slowly obscured by the pale promise of sun as we parked the car on the road above The Rostrum. With our harnesses and rope loaded on our bodies, we gave a final read-through of the approach beta. The information seemed vague, which we took as a sign that the hike must be trivial and obvious. Confident in this assessment, I had a bright idea.
“I’ll walk down barefoot.” It seemed logical, perhaps brilliant. I wouldn’t have to dangle approach shoes off my harness while I quiver-wiggled up the off width. The hike sounded short anyway.
“Uh… okay,” said Craig, with enough skepticism to tie him over from non-breakfast.
We clicked on headlamps and walked downhill, cams jingling softly. The approach trail quickly funneled us down into a loose gulley coated in fallen Eucalyptus leaves. Craig darted gracefully down the climber’s trail while I gingerly braced for repeated underfoot stabs from Ponderosa needles.
“Mistakes were made!” I yelled down to Craig, who had taken a sizable lead due to his forethought and modern footwear. It felt like I was running down a pile of salad forks. I could hear Craig’s amused laugh from a distance.
Where the eroded gully suddenly ended at a sheer cliff, I found Craig scratching his head and re-reading phone beta. We were expecting to find an “obvious rappel,” but the abyss had no welcome mat. Before long, a business-like Spanish party zoomed past us and began down-climbing some boulders on the edge of the precipice.
“No way. That’s definitely not the way dude, where are they going?” I quietly remarked with smug incredulity.
“OFF RAPPEL!” It was the Spanish pair.
“Oh.” I shrugged. We followed.
Once we arrived at the base, the Spanish team had already led half of the first pitch. I could feel in the air a bitter disappointment at the prospect of our pace being dictated by another party. It is especially difficult to refrain from bitterness when one’s own actions are the cause for the frustrating circumstances. Of course, it is much easier to understand this in reflection than in the moment of impatience.
“Maybe they will let us pass?” offered Craig.
“Yea.” I grunted. If only I was old enough to remember the ancient glory days of hemp cords and no crowds, this would have been my moment to mention it. When must climbers wake up on a weekday to be first on the wall? Clearly 5 a.m. didn’t cut it. My sulking continued as I flaked the rope and Craig arranged the rack. I half expected the Spaniards to yell down to us dad-joke style: “Well look who finally showed up. Good afternoon!” Weren’t the Spanish known for sleeping in? 50 new climbing gyms are built every year. We’re living in the future.
With cams meticulously arranged, Craig started up what would surely be a walk in the park for both of us. There are only two 5.9 pitches on The Rostrum, the first and the last. When we had determined which leads belonged to whom, Craig had said “I’ll just run up the first one to get us going.” We did not anticipate troubles until the larger numbers higher on the route. Pitch one would simply be a warm-up.
“TAKE!”
It was Craig, about 12 feet off the ground. His arms were tangled up like Elastigirl, and his trembling feet were sliding off their smears.
Our eyes met as he sagged onto the gear. In our shared eye contact, several confidence units were immediately docked from our total.
“Fuck! No way this is 5.9.” I stared at the ground while Craig repeatedly tested alternative beta. When I looked up again, I noticed the leader of Spanish party three pitches overhead, comfortably run out and sailing into the vertical horizon. There was no talk of passing for the rest of the day.
As we shook off our stale start to the day, we established a rhythm and awed our way through a handful of immaculate crack pitches. I fought my way through a mental barrier on the finger crack pitch, and Craig led us through a flared roof jamming crux after only a single pendulum onto a 0.4 cam. The sun had warmed the air just enough to be comfortable in a t-shirt, and there were only three pitches to go. After a good-spirited handful of peanuts on a ledge, it was my turn again to take the lead.
Each of the two distinct options for the seventh pitch were intimidating. At the top of a stretch of baggy hands, a fork in the crack dared me to choose my own path. On the left, a jagged gap between two massive flakes appeared ready to accept fingers for the price of blood. On the right, a slick-sided flare was deemed a few notches easier than than the fingers. In my tiredness, and thus prone to jump at an easy way out, I decided on the flare.
I groaned as Craig wordlessly dug the #5 out of the pack and clipped it to me.
“Looks like you’ll need it,” said Craig through a weary grin.
Armed with an elephantine rack, a meager off-width resume and peanut energy, I cupped my way through the first dozen moves. Grunting rhythmically, I wiggled in a comfortable jam at the base of the flare and took stock of myself.
“Not too bad so far,” I thought, gazing up. At the top of the flare, a clear ledge marked the end of my final lead. It would be all top-rope luxury from there.
I lurched, and punched both hands into the void in the back of the flare expecting the miracle of purchase.
“TAKE!”
Scratching my head and inspecting the flare’s entry moves, I hung while Craig shouted tips from below.
“Lock the knee in, release the hand stack, and inchworm!” Craig’s beta suggestions sounded like the choreography of a very amateur interpretive dance.
The number five slid in perfectly above my head, and after clipping it, I dreamt up some fresh beta and made another attempt. With hands stacked below the cam, I gained momentary knee lockage and thrusted with my hips. It wasn’t pretty, and Craig’s laugh broke through the tense silence. I entered into a decent rhythm, aware that my archaic thrusting was laughable but pleased to be moving at all. Bumping the cam along, I pieced together a thrutchy collage of movement, hang-dogging and profanity. Half an hour later, panting into my folded arms, I flopped onto the ledge. When Craig came into view shortly after, we summed up my effort with an immediate shared laugh. When a partner witnesses the good performances, we’re glad they were there to congratulate us. When a partner witnesses our pathetic groveling, it helps to be prepared to laugh.
I hurriedly consumed stale granola with almond milk while Craig stole an extra five warm-sleeping-bag minutes. Craig didn’t eat breakfast.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat this time?” I asked curiously when he emerged from the tent. He didn’t. He never does. Craig swears firmly by a barren diet of peanuts for lunch and a massive pile of calories for dinner. This intermittent fasting is an unwavering axiom on planet Craig. I ask him about it constantly, and he’s steadfast.
“Makes me feel light as a feather,” he explained to me the previous day while perched at a belay, pouring peanuts straight into his mouth from a Zip-Loc. As long as he didn’t get dizzy with the GriGri in his hands, I accepted this, but couldn’t understand. I snuck in bites of bars all day long and could never satisfy my rumbling belly. It’s remarkable how different the needs of two bodies can be when faced with the same task.
The stars were being slowly obscured by the pale promise of sun as we parked the car on the road above The Rostrum. With our harnesses and rope loaded on our bodies, we gave a final read-through of the approach beta. The information seemed vague, which we took as a sign that the hike must be trivial and obvious. Confident in this assessment, I had a bright idea.
“I’ll walk down barefoot.” It seemed logical, perhaps brilliant. I wouldn’t have to dangle approach shoes off my harness while I quiver-wiggled up the off width. The hike sounded short anyway.
“Uh… okay,” said Craig, with enough skepticism to tie him over from non-breakfast.
We clicked on headlamps and walked downhill, cams jingling softly. The approach trail quickly funneled us down into a loose gulley coated in fallen Eucalyptus leaves. Craig darted gracefully down the climber’s trail while I gingerly braced for repeated underfoot stabs from Ponderosa needles.
“Mistakes were made!” I yelled down to Craig, who had taken a sizable lead due to his forethought and modern footwear. It felt like I was running down a pile of salad forks. I could hear Craig’s amused laugh from a distance.
Where the eroded gully suddenly ended at a sheer cliff, I found Craig scratching his head and re-reading phone beta. We were expecting to find an “obvious rappel,” but the abyss had no welcome mat. Before long, a business-like Spanish party zoomed past us and began down-climbing some boulders on the edge of the precipice.
“No way. That’s definitely not the way dude, where are they going?” I quietly remarked with smug incredulity.
“OFF RAPPEL!” It was the Spanish pair.
“Oh.” I shrugged. We followed.
Once we arrived at the base, the Spanish team had already led half of the first pitch. I could feel in the air a bitter disappointment at the prospect of our pace being dictated by another party. It is especially difficult to refrain from bitterness when one’s own actions are the cause for the frustrating circumstances. Of course, it is much easier to understand this in reflection than in the moment of impatience.
“Maybe they will let us pass?” offered Craig.
“Yea.” I grunted. If only I was old enough to remember the ancient glory days of hemp cords and no crowds, this would have been my moment to mention it. When must climbers wake up on a weekday to be first on the wall? Clearly 5 a.m. didn’t cut it. My sulking continued as I flaked the rope and Craig arranged the rack. I half expected the Spaniards to yell down to us dad-joke style: “Well look who finally showed up. Good afternoon!” Weren’t the Spanish known for sleeping in? 50 new climbing gyms are built every year. We’re living in the future.
With cams meticulously arranged, Craig started up what would surely be a walk in the park for both of us. There are only two 5.9 pitches on The Rostrum, the first and the last. When we had determined which leads belonged to whom, Craig had said “I’ll just run up the first one to get us going.” We did not anticipate troubles until the larger numbers higher on the route. Pitch one would simply be a warm-up.
“TAKE!”
It was Craig, about 12 feet off the ground. His arms were tangled up like Elastigirl, and his trembling feet were sliding off their smears.
Our eyes met as he sagged onto the gear. In our shared eye contact, several confidence units were immediately docked from our total.
“Fuck! No way this is 5.9.” I stared at the ground while Craig repeatedly tested alternative beta. When I looked up again, I noticed the leader of Spanish party three pitches overhead, comfortably run out and sailing into the vertical horizon. There was no talk of passing for the rest of the day.
As we shook off our stale start to the day, we established a rhythm and awed our way through a handful of immaculate crack pitches. I fought my way through a mental barrier on the finger crack pitch, and Craig led us through a flared roof jamming crux after only a single pendulum onto a 0.4 cam. The sun had warmed the air just enough to be comfortable in a t-shirt, and there were only three pitches to go. After a good-spirited handful of peanuts on a ledge, it was my turn again to take the lead.
Each of the two distinct options for the seventh pitch were intimidating. At the top of a stretch of baggy hands, a fork in the crack dared me to choose my own path. On the left, a jagged gap between two massive flakes appeared ready to accept fingers for the price of blood. On the right, a slick-sided flare was deemed a few notches easier than than the fingers. In my tiredness, and thus prone to jump at an easy way out, I decided on the flare.
I groaned as Craig wordlessly dug the #5 out of the pack and clipped it to me.
“Looks like you’ll need it,” said Craig through a weary grin.
Armed with an elephantine rack, a meager off-width resume and peanut energy, I cupped my way through the first dozen moves. Grunting rhythmically, I wiggled in a comfortable jam at the base of the flare and took stock of myself.
“Not too bad so far,” I thought, gazing up. At the top of the flare, a clear ledge marked the end of my final lead. It would be all top-rope luxury from there.
I lurched, and punched both hands into the void in the back of the flare expecting the miracle of purchase.
“TAKE!”
Scratching my head and inspecting the flare’s entry moves, I hung while Craig shouted tips from below.
“Lock the knee in, release the hand stack, and inchworm!” Craig’s beta suggestions sounded like the choreography of a very amateur interpretive dance.
The number five slid in perfectly above my head, and after clipping it, I dreamt up some fresh beta and made another attempt. With hands stacked below the cam, I gained momentary knee lockage and thrusted with my hips. It wasn’t pretty, and Craig’s laugh broke through the tense silence. I entered into a decent rhythm, aware that my archaic thrusting was laughable but pleased to be moving at all. Bumping the cam along, I pieced together a thrutchy collage of movement, hang-dogging and profanity. Half an hour later, panting into my folded arms, I flopped onto the ledge. When Craig came into view shortly after, we summed up my effort with an immediate shared laugh. When a partner witnesses the good performances, we’re glad they were there to congratulate us. When a partner witnesses our pathetic groveling, it helps to be prepared to laugh.
Craig, high on the Rostrum, puts groveling on hold for a briefly expressed moment of joy. Photo: Austin Beck-Doss
Exhausted and panting into the darkness on the summit, I whipped out my phone. I checked the time as if I had just tagged the tree atop the Nose, ready to confirm a speed ascent.
“Hmm. Nine hours.” Craig laughed again.
“That party that we considered passing is probably asleep in their tents by now.”
Returning to the the car was standard Yosemite fatigued silliness. Spirits are always lifted when returning to the horizontal realm, and feet aching in our climbing shoes, we plodded back to the car. Compared to many other valley descents, The Rostrum’s is brief and cushy. We peeled shoes and harnesses off and placed them into my open trunk. Overjoyed, Craig discovered a full water bottle hiding in the shadows. In a moment, we passed it between us and it was gone. Singing the praises of old, warm, BPA-infused water, we drove off towards Camp 4.
Slow rolling buses and arm-flailing traffic guards had cleared off the valley loop for the evening. Passing a sign for Sentinel Beach, I pulled off and parked in the abandoned lot. We had been to this Merced River access point during a prior rest day. Then, in the blurry September heat, the beach had felt similar to a public pool in Tucson. Different swimsuit styles and loud calls in many languages had showcased the great distances that humans travel to experience Yosemite Valley. Sandcastles, selfies and Walmart beach towels filled the scene. Now, with the sun long down and a cold breeze ruffling the river’s surface, the beach was eerie and bare. Still, the laughter of peak season crowds could be felt, like some sort of ghostly tourism energy. A brief dip in the frigid current washed away the day’s coat of grime - a slurry of sweat, chalk, lichen, blood, and plenty of peanut dust.
While lounging in camp, after a full-day of recovery, our German neighbors informed us that Ron Kauk would soon be speaking and presenting his film, Return to Balance in the Yosemite Theater. We walked over from Camp 4, bought some tickets, and settled into seats near the front. The turnout was sparse, though when Kauk walked up to the shabby podium below the screen, an audible whisper collectively recognized the presence of a climbing legend.
Craig, myself, and the Germans drank-in the narrated footage. We watched on-screen Ron wander about Yosemite, pausing in the landscape to greet Manzanitas and Douglas Firs. The film encouraged greater humanity to slow down enough to reflect, and find gratitude for the systems that have allowed our lives to be. Interspersed in all of this, and backed by flute music, there were beautiful clips of Kauk climbing elegant backcountry boulders.
After the show, we thanked Mr. Kauk for the presentation. He expressed that he enjoys when there a few climbers in the crowd, and within a minute he began to share several stories from his career, correcting false claims from climbing media and recalling memorable moments. When he wrapped up, we stood back in awe as he asked, as all climbers do:
“So what are you all getting on while you’re here?”
“Well,” said Craig, “yesterday we got completely worked on The Rostrum.” I looked at the floor.
“The Rostrum!” exclaimed Ron. “You know, when we did the first free ascent of that, I was a teenager and all we had were hexes. We still had it in our minds that the leader must not fall. So we never did!”
He congratulated us on our effort with a broad smile.
Walking back toward camp, Craig and I agreed to return in the spring. We pondered the message of reflection Ron emphasized in his talk. We accepted ourselves and found joy in our failure. I guess that's really what we came for.