JamesLucas's blog

The wind catches the crash pad slowing my single-speed bike as I barrel down the hill from campus. I shift the pad and pedal faster. My alarm buzzed half an hour ago, I’d smashed the damn thing and bolted out of bed when I saw that it was almost 8. Five minutes down the hill, I’m banging on the door to Anson’s van, trying to get his ass up. I shove him into the driver’s seat. He can wake up on the way.

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The four-runner bumped, shaking its black frame side to side, as Public Enemy belted heavy, old-school beats. The SUV parked on the side of 120 between Tenaya Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, and with the bass still booming three monkeys fell out of John’s rig.

“You’re lagging boys.” Linh’s gear leaned against his silver VW van and he swooped down, shouldering the pack.

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Before dawn Thursday morning the rain was pouring in Chinese Camp. Thunder, lightning, heavy pellets of rain- it was a full on storm. When John and I left for the Valley, the roads were wet and the clouds were still hovering over the ditch. We got to the base of Lower Cathedral to look at Beggar's Buttress. We turned around quickly when we felt more rain.

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Fonzie snapped his fingers, thrust his thumbs up, and shouted, “Aaay!”
The boat took off at full speed with the Fonz, in his leather jacket
and perfectly parted hair, in tow on a pair of over sized planks.
Ahead, were a half dozen hungry sharks, their dorsal fins protruding
through the water, and the Fonz was headed straight for them. But
Fonzie was cool. At the last moment, he hit a jump and flew over the
sharks, narrowly escaping being dinner. A television series will often

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Private Property's smooth granite walls lay a ten minute scree-slide down from Highway 120. Across from one of the Tuolumne River's waterfalls, and nestled in a large canyon of Sierra rock outcroppings, the cliff features a solid area of technical rock climbs. Lucho was anxious as we moved along the base. He dropped the rope below Felix and began nervously pulling on his shoes. The route starts by wandering through a series of roofs and then attacking a ninety degree face.

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Ely is a historic town, from the Lincoln 50 Highway to the Hotel Nevada & Gambling Hall. The hotel was completed in 1929 and was at the time not only the tallest building in Nevada due to its six stories but also the first fire-proof building in the state. Unfortunately, we are staying across the street, far away from the gambling, the blue haired ladies smoking cigarettes next to their oxygen tanks, and the life sized wood carved cowboys.

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A Long Visit
From a hospital bed everyone looks the same size--bigger than me. By pressing a button on the side of the bed, I tilted into an upright position, and slowly John Long filled his muscular, six foot three inch frame.

John cast a large shadow. In his youth, he had dominated the California climbing scene. 1974 saw John and two friends wearing bell bottoms, flowing pirate shirts, and technicolor bandanas around their heads. Their outfits suited them well for the first single day ascent of Yosemite’s El Capitan, a three thousand foot granite face. The men shaved the route down from five days to a mere eighteen hours. At the meadow below they posed for a picture, which would be plastered in the magazines; their youth was written in the bravado of their exposed chests. John traveled between Yosemite, where he worked for the Yosemite Search and Rescue team, and Joshua Tree National Park in Southern California. He moved from adventures on rock to extreme expeditions, rappelling one of the largest waterfalls in the world. His adept story telling took him from a popular campfire figure to a career as a columnist and successful writer. My friends and I spent weeks in Joshua Tree, the old dad’s stomping ground, reenacting his countless stories; sometimes failing.

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We were hungry. We lived for Yosemite summers, meeting our first year as employees of the concessionaire and then graduating to being full-time dirt bags. Our diet consisted of polished cracks and huge granite formations. When we collected enough food from the dented can store, we’d go climb a wall. Until then, we spent our little bits of time away from the cliff hoarding scraps of food and swooping on the free meals that the local church made; anything to keep our emaciated bodies climbing.

Max’s thin frame appeared jaundiced. He was living off a hundred dollars a month; seventy of it went to Bali Shag rolling tobacco. Max could pinch a penny so tight boogers would escape Lincoln’s nose. Neither Will nor I had Max’s hefty bankroll. Will had emptied the lint from his pockets to buy a portaledge and my money had been blown on new rock shoes earlier in the summer. When Max suggested a new avenue to fuel our adventures we listened hungrily.

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I'm not sure if you know this but I'm kinda big deal around here. Yosemite is more than a dot on Rand McNally’s map, it’s not just another microcosm of the climbing universe, and I’m more than a regular climber. Yosemite is the place and I am the man.

Every morning I wake in the Valley and run five miles down canyon to the real crags. I climb all twelve of my fixed lines at the Cookie, bust out two thirty sets of fingertip push-ups, and then dive in the Merced and swim upstream to Camp 4. Some say I’m training for the ultimate training day but they’re just jealous because by 9 a.m. I’m back brewing my soy-chai protein infused latte ready to start a day of real climbing.

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“This is my last try,” I grunted to the rock. Tatonka wasn’t going well. The pinch felt bigger, the granite wore at my thumb, and the horizontal press into the roof was turning my abdomen to jelly.

I lathered chalk onto my fingers, using the block of magnesium carbonate like soap. My hand thoroughly coated, I started on my feet; The soles needed to be powdered dry before I dipped them into my tight climbing shoes. The down turned toe and snugness of the boot made me a rock danseur. I grabbed another handful of chalk and went to work. Press right foot, wrap thumb around fingers, crimp, reach behind head, pinch, use thumb catch, lift foot, press into roof, stomach tight. I’m doing it. The twist to the jug would take me to easier moves and the finish. My legs shook as my torso rolled towards the in-cut hold. That’s when I fell.

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