“Climbing.”
“Climb on.”
For the first few minutes, Mitch was sure they were making the biggest mistake of their climbing careers. But once they got going, his worries faded, pushed aside by the thrill of watching Megs climb. He was with one of the world’s greatest climbers on what was arguably the world’s greatest rock climbing route, trying to do the greatest thing that anyone had ever attempted here since the original first ascent.
They sailed through the first seven pitches, taking a break to hydrate before working their way up the Stove Leg Cracks, inconveniently wide fissures in the rock that had repulsed more than a few ambitious climbers. The next three pitches flowed together, the two of them taking advantage of fixed bolts and old pitons left by the previous generation of Yosemite climbers. When they came to the ledge at El Cap Tower on Pitch 15, they stopped for lunch, the sun high in the sky.
Megs looked out over the Valley, seeming more like herself than she’d been in a while. “I’ll never get tired of this view.”
He took her hand, squeezed. “Neither will I.”
They didn’t linger, but pushed on for some of the best climbing Mitch had ever experienced, from the Texas Flake to the Boot Flake and on to the King Swing.
Megs used the rope to make an enormous pendulum swing to her left, reaching for the edge of an arete. She missed on her first attempt, and Mitch found himself watching the rope above her, hoping it wouldn’t fray. The second time, she used her shoes to stick it, pulling herself across the rock with minuscule fingerholds until she finally grasped the arete.
Mitch exhaled—and then it was his turn. With his longer reach, he was able to grab the arete on the first try. It only made him admire Megs more.
They set off again, working through each successive pitch—the Great Roof, the Pancake Flake, a couple of crack systems. The rock grew hot from the sunshine, shadows shifting as the sun moved across the sky. Then came Pitch 27.
They had identified this as the crux pitch. If they succeeded here, nothing would stop them. If not, there would be nowhere to go but down. There were no holds, and the existing crack was too small to set protection. Other climbers might have drilled holes in the rock here and hammered in bolts, but that went against his and Megs’ shared ethos of climbing the rock without altering it.
Mitch forgot to breathe as Megs moved into the pitch, using her knees, her elbows, her shoulders, her butt, her entire body to create the counter-pressure she needed to inch slowly up the wall. No one climbed like that—no one in the world.
What had he done that Megs had fallen in love withhim?
It was only after he’d grunted and fought his way up the pitch that he knew they were going to make it.
With just a handful of pitches left and the sun setting, they took a quick hydration and calorie break, put on their headlamps, then set off again.
Mitch knew Megs must be tired because he certainly was, his hands raw, his forearms pumped, his body fatigued from continual exertion. But there was no stopping either of them now, the summit a handful of hours and pitches away.
The sun set. Darkness came over the Valley. They kept going.
Running on adrenaline fumes, they pushed themselves beyond exhaustion and pain, focused only on the rock, the next move, the next piece of protection.
Voices came from overhead, the summit near.
“There they are!”
Megs belayed him to the finish just below the summit so they could top out together. They reached the summit just after midnight to find Gridwall and the other dirtbags waiting for them, along with a few other climbers who’d wanted to watch, a ranger, and a news crew with lights and a big camera.
Cheers. Camera lights flashing. The warmth of the campfire.
“We’re here on the summit of El Capitan, three thousand feet above the valley floor, where just moments ago, climbers Megs Hill and Mitch Ahearn became the first people to free climb The Nose in a day.”
While the reporter continued to speak, Gridwall drew them both into an awkward embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You fucking did it!”
Megs closed the journal,set it down on the bedside table, the words Mitch had written dredging up emotions she’d tried to bury. “You were right. It was survivor guilt. I hated knowing that Dean was gone—and that I had played a role in his death.”
“I know.” Mitch’s gaze went soft. “Not… our... fall… fault.”
Megs crawled into bed beside him, turned off her lamp, and rolled onto her stomach so she could make eye contact. “I still miss him.”
“M-me, too.”
“He would have been so happy for us. Free climbing The Nose was the greatest achievement of our careers.”
It had also been their last climb as professionals. They hadn’t planned it that way. That’s just how things had unfolded.
