Paul Humphrey
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 Credit: Disaster Master |
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It was mid-October, and I knew that soon the winter rains would come, leaving me pacing the floor, waiting to sprint to the local cliffs at the first hint of sunlight. I wanted to do something bigger, something who's memory would see me through those restless winter nights. So I called my friends Ben and Matt, and proposed an adventure. I wanted to climb Battle Mountain, a granite mastiff in Castle Crags Wilderness, near Mt. Shasta, California. Plume Line, grade IV, was my goal, a nine pitch climb that follows a single quartz dike for much of it's distance. The grade, 5.10a was well within our abilities, and the location was spectacular. I'm no slouch when it comes to hype, and soon both Ben and Matt were as excited as I was.
The next week end we were on our way. The four hour drive melted away in excited talk and loud music. Matt was on student exchange from Kentucky. He and his wife were studying for a year Humboldt State University, where we all attended. His specialty was southern sandstone. Ben and I had both climbed in Castle Crags before, and we pumped Matt up with tales of golden granite and spectacular views.
Matt was not disappointed when we finally caught sight of the crags. Battle Mountain sat high on the ridge, to the right of Mount Hubris and Castle Dome. The setting sun behind the crags made them dark shadowed giants, mysteries to be uncovered. It was hard to fall asleep that night, and it seemed that only a moment had passed when our alarm awoke us at 4 am the next morning.
Our packs were already loaded, and Sabotage by the Beastie Boys jolted us awake in leue of coffee as we drove in the night up to the trail head. We hiked by headlamp along the Pacific Crest Trail until we reached the creek that signaled the point where we needed to cut cross-country up the ridge. Not wanting to get lost, we sat and waited for first light. The sky grew pink and we started up slope towards the wall. We were right on schedule. Even the constant manzinita we had to move through failed to dampen our excitement, for we could see the wall, golden and brilliant in the morning light.
By 8am we were at the base, and made our first mistake. The line was obvious, even the places to belay. The wall leaned back, less than vertical above us. It looked easy.
“Sh#t,” I said, “it's not nearly as tall as it looks from the road.”
“Those look like sport pitches,” said Matt.
“We'll fly up this thing,” agreed Ben.
We estimated that with the length and number of pitches we would be down well before sunset, and back to the trail by dark. No one wanted to lead with a pack so we decided to go light. We would bring one quart of water, some candy for lunch, gloves, hats and raincoats in case of wind, and our boots and headlamps for the decent. Our sweaters, spare food and water would be left at the base. Going this light, we would only have to carry two small packs, leaving the leader free of the burden.
Matt led off on the first pitch, going slower than I had hoped. He had not led with natural pro for a while, and was cautious and prudent in his movements and placements. All the belays had to be built ourselves, and he took the time to ensure this first belay was bomber. Ben seconded the pitch and then I went third on the second rope. The next two pitches were mine, a 5.9+ traverse and the 5.10a crux pitch. Both Ben and Matt moved quickly on follow, and the climbing was spectacular. But the belays were tricky and time consuming to build. And the “sport” pitches were turning out to be full length rope stretchers.
Belaying at the top of the third pitch, I watched the sun pass its high point and began to be concerned with our speed. Matt led off on the fourth pitch, and I yelled to him to get the lead out. He moved quicker, but when the rope went taut, it stayed that way for several minutes, with no signal from above. Finally he yelled “On belay” to Ben, and Ben flew off like a race horse out of the gate. At the top of the pitch he saw that Matt was holding much of the belay, which consisted of small nuts, in place with his feet! It was all he had left after the lead. As they shored up the belay with gear from the lead, I waited anxiously as the sun disappeared over the top of the wall. Finally the call came to climb.
At the belay I said we were running out of time, a statement of the obvious. We had to finish this thing soon or be caught in the dark. I grabbed the rack and led off in a hurry, pausing to place protection only when I could no longer see my last piece. Two pitches later we reached a notch in the ridge. Three more pitches along this ridge and we would be on top. The rappel route was on the opposite ridge, past the summit. We had a long way to go.
The pitch off the notch was not obvious, and in the fading light I had no clear idea which way to go. Finally I began a diagonal traverse up, right and out of sight. The gear was trash, and I realized too late that I was probably off route. I pulled a strenuous mantle, aiming for a large tree to belay from, and watched my last placement fall out of the flake I was mantling. I tied into the tree and looked around. To my side rose an overhung bombay chimney, impossible to protect and irreversible. Behind me an easier traverse led of and around a corner into the gathering darkness. It too seemed to lack any protectable features. We were screwed. I was off route, couldn't reverse the moves I had just completed, and the rope trailing down seemed jammed. In a moment of panic I pounded my helmeted head against the tree and screamed into the wind which was steadily increasing. With nothing else to do I called for my partners to follow. Rope drag slowed them, and as each arrived, the look in their eyes told me they knew I had messed up and we were in trouble.
We were fully exposed to the wind here, and since sunset the temperature had been dropping fast. We had to get off the mountain. Knowing it was my fault, I volunteered to lead off in to the unknown terrain behind us. Thank God we had taken the headlamps! The next “pitch” had no protection, save for a flexing horn thirty feet out. I slung it, lied to my partners about its bomber qualities, and traversed around and up another sixty feet. There I found a stunted pine, smaller than my wrist. I proclaimed it a belay and shouted for the next to follow, and not to fall.
By the time we gathered at our bush, we were all shivering. We cursed ourselves for leaving the sweaters. Ben put me on belay, Matt hugged Ben to keep him warm, and I led up a dirty, featureless open book that rose at an angle of around 80 degrees. Forty feet out I found my only piece of protection, a dead twig which protruded from the knifeblade seam at the back of the dihedral. I slung it and lied again about its fall holding properties, but my partners were no longer buying it. Ninety feet out from the twig I thought I was dead. My grip slipped on a dirty edge and I fell back, arms cartwheeling, trying to regain my balance. I screamed the loudest curse I have ever uttered. 130 feet below, Ben locked off and Matt quietly and wisely unclipped from the belay. He was certain that I was going for the big ride, and the bush wouldn't hold. Luckily, my nails found purchase, and I climbed another twenty feet to yet another ledge with a bush belay.
Neither Ben nor Matt could free the pitch in the cold and had to “bat man” hand over hand in places. By the time they both reached me I was too cold to continue on the lead. My fingers would not respond to my wishes. We knew we must be near the summit, and Matt volunteered to continue. The wind was coming in bursts now, and each time it hit we screamed from the cold. Matt grabbed the rack, but only got eight feet up before letting out a quaking moan. He was too cold. So was Ben. It was time to bivy.
We assessed our resources. Hats, gloves, rain jackets and a rope tarp were all we had for shelter. We lay our rope down to insulate us from the rock and began a protracted game of twister, trying to find enough warmth to go around.
Both Ben and I had done open bivies before, but they were planned. “I've never bivied before,” said Matt. “What was your guys' worst bivy?”
In near unison we replied 'This is it!” Matt moaned and rolled over.
Strange things happen when your body temperature drops. Survival becomes paramount. I grabbed the middle of the pile, rationalizing that I was the strongest climber and would have to lead out in the morning. Really, though, I just wanted to be warm. Ben took the side against the wall, and big, warm Matt took the wind. Our tarp was only four feet square, and we tried in vain to make ourselves small enough to fit beneath it. It was hopeless. As soon as we found a decent position, the wind would come and try and snatch the tarp away. It was maddening. Each time a gust came, it announced itself with moans in the distance, a sound which built like a coming train until it hit us and made us scream. We talked to each other each time to ensure that no one was slipping too deep into hypothermia.
Ben was having the worst time. Pushed against the rock, and sport-climber skinny like me, his heat was being sucked into the mountain. Eventually he became dangerously cold. “What's your name?” I asked. “What day of the week is it?”
He stared back with empty eyes. “I know I should care,” he said, “but I don't, so just f*#k off!”
We rolled him into the middle. Matt took the wall and I the wind. It made me shake like a California earthquake. We rotated the rest of the night.
Even in such dire circumstances, we still sometimes had to laugh. Things were getting bizarre, and rather than sleep we hallucinated. Ben thought he saw his grandmother fly down in a chopper and give us an apple pie. I just stared a one spot until it transformed into a purple and pink pinwheel. Matt got so thirsty he slurped at the frozen condensation that had formed in the hood he had pulled around his face. He sounded like he was eating soup, and I laughed at the absurdity of it all.
The quest for warmth was constant, and anything became fair game. At one point, as Matt rummaged around for a place to warm his hands, one found its way into my pants. “Hey, man!” I exclaimed, “Those are my balls.” But as Matt slowly withdrew his hand I had second thoughts. “Dude, if its warm you can stay there,” I said. He offered up the most sincere thanks I have ever heard.
Eventually, even as our hopes began to fade, the sky began to lighten. The sun had never felt so good. Ben was hurting, still shivering uncontrollably. To get him active we gave him the belay, and Matt hugged him to warm him. I led off and found the rappel route 80 feet from our ledge. It was a deep gash in the mountain, a slot canyon that fell away as far as we could see. There was no way we could have been sure of it in the dark. We were on our way down, but still had a ways to go.
We moved silently and efficiently now, with only one thought on each of our minds; Down. Three rappels and scrambling later, we found the side canyon that would lead us around the mountain's flank, through heavy brush to where we had cached our packs. If we had tried to rappel in the dark, we almost certainly would have missed it and would have ended up in a box canyon far from our supplies. Our mouths were drier than a wake-and-bake stoner, but we were almost there.
We had been on the mountain for over twenty-four hours, and were only three hours away from the deadline I had given my wife. If she did not hear from me by then, she was to call the local authorities. We were proud both of the fact that we survived and self-rescued, yet acutely embarrassed for having to do so in the first place. We wanted desperately to reach a phone before a rescue was called in. Because of this, we rested only briefly at our packs before heading down.
The brain is an amazing thing. All during our ordeal we had remained as calm as necessary. But now that we knew we were likely safe, we fell apart. Ben was off like a shot, far ahead of us and out of sight, homing in on the end. Matt was behind me, staggering like a drunk from dehydration and exposure. I lost it. I screamed for Ben to slow down and show himself, convinced that he was leaving us behind. If he had been within reach I likely would have killed him. I was enraged and let out a streak of malicious curses at him until my parched throat squeaked to a whisper.
Behind me, Matt thought I was yelling at him because he was going so slow, and he cried and apologized. That snapped me out of it and I helped him off the gravely dome we were traversing, found Ben, and continued the decent.
Shortly after, Matt was so gone he was convinced he could walk no farther. He sat on his pack on a gentle gravel slope and began pushing with his hands. He didn't move. “What the hell are you doing?” asked Ben.
“Can't walk. Going to glissade,” he said. We watched him paw at the ground as he muttered “Come on, come on, damn it, move!” Finally he stopped, sighed, and then stood and staggered off.
When we reached the trail, Matt gained new strength from the thought that the stream, and therefore water, was less than a half mile away. He took off running and disappeared around a bend in the trail. Ben and I, too exhausted to jog, plodded along until reaching the creek. Matt was there with his head completely submerged, trying to suck the entire stream up.
With only a couple of miles of trail to go, our thirst satisfied, we hobbled along the trail, passing some hikers who stared at us like ghosts. There was a ticket on Ben's car when we reached the lot; no overnight parking was allowed there. We didn't care. We reached a phone, told my wife we were alright, and drove home completely silent save for questions as to the reality of our experience. We were exhausted and absolutely drained.
It took some time to process the experience. It was difficult to tell others what it had been like. It was just a small mountain, a moderate route, and an unfortunate night to those who heard our story. But to us it was more. It was very, very real; a slow near-encounter with mortality. We talked about it often, eventually making it more of a joke than anything. But is wasn't a joke. The mountain did not care, it just was.
(I went back and climbed this route several more times. Some days though...............)
