Leaning Tower, West Face (Harding) Route

By: Gary Clark | Climbers: Gary Clark, Ray Brooks |Trip Dates: May, 1975

Photo: Gary Clark

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Lunacy

First big wall. I had been working up to this by first locating some bolt ladders to practice the basic techniques for making upward progress in aiders, then short nailing routes to polish my piton craft. These were the days when the hammer still ruled; chocks had just arrived on the scene, but active cams were still just a concept in Ray Jardine's mind. Big walls were conquered with steel, John Henry style.

I was attracted by the length of the wall: at 8 pitches, this seemed within reason for a first-timer. I was also attracted by the number of bolts - climbing bolt ladders had become pretty routine, so I figured those parts of the route were already "in the bag" at least psychologically. Now for a partner; hmmm, I had only one partner who had done any aid climbing, but he had other things in mind for our two weeks in the Valley. Finally Ray agreed to go - it would be his first wall as well, but he had done zero aid climbing. Oh well - how hard can it be?

We followed the advice in Roper's little green valley guide - leave leisurely on day one to shoot for Ahwahnee Ledge, a comfortable bivouac site, then go for the top the next day. Thus the sun was already lighting the West face as I began the first pitch from the limbs of a gnarled tree. This was really awkward and a bit frightening, since we were already way off the deck! The base of the climb is reached via a long narrow ledge that traverses in from the side, so you rope up with hundreds of feet of exposure already messing with your mind. I thought of Harding standing in the tree drilling the first hole, and had a fresh appreciation for his boldness and determination. The rock above was intimidating, to say the least. About a 20 degree overhang greets the leader. Only the bolt ladder seemed relatively inviting, and it was rusty.

Still, it was a bolt ladder, so progress was relatively rapid. The sensation of hanging free from the wall in the etriers for the entire distance was "stimulating." At the anchors at last, I savored the view in all directions. Bridalveil Falls was just around the corner, out of sight but not sound, and the sun produced a nice little rainbow on the spray. I took photos while Ray got ready to do his part. First the haul bag - we could have lowered it out gradually, but that wouldn't be any fun - instead, Ray just waited until the line came tight, then pushed it off. It swung out an improbable distance and took a long time to final stabilize in a position that for the first time clearly illustrated just how overhung the pitch is. Ray started up and I could immediately see he wasn't going to enjoy the job that faced him. Each time he unclipped he swung out in his etriers, since contact with the wall was impossible. He arrived wild-eyed at the anchors and immediately suggested that he needed a rest, both physically and mentally. Would I mind leading the next pitch?

I quickly agreed - I had already learned that leading aid is preferable to cleaning it, any day. And so it went to Guano ledge - I led, Ray cleaned silently and determinedly, and we arrived just as Roper had suggested in time for the sunset. I glanced up at the next pitch as we performed the myriad of chores involved in setting up a technical bivouac, and decided not to dwell on it too much. It traversed wildly across the wall to the right, overhanging the entire way. I knew this would be the most challenging aid lead I had done.

The next morning we were quickly on our way. There were only four pitches left, so we were hoping to be back in the Valley for Happy Hour at the Mountain Bar. It's not the first time I underestimated a route, nor would it be the last. Ray was totally silent as he followed the long traverse, which I had found exciting and genuinely fun on lead. I was extremely glad I didn't have to perform the necessary Jumar gymnastics and felt guilty for quickly accepting the proposal that I keep leading until further notice. He apparently had no idea how much more difficult it is to follow such a pitch than to lead it, and I was selfish in not volunteering the information. Ray intimated later that he felt like puking as he began to clean pitch 5. Pitch 6 had the short free section, which was rated as easy, but I was in no mood to leave the security of my etriers, and I was extremely grateful to get it over with and get back to "the real climbing", as John Salathé called aiding.

Next, the Harding traverse. The bolts were tiny, even by 70's standards when a normal anchor bolt was an inch long and a quarter inch in diameter! Harding used 3/16" bolts for the traverse to save drilling time and even though the route was only 14 years old, they were already in bad shape. Fortunately they were close together, since drilling on overhanging rock makes top-stepping impossible, and Harding was not very tall. I could "necktie" the tiny threads with Stopper wires when the hangers were missing, and reach beyond to the next bolt with a long stretch when the bolt was gone altogether. Sometime after the bolt ladder came my introduction to A3. I had made up a bunch of copper heads at home using a rented crimper and now got to experiment with them for the first time. Amazing! Just bash them into a seam, clip in, and stand up! This is really cool! After a bit of this, I decided to play with my new hooks. I was feeling like a real aid climber when I managed to get into my top steps on a hook placement on a mildly overhanging section. This was only possible because I had made my own adjustable "daisy chain" using webbing and a sturdy buckle. I discovered that by clipping it into the piece and adjusting the length precisely, I could get into a tripod position with my toes against the wall and the tension of the daisy chain keeping me from tipping over backwards. It was a lucky call to bring this piece of equipment. I have been a fan of buckle-style daisies ever since. Fortunately they are now commercially available, so I don't have to make my own.

The overhangs at the top now loomed close. The preceding pitches had been gently overhanging, but these were real ceilings. My arms were getting weary, and I started putting more and more weight on the home-made daisy chain until finally the buckle blew out in protest. Back to the drawing board on this design. A final belay on the wall, haul the bag, wait for Ray to arrive, then off for the summit, racing the now imminent sunset. We had not brought a headlamp.

I barely won the race. I pulled the final lip just as visibility went to nil. Again I felt sorry for Ray; he was going to have to clean in darkness. But what is that? My spirits soared as I looked to the east to see a huge golden full moon rising. It might not do Ray too much good as he cleaned, since he was on the dark west side, but it would mean we could find our way down to the creek. We were desperately thirsty. I yelled down to Ray "You're not going to believe this - there's a full moon!", then lay back on the horizontal granite to savor the feeling of being connected to the earth again. The evening was perfect, we had the climb in the bag, and life was good. I lay and stared up at the stars, then over at El Cap, realizing that what we had just accomplished would have just been a start on that truly BIG wall. Maybe someday . . .

I started to doze, then awoke with a start when Ray called up to ask if I really needed all those pitons back. I shouted down to just get up here; we could rap in the morning to retrieve them. Right now water was the major priority on both our minds, and I could hear Bridalveil Creek roaring a few hundred feet below. I dozed again briefly, but when I woke, something was amiss. The light! What is with the light? I turned my head back over my shoulder, then jumped up in amazement at the spectacle already underway. I yelled down to Ray: "You're not going to believe this, but there's an eclipse going on!" As he struggled up the final feet, the entire disk was swallowed in a full lunar eclipse! This can't be happening - WE NEED THAT MOON!!!

The descent to the creek was now fully epic - stumbling through dense manzanita brush in total darkness with limbs ripping at our clothes, slipping repeatedly to land on our butts, and all the while cursing our luck with the uncooperative moon. (The back side of the Tower is steep, although obviously not as steep as the front, or the Tower would disappear!) As we approached the stream, we worried about falling out of a final manzanita clump directly into the torrent of water. It would have been a quick and exciting trip to the Valley floor via Bridalveil Falls. When we finally did arrive, the bank was so steep that getting to the water with a bottle was problematic but possible.

Finally satiated with liquid, we looked in vain for a flat spot to sleep. Beyond caring in my state of fatigue, I just wrapped myself around the uphill side of a tree while Ray laughed at me. A few minutes later I looked up to see him selecting his own tree. It was May and the night was well along by the time we got to sleep, so it wasn't long before we we were humping back up the tower to the summit in the dawn alpenglow. We collected the the ropes and hardware we had dumped on top the night before in a disorderly heap. After some hero photographs on the dramatic summit boulder we began the descent.

Epilogue: This climb is not one I'm likely to repeat, and I believe it was Ray's last big wall as well as his first. It's not the easiest grade V to choose for a first wall, but is memorable for its unique qualities and is a fine adventure. Highly recommended.