Listening to the Demons

Well, here it is, possibly the last "solo" trip report I'll ever post. My apologies for the funky formatting. I had to write this up at home and then upload it to a real account... It's long maybe boring for some, certainly not for me. I want to once again extend a heartfelt thank you to the people that helped my ass off this damn climb. I may be somewhat biased but I can say without a doubt that ZM is not a recommended climb by me. All climbs will start with loose rock. After many parties have passed the loose stuff will be cleared leaving a solid route. Some routes however, can never be cleaned. The more parties heading up ZM will continue to loosen the multitude of loose rock. I don't think you could ever clear it all away. The lack of a well defined line doesn't help the quality of this route much either. Like I said, I'm biased. I'm sure someone out there has done the route and thought it a classic. I wish I could agree. Some might consider the following melodrama, it's not intended as such and all of the emotions are real.

Comments, flames, whatever, send them along to coomer@nuc.berkeley.edu.

I accepted a slot in the Ph.D. program at the University of California at Berkeley in April of 1992. Living most of my life on the east coast, and only climbing for a year at the time, I knew nothing of the rich history of California climbing. The only things I knew about Yosemite Valley were from Ansel Adams and the many climbs listed in the "50 Classic Climbs of North America." But soon I would learn.

I took my first trip to Yosemite in September of 1993. It had been a hard year full of personal tragedy, long hours as a new grad student, and a full summer away from my new love Emily. Just a mere two hours after arriving in the valley for the first time, I was on my way up the approach to the Sentinel loaded with a haul bag and a complete lack of knowledge of "Big Wall" climbing. It was an arduous introduction to be sure. Hauling a pig up wide slots, chimneys and munge. I was sure this adventure would end my foray into wall climbing. Yet, even before the descent was finished I was dreaming of other walls to climb.

So it went for the next few years. In between the grind of grad school I managed my way up a few walls a year, maybe even a day or two of free climbing. The valley is where I really wanted to be. I certainly wasn't enjoying my life stuck in a basement laboratory without a single window. I wasn't enjoying being stuck with the world's most difficult advisor. I watched as countless other graduate students in my lab dropped out unable to work under the same conditions. They moved on to better lives, better advisors. I stuck it out. I also found my way in to soloing walls.

My third wall in the valley was a solo of the Prow on Washington's Column. At the time it seemed like the hardest thing I had ever undertaken. I vowed never to solo another wall in my life. Half way down the North Dome Gully descent, my mind wandered to soloing an El Cap route. I settled for a partner two weeks later. The walls are where I wanted to be.

Four years after I arrived to my new life in Berkeley, it was rapidly becoming apparent that I may never attain my degree. My fellowship had run out, my advisor had no resources, my experiment was still a complete failure. It was the perfect time to solo another wall. Off I went on a tribute to my late sister, my failing research, my wish to be on the walls. I made no vows on that climb other than to do more and more just like it.

Then the break I needed finally came. Work, at least results, were improving. It seemed that I would have a chance at finishing in spite of the past. I never guessed that it would take almost eight more months of toil and sweat. One more foray up the steep side of El Cap in November gave me a glimpse of my next objective. It was the perfect carrot for me, a solo of Zenyatta Mondatta- the poor man's "hard" route these days.

"Ah... ZM is just a clip up."

"A2+ trade route at the most."

"ZM? Piece of cake."

All of these phrases uttered by those who had never touched the route except for maybe the last few exit pitches. I would soon learn that these pitches are not indicative of the rest of the route. I knew ZM had seen a lot of ascents, a lot of drilling even on the first ascent. I knew that a lot of wannabes were making their way up this once mighty climb. But looking at the huge roof on pitch eight while belaying on Tangerine Trip had me drooling. This would be my reward for finishing my thesis. It hung there, a fat juicy carrot taunting me throughout winter and spring.

I set and reset a date to be finished writing my dissertation; my date with ZM was always just a short three days after. The date kept moving as more difficulties crept about, but I steadied on. My mouth watering at the mere mention of the climb. Facing yet another semester's worth of tuition and still no degree in hand, I put everything off to finish. I wrote feverishly, madly. The task was so clear. Just one more chapter to write and then I could get back to where I belonged.

The day came and went, the final forms were filed, my "receipt" was in hand. "Congratulations Eric David Coomer. This is to certify that you have filed a dissertation for a Doctor of Philosophy in Physics(actually Nuclear Engineering truth be told) with the Office of the Dean of the Graduate Division on June 5, 1997."

My haul bag was packed by the end of the weekend. I spent the first part of the week cleaning out the office I had worked in for almost five full years. It truly was an end of an era. For the first time since I strode off to kindergarten, I was no longer a "student." From here until I join the real world, unemployed goes down on the forms for "occupation."

The ride to the valley was as spectacular as ever. The heady scent of pine and sierra air wafted in and out of my senses. I drove straight to the meadow and humped the first of four loads to the base. I was home. I was frightened. I was loaded down with nine days of food and water; I had enough gear to tackle just about any climb out there. My knees buckled up the steeper sections of the trail. The next day would see two more load carries.

After the first carry the next morning I decided to fix a pitch. Racking up, a Spaniard on his way to the East Buttress stopped to chat. He, along with two friends, were planning on a push ascent the next day, or maybe the day after. He also warned me that the party above had ripped a hook flake somewhere along the first four pitches of the route. "Do you have a cheater stick? They needed one to get by the blown placement."

That would be a "no." I decided to just carry on and deal with the mess when it was upon me. I kept a drill along for the first few pitches. I pulled my cassette player from the bag and got ready my favorite mix tape. This tape is 90 minutes of pure hell. The perfect ensemble of mood music for me to get in the groove of pounding pins and sweating under a hot sun. I set the player down next to my belay and pushed play. Before even the first note blasted its way through the broken talus the tape wound off the spools onto itself, dead. My tape was history.

No time to waste, I dispensed with the pitch in rather poor style. Six months on the couch takes it toll. Three hours later I was rapping back to the base from the first belay. Time will work out the kinks. My plan was only for two pitches a day anyway. I was taking the wall in casual style. Why rush a good thing? I was where I wanted to be.

I ended the day with another carry. I called my wife Emily full of trepidation. I was feeling uneasy about the wall. The first day was not as smooth as I had hoped it would be. We both knew I needed to push on. The demons were just a whisper.

I awoke the next day and hurriedly packed the last load. I still wasn't sure what the plan was; continue to fix, or just blast? As I cleaned the first pitch and hauled, I decided to just stay up there. I was now on my way. The first bivy was set by 6:30 that evening. A perfect time to watch the valley. A cool breeze was blowing threatening clouds. I stuck the rainfly on the ledge. Sometime during the night I awoke to the serenade of steady rain and condensation inside my cocoon. It was June in the Valley. It doesn't rain in June!

The next morning I started to pack for the day. Looking down I heard a snap and watched as the right lens of my glasses floated to the deck. *Plink* It hit the talus. Wow! I'm kind of blind without that... more voices appeared in my head.

I struck out on the third pitch still awaiting the blown hook ledge. Half way out I sure found it. The scar was about a foot in diameter. From the bat hook on was on, nothing was left except smooth rock. Far to the left was a solid hook ledge. My guess was about a seven foot cheat stick would reach it. I drilled a bat hook in the soft black diorite. It blew before I could get my full weight on it. I little more drilling and it held long enough to reach the next solid hook. The demons were chattering louder now.

Three more moves above the new hook hole I found a 10 foot section of lead line tied off to a copper head. As I stood up, I saw the other end nestled deep in a flake of rock stripped naked of it's multi-colored mantle. The stranded core fluttered in the wind. This was all that was left from the accident last year. I stood there looking at the chopped rope. He was a soloist too. I wormed my way up the fixed Theads above the rope. Looking down, my line continually tried to work its own way into the flake. I continued to kick it free with my right foot. "I should really go down," rattled in my brain.

Pitch four is where the sky opened up and pissed on me for a good ten minutes. I cowered under my helmet wondering whether I should just set an intermediate belay and rap to shelter or continue on. I stuck it out as water quickly funneled over the hooks I was standing on. The rain soon stopped and I was glad I had continued. The voices in my head were becoming more audible.

The Spaniard, Simon, I had met two days earlier arrived at the cush ledge belay on top of four. I had already erected my ledge for the night and was starting dinner- only 6:00pm. Perfect! We chatted some more. I gave him water. His first partner arrived and Simon took off for the next pitch. I gave his partner, Pedro, some M&M's. I had plenty of supplies and was right on schedule. I knew these guys were going light and hoped for some karmic bonus points. The third in the party soon arrived. The Guinness I was drinking was all mine, none for them, but I let them drink as much water as they wanted. I was soon alone again except for the various shards of rock which fell on my bivy for the remainder of the night. This section of the route defines loose. To either side it approaches a gravel pit. The fly was on once again this time to shelter me from the constant barrage of granite rather than rain. I wanted to go down. I didn't feel like I belonged here anymore. But these feeling wasted away as the valley and I went to sleep. The moon was approaching its 3/4 full. I didn't even need my headlamp to do basic functions. I awoke once again in the middle of the night as I heard someone above take a pretty good fall. More voices in my head spoke up.

As I packed the next morning, I was hit suddenly with a strong stench of dung. I thought to myself that I must have disturbed my hanging bag of goodies when I finally spotted it. From above, way in the distance, someone had taken a shit right on my ledge. Could anything else go wrong? I used a large amount of handi-wipes to clean the mess before I headed out the next lead of drilled hooks that lasted 40 feet. It was exhilarating. The fall potential was bad, but I was in control. I felt good until just before another ledge when the hooks abruptly ended. I could not find the next hook hole. I knew it was there. My failing eyesight was of no help. A solid ten minutes passed as my hands caressed the smooth rock looking for the next move. Finally, my index finger found it. I quickly set the modified hook and stepped up. Time wasted is never returned. I launched up the first crumbling 5.7 free moves with a ton of aid gear clanging about my hips and knees. I was soon back in the aiders and wading to the top amidst choss and loose shifting blocks.

One down and one to go for the day. The topo has it as A3 to A1, should be cake. On top of the loose A3 section I stared blankly up the gaping slot. This would not be fun. I was used to this sort of climbing from doing Magic Mushroom the year before. Awkward technique of half chimneying, half aiding, half off-widthing would find my way to the top. The bivy was once again set before the sun was even headed for the horizon. So far, the climbing was not fun. But the evening made it all worthwhile. Few things can match the splendor of a Big Wall bivy. From the side of El Cap, strapped to a spacious double ledge, a view that far too few have experienced defies description. But on top of this all, I was uneasy. I was lonely. I wanted to go home. I knew that if I went down I would regret it. I had to ignore the demons in my head.

Another morning. I started my way up the Lightening Bolt Roofs. Just before the first rivet I found where the push party had taken a fall. There, alone in a sea of smoothness, was a blown copper head. Just a few strands of cable still wrapped in metal remained. Now I was wishing I had a cheater stick. I searched in vain for another placement. There were none. Of course, I had left the rack of Theads back at the belay. I tried to hook on the dead head to no avail. I was forced to pull up my emergency bag which hoarded my extra supplies. Wasting over an half an hour, I finally chipped away enough of the blown head to place another one. The pitch was full of sharp edges waiting to chop my rope. I used a healthy amount of duct tape on this lead padding the rock wherever my rope came in contact with it. The rest of the rivets were reachy but doable. Four hours after starting the lead, I arrived at the belay. The thick clouds that had been hanging in the valley were gone now. The sun glared down on top of me. By the time the pitch was cleaned and hauled I was drenched in sweat.

Hooking my way out the seventh pitch on loose rock, I was worried about the time. I hurried my way along steaming for the next rivet ladder mid pitch. Clipping in to the rivets which were all hanging out a mile, I set as load limiting sling on the first quarter inch split shaft bolt. Above was a rivet surrounded by broken rock. In between was a well used hook ledge. I set the hook, tested slightly and started to move up. I was standing in the second step when I heard it. The rock was gone and I was now listening to the jangle of metal and watching the granite rush by. Thirty feet later I came to a halting stop. I had completely blown the load limiter on the manky split shaft but it had held. I swung there at the bottom of my first real aid fall. It was certainly the first fall I had ever taken solo. I was as angry as I was scared. I yelled obscenity after obscenity as I readied my jugs to head back up to the blown placement. More time wasted. For the first time on this climb, I pulled my headlamp out to set up the day's bivy. I was not having fun anymore. My body was still sticky from the days sweat. My hands and arms ached. My mind was faltering at the realization that I was just half-way done.

I decided then and there that the next day would be somewhat of a rest day. I toyed with the idea of not even climbing a single pitch the next day. But in the end I decided to climb just one pitch. I would start late, finish early and regain some of my lost confidence and spirit. The pitch started with wonderful lost arrows and knifeblades but soon, like many pitches before, degenerated into loose friable rock. Halfway through the pitch I was once again searching for the next move. My hands ran over a window pane thin detached flake. "Total suicide," I uttered aloud to no one in particular. I continued to search. Eventually it became clear that the window pane was the road to salvation. I was certain that I was about to embark on another whipper as I eased on to it. It flexed and expanded, but it held. From there another less than ideal hook presented itself until I could reach another corner. Easy A2 on the topo, this corner was as friable as they come. Chucks would periodically come off in my hands as I plugged small cams deep inside to reduce leverage. The whole top section was fractured and detached. I was sure it was set to blow, but I finally made the belay. My rest day wasn't much of a rest. But I did start late and end early. I was sucking down cold tortellini and warm Guinness by 5:30 that evening. Down below I could feel another party on my heels. At around 10:00pm that night, the lead climber would end up in a 60' ripper almost in the exact spot I fell the day before. For him, the home made rivet hangers they had did not hold. He was finally stopped by a large aluminum "cow-head" pasted to the rock. I would come to hear the details of this epic shortly.

I felt refreshed that next morning, my fifth morning on the wall. I was determined to finish this wall in good style. I had plenty of sleep the previous day. The demons were as loud as ever, but I shut them out as best I could. I was getting back in to the diorite near the top of the gray circle that defines the Zodiac. I worked my way up the hanging corner of pitch 10 quickly and somewhat efficiently. I was warned about a large flake on this pitch- marked by the old A5 rating in the guidebook, by a friend who had done the route two weeks before me. I made voice contact with the party below me and warned them about it too.

"Just make sure you yell real loud if you pull it off on us okay."

"Oh you can count on it!" I joked.

The leader below was stuck at the hook placement above the rivets. After offering him assurance that, yes indeed, he wanted to hook that loose flake, I got back to my task. I was at the top of the corner about to head straight up towards the big pointy flake. I felt for placements. Just above and slightly right was a down pointing flake about eight inches thick. It looked loose. I tapped it with my hammer a few times. I pulled a green alien from my rack and placed it in the pin scar beneath the flake. I took another look at the fixed knifeblade I was on and set another load limiting sling. As I stepped up to test, I heard it. It was like Velcro ripping at 200 Decibels. I felt it hit my helmet and slide down the right side of my face. I knew at that instant I was dead. I knew that I would never again walk in the meadows beneath El Cap. I knew I would never again look deep in my wife's eyes and tell her how much I love her. "Oh God!" The 250 pound block slammed in to my right arm. "Oh Fuck!" The rest of the fall was a blur until I saw the block from the top as it continued unimpeded all the way to the talus below. I never heard it hit. At this point I was screaming. I could feel myself still falling but I wasn't. Through the magnifying glass of fear I saw my arm. The torn flesh still white, no blood had started to run yet. From that view, I was sure it was cut to the bone. I continued to yell. By this time the party below was also yelling, desperately trying to calm me down.

"Are you okay?!"

"My arm, my head. Oh fuck!" The blood was running now. My right hand tingled. I was afraid it was broken. The sirens were already wailing. I knew the SAR guys were on their way. I tried to start sorting things out. I looked up at the fixed blade. It was holding. I looked down at my solo- aid, I was being held by my left daisy chain. After my eyes began to refocus I realized that my left daisy chain was chopped, I was being held by half a strand and a girth hitch. I was afraid it would let go and I would fall again. I slapped my jugs on the lead line and started to pull myself towards the fixed pin. As I did, the stitching on the load limiter started to pop. This was not good, I was completely frazzled.

SAR began the dance. "Injured climbers, please identify yourself." I yelled. Nothing. "We cannot locate you. Please give us a sign." I wasn't easy to spot as I hung in a shadow. Eventually, SAR located the party below me and the three of them pointed in my direction.

"Solo climber on the ZM, raise your arms." I did as commanded. "If you are okay wave your arms."

"Hey, do you think you guys can lead me off this thing? I don't want to take the chopper out man!" I yelled to the party below. "I don't think my arm is broken. I can jug if you can lead. I don't want to get plucked!"

"Dude, we'll get you off the top. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Climber on the ZM, wave your arms if you are okay." I started to wave. "Copy that. Before we can leave, we must make sure that you do NOT need a rescue. If you do not want assistance, wave your arms." I waved frantically. "Copy that." With that it was over. The rest of the adventure was just beginning. I started to wonder whether declining the rescue was such a hot idea. I still had no clue just how bad I was injured. I worried about a concussion. I worried that my arm was broken. I worried that the sad knifeblade I was on was ready to ping.

"I'm gonna get myself back to the belay and throw you a line. Do you have a first aid kit?" All I had was some cloth and a roll of tape.

"Yeah, we'll get you set up."

I tied off every piece within my reach. Then I lowered myself back to the belay. I kept my solo- aid still running just in case anything else went wrong. Indeterminable minutes went by before I was back at the belay I started at that morning. I was bleeding but not profusely. My head felt wet and the side of my face was swollen.

Brian, the leader from below, grabbed the rope on the first toss and jugged to my belay. We zipped up the first aid kit and I wrapped my arm in gauze and tape. My hands were shaking wildly; my breathing was still short and erratic, but I was alive. For the next eight hours I would hang at that belay as we sorted ropes and merged our two teams in to a single party of four. Two sets of haul bags, four climbers, a whole mess of ropes hung everywhere.

A second climber, Johno, headed up the 10th pitch as Brian and I hung there and got acquainted. Ted, the final member of the team, was a pitch below hanging at another belay with the second set of haul bags. Johno quickly jugged my fixed line to the high point with a drill ready to bat hook past the emptiness I had just created. Nothing remained in that section of about 5 square feet. As he stepped up into his second steps and started to drill he got sight of something.

"Dammit! There's a bat hook way the hell up there. I think I can reach it." From way high in his aiders he snagged the drilled hole. He was back on his way. I sat there, blaming myself. Why didn't I find the hook hole? Why did the block pull loose on me? Why the hell was I strung out half way up El Cap alone? If someone had offered me a five minute trip home to my wife and life back in Berkeley in exchange for never returning to the valley, I would have gladly cut my gear loose for good. Instead, I was still three days from the top. I was in it for now.

AT 7:00 it was time to finally cut loose from the belay. My rescue party had covered two more pitches and I jug and bivied one pitch to hang 150' below them. Dazed and frightened I started to lower myself off the traversing belay. Thirty feet out I had to cut loose for the scariest ride in my life. I tried my best to whoop it up and at least pretend I was having fun as I pendulumed back and forth in space. I jugged my lone pitch for the day with one hand. Finally arriving at the bivy I set my ledge; still alone as Johno, Ted, and Brian occupied the bivy a pitch above me.

That night after cleaning up I pulled the cellular phone from my haul bag. I needed to call my wife. I needed to hear her voice. As the phone picked up on the other end, I could hear the fear in her voice and the tears in her eyes. "Oh my God are you okay?"

"How do you know something is wrong?" I had completely forgotten about my two friends on the other side of El Cap climbing the SalathŽ. They had heard the whole affair. They assumed I was dead. They too had a phone along and relayed a message to my wife that she should call YOSAR to get the details. It was a hard day on Emily never knowing for sure just how badly I was injured. We talked for a long time that night. At least an half an hour as I still shook with fear recounting the days events. Afterwards I touched base with my friends on the SalathŽ to let them know I was still kicking and headed for the top.

I spent a fair amount of the next morning lounging in my ledge as the three above me toiled with leads. They were only able to knock out two pitches that day, one of which is the crux pitch. I spent the night a pitch below them on top of 12. I had two days of rest, a pounding headache, a swollen elbow and infection setting in on my arm. But I knew deep down that I had to get back out on lead. I feared that if I didn't at least lead one more pitch towards the top that I would forever be unable to climb. I called up to them before night fall. "If it's okay with you guys, I'd like to try and lead 15 tomorrow. I can't promise anything, but I need to."

"Dude, don't worry about helping out. We have it covered."

"Yeah, but it's a mental thing."

"It's all yours then."

I soon fell asleep wide eyed and exhausted. I didn't know if I could pull it off. The pounding in my head continued. That night the full moon rose over the south rim of the valley casting its milky glow up and down the Merced river. The views that keep me coming back were in full effect. I knew that the lead would be hard the next day regardless of the difficulty of the climbing. Jugging up the fixed line in the morning the pit in my stomach was growing inches as a time.

"Are you gonna lead Eric?"

"I'm going to try. I have to."

I jugged the next line to the belay at the start of pitch 15. I stared at the long hook/toe rail that lead directly right of the stance. It didn't look fun. Racked and ready to go, I set the first of five hooks along the ledge to begin the most frightening lead of my life. The whole time, Ted and Johno offered as much support as they could. At the end of the hooks, I was forced up on gear in somewhat loose rock. To me, it looked like sand held together with a child's spit. I was afraid to weight anything. I was half free climbing when I realized that the first rivet was far out of reach. I needed to get in the aiders to snag it. I hung there unable to move. More encouragement came especially from Johno. I managed to snare the rivet, but the fight was not over. The demons were screaming.

All along this pitch, I was sure that each and every placement was going to blow. I could feel them shift. It was a perfect pitch to get me back in to the groove which I never really found. I placed pin after pin along the snaking crack. All told, I must have placed at least a dozen Lost Arrows and a couple of knifeblades. In good shape and form, I could have climbed this pitch in less than two hours. On that day, it took me three and a half. I was slow. I was scared. But I pulled it off. I even free climbed the last 30 feet to the stance gear belay. With great relief to me and my companions I yelled down "Off Belay!"

Johno jugged my pitch pulling the pins in no time. Soon he was headed up the last half pitch to the summit. Hours would pass before all of us were standing at the top with gear strewn up and down the slabby rocks on the summit that I never thought I would see again.

From out of the distance I saw my friend Bruce approaching from finishing the SalathŽ almost at the exact same time we finished Zenyatta. Behind him was another friend Elaine who had hiked the falls trail towing beer and first aid supplies to properly clean my festering arm. We drank and cleaned and lazed about munching the remaining food we had. It was party, a feast. I was still well stocked and ate well, polishing off the final can of Guinness I had been saving for four days sharing sips with my rescue party.

We all sat in complete silence that night as the moon rose once again. The distant trees perfectly silhouetted in the brightness looming over us. I was alive and the demons were quiet for the first time since I had started up. It's a fine line to walk listening to the inner voices in your head. Give in every time you hear a whisper and you'll be lucky to leave your house. But sometimes, the inner voices know more than you are aware. Sometimes it's better to listen to the demons.

Home/ Mountaineering/ Yosemite Rock information