Since our first trip to Yosemite in 2005, I've wanted to hike to the summit of Half Dome with my son, Carl. Now 16, Carl is autistic and has never spoken a word. One of Carl’s doctors asked me why I want to take him up there and what fear I think Carl wants to overcome or what I think he wants to accomplish. To those questions I have no answer. I don’t know why I want to take him up there or if he has any desire to be on top of Half Dome. I don’t know if he has any memory of our previous attempts or if he remembers what he had for lunch yesterday. There’s a lot I don’t know about Carl’s interior life. What I do know about him is that he’s game for almost anything I do with him—he will apparently do whatever I do and go wherever I go.

In 2006, Carl and I never even made it to the cables. I took one look at the approach trail up the Sub-dome and bailed out. Last year we made it a third of the way up the cables before Carl stopped--he just stopped and became a dead weight attached to my harness, unwilling to take another step. No encouragement from me or the people around us would get him any higher. I was disappointed but honestly a little relieved—did I mention I’m afraid of heights? (Some details about the 2010 attempt in the comments section below).

So this year I was bound and determined to make it. I started rock climbing about a year ago—still afraid of heights but doing some very hard, exposed climbing—and I’ve acquired experience with the equipment. I was prepared and confident that we would be safe—and I made a point of talking with Carl about the system I had devised and the safety it afforded us. I never really know what Carl understands but, oddly, he looked right at me while I spoke—something he rarely does (honestly, it was a little unnerving).

After a poor sleep, we awoke at 4 am and got to the trailhead near Happy Isles at 5:45 am. The hike was relatively uneventful—Carl hiked well and even seemed to have a little more push than last year. He also seemed a little more adventurous—he ‘balance beamed’ a fallen tree across a stream, just as I had done, instead of simply stepping over the water. I was encouraged that we might just make it this time. I had the feeling that Carl might have been too tired last year so we stopped every hour for about 15 minutes—and I promised him we’d wait at the base of the cables until at least 11 am before casting off on the final push.


Carl wore a climbing seat harness and a chest harness. These were connected to each other with a spring loaded locking carabiner--twisting the gate while simultaneously pushing it up and in was something I didn't think Carl could absent-mindedly or deliberately accomplish. To this carabiner I had girth hitched a 48 inch nylon sling, which was also girth hitched to an identical spring loaded locking carabiner attached to my harness. Carl wasn’t going anywhere I wasn’t going. For extra protection, I was using a third carabiner attached to a pair of nylon slings girth hitched together and to the locking carabiner on my harness. With this sling/carabiner I would clip into the cables—only unclipping to move past each stanchion. If Carl fell, he’d do so only until he came taught to me. If he pulled me from my footing, we’d only fall as far as the next stanchion on the cables. We were in no real danger and I was confident of that—I had no real concerns about our safety.

At almost 11 am on August 2nd, fully harnessed and ready, we set off. Last year Carl followed me so I thought I’d let him do the pace setting this year. Carl seemed to be doing fine until his feet started to slip as the rock became steeper—about a third of the way up. At this point I began to understand that Carl isn't afraid of heights ‘per se’ but that he doesn’t like it when his feet slip—anywhere! I’ve noticed this on easy hikes with him. He’ll step on a gravel-covered stone and all forward motion will cease if his foot slips—regardless of height or steepness of terrain. He just wants his feet to be well planted! Fair enough. Carl got to a point where he just couldn’t get traction for his boots (I was looking right at his boots from below and behind, watching them slide) and didn’t seem to understand that he could simply pull up on the cables with his hands to get past these parts—and at this point he was done, the climb was over and we turned around.

I had brought a beer for myself and a soda for Carl—for the summit celebration. We sat at the base of the cables and contemplated another failed attempt (I contemplated—Carl? Who knows?). The beer was warm and flavorless. I only drank about half of it. Carl’s soda, however, seemed to meet with his approval just fine. Truth be told, the cables route wigged me out more than a little bit and knowing that I’d climbed a far harder route on Tahquitz rock just three days before didn’t seem to quell the unease I felt while looking up at the cables. For me, it’s heady being up there. It gets to me. After 30 minutes I decided that we might as well give it another try—we were there, why not?

So, we clipped in to the cables and set off--this time with me in the lead. When we got to ‘Carl’s crux’ we breezed through it—he didn’t miss a beat. I can only assume that being ‘short roped’ to me gave him just enough confidence that the slipping of his boots never lasted long enough to worry him. He never whined or stopped or hesitated--just kept coming. As we approached the part of the trail that starts to ease off I could barely speak--I was so proud of him. We were on top soon after taking pictures and laughing. Well, I was laughing and smiling--Carl was just being Carl. I truly had, and have, no idea what he thought or felt--happy, relieved, proud, blasé? I haven’t a clue. We spent almost no time at the summit. Later people asked if we’d stood on the ‘diving board’ or 'The Visor' and I said, "No". It hadn’t even occurred to me and I can’t explain why. I did, however, slide over to the edge on my belly!


But now we had to get down—luckily we’ve had some experience getting down the cables. Last year, Carl slid down on his butt—lots of traction? This year, he devised a new method. Still clipped into me and both of us clipped into the cables, Carl sat on his haunches—in a squat—and ‘glissaded’ down the rock face. It was riotously funny to watch (really wish I had it on video)--that is until he glissaded both boots under one of the wooden 2’ x 4’ steps on the route. “Oh, come on! How the hell am I supposed to get his boots out from under the step when he won’t stand up and can’t walk backwards up the rock?” Not to worry--someone climbing the cables helped support him while I got his feet out (I don’t really remember how we did it, but…we did). And that was it. It was over. We’d done it and were safe. We only then had to hike 8 miles back to the valley floor, find a place to spend the night and drive home the next day.

Two last things about the cables; First, a lot of people looked at our harness/sling/biner arrangement with true envy--more than one said, "I wish I'd have thought of that." Two, the people on the cables with us were very understanding. It's as if they all, every single one, understood how big of a deal this was for Carl. While we descended, they would patiently wait for us to pass--never offended by Carl's unwillingness to share the cables with anyone unless forced to switch both hands to one side as we waited for someone to pass us. People are good--for all of my complaining about 'the great unwashed' of our society--people are good.

I will never know if Carl is happy we gained the summit of Half Dome. And that bothers me. I want him to someday tell me, “That was cool, Dad.” I’d even settle for “What the hell were you thinking? I almost sh#t my pants.”



EPILOGUE (or Prologue, if you like)

From the trip report I wrote for family members last year...

On Wednesday, June 23 2010, we started out later than I wanted (6 am instead of 5 am); Carl's hydration bladder developed a leaky ‘bite valve’; we had a ‘wardrobe malfunction’; and it just seemed like we could have had an easier start to what was going to be a very big day. On the early part of the hike, Carl was slower than I would have liked. I have a tendency to want to 'get there' as soon as possible, but Carl has his own pace and attempting to move him faster only produces a pissy 14 year old boy—so I tried to contain myself, walked at my own pace for a while, then waited.

Life with Carl is hard—sometimes very hard—and I sometimes wonder what life would be like if he didn't live with me or if something happened to him (what if he fell over the falls or off Half Dome?, what if...? Scary thoughts that I don't like to admit to having). I've always known that my life would be over if something happened to my daughter Mary—life would be unbearable without her and I can't imagine any joy returning to my life if I ever lost her. I've always thought this, from the day she was born. But with Carl, I never had that same certainty about what losing him would mean to me—would I have the same void, the same heartache, the same inability to continue with my life?

After Little Yosemite Valley I got ahead of Carl and waited for him to catch up, as I'd been doing for hours—I would walk ahead, he’d start to catch up and, seeing me stopped, he’d stop short of where I was—very maddening! But at this particular point I lost sight of him and waited for him to catch up—or at least to the point where I could see him. After a minute or so, he didn’t come into view but I knew he wasn't that far behind me, so I turned around to get him—pissed, a little bit, and only slightly worried, too. I asked other hikers if they'd seen a boy with a hat and no one had apparently seen him. After passing the point where I’d last seen him and passing dozens of hikers who should have seen him, I could only think that he'd gone off trail. No longer pissed—fully panicked now. I knew I had to find him—that he'd be lost (but probably not scared—being alone in the forest wouldn't be scary for Carl, at the edge of a steep ledge, yes, lost in the woods, no). I called his name repeatedly. Those 3 to 5 minutes took several hours to pass—but out of the woods came my boy—looking like he'd just wandered off trail to take a leak (I’m sure he hadn't—if he wanted to take a leak, he'd have done it right in the middle of the trail—trust me, I've seen it). For me, that experience told me one thing: I love my boy, wish he wasn't autistic, wish he could talk to me, wish he was easier to live with, wish so many things, but know that I could never live happily if anything ever happened to him—especially if it were my fault. But, I found him. And he had no idea he was lost, had no idea of the torment his absence had caused me. He was just walking along tearing leaves apart—like he does ALL the time: just a happy guy in the woods. So, the rest of the story is almost anti-climactic. But...