Steck-Salathé - A Burly Yosemite Route

by Kit Moore [with Ray Rutitis]

Sentinal Rock - Yosemite Valley: Sentinal Rock - Yosemite ValleyOur pilgrimage to Steck-Salathé began with an evening flight to San Francisco and a late night drive across California, arriving in Yosemite Valley at 4:00 a.m. Toronto time. After setting up camp, we slept a few hours, then managed to haul our jet-lagged bodies out of bed in time for an afternoon ascent of the Central Pillar of Frenzy. The first five pitches of this route are an ideal introduction to solid 5.9 Yosemite climbing, and have the special appeal of a short approach and rappel descent. The following day we tackled The Braille Book, another climb of similar length and difficulty, but with a more strenuous 90 minute walk-up and two-hour walk-off. Now we were ready for something more ambitious.

[A long long time ago I taught Kit how to lead, and here he was exposing me to Yosemite chimneys, starting with a heinous, flaring and curving chimney on Braille Book, supposedly 5.8. When I arrived at the base of the chimney, I was sure I was off route, but Kit carried on, so I copied him, put my back against the wall, stretched my legs out in front of me, and pushed up...and up...and up. Where was the warm and fuzzy feeling of a good handjam or fingerlock? Incredibly, I made it up, but my camera was trashed between my back and the rock, and the 2-hour descent left me with an ugly blister covering the ball of my foot. After 2 days, we had barely seen Steck-Salathé, I had no camera, and I could hardly walk.]

For our first full-day climb, we chose the East Buttress of El Capitan - 13 pitches starting 1000 feet above the Valley floor and ending at the top of El Cap’s east buttress. The climb includes four interesting 5.9 pitches, one with a delicate 5.10b move off the belay, and many easier but well-exposed pitches. Ray and I had no serious difficulty with any of the pitches, but we were worried about our slow pace - ten hours to climb 13 pitches, several of which were extremely easy. At this rate it would take us a full two days to complete the much longer and much harder Steck-Salathé route.

[Kit had a plan...he always had a plan...I thought his best plans included having a second coffee or going for ice cream. Anyway, his plan seemed to be to acclimatize on some long practice routes before doing Steck-Salathé. Kit’s actuarial training led him to calculate the time needed for each pitch: 45 minutes for the 5.7s, 55 minutes for the 5.8s and an hour for the 5.9s. We would top out by sunset...no problem...I believed him. I forgot that Steck and Salathé took 5 days and ran out of water on their first ascent.]

Our next day was a rest day, so after shopping, showers, laundry, and a swim in the Merced River, we checked out the Steck-Salathé approach, and discussed ways of climbing more quickly without sacrificing safety. We also asked several Yosemite guides about the current condition of the route, and without fail they recommended it highly, said we were in for an adventure, and referred to Steck-Salathé as a "burly" route. With this encouragement, we were eager to get started, but first we needed one more climb under our belts - this time the 11-pitch East Buttress of Middle Cathedral, another of the 50 classic climbs. This route turned out to be excellent training for Steck-Salathé, and we easily met our goal of 45 minutes per pitch, so we felt ready for the burly one.

[Rest day, long route day, rest day. I couldn’t believe Kit was telling me he’d never taken as many rest days on a single trip...I was already so tired I could hardly move my legs.]

After another rest day, we left our car on the Valley floor below Sentinel Rock at 5:30 the next morning, right on schedule. Although the sun took another hour to rise, we had enough light to see our way up the first mile of Four Mile Trail. At that point, we turned off the tourist trail, onto the much fainter, and much steeper, path we had scoped out a few days earlier. This path took us to a long exposed ramp of rock leading to the base of our route. In just under two hours, we had ascended 1400 feet above the Valley floor.

I had drawn the first pitch, which was an "easy" 5.7/5.8 introduction, so I was eager to get a quick warm-up for the stiffer sections to come. One hour later, I reached up with bleeding hands, dragged my exhausted body onto the belay ledge, and understood at last what was meant by the word "burly".

[Why was Kit panting furiously and scraping himself upward with less finesse than a 5.7 deserved? I soon found out...the crack was an OFF-WIDTH...its rating was illogical...it had to be 5.10 and the guidebook was clearly wrong.]

Pitches 2 and 3 turned out to be a bit less burly, but still gave us the value and adventure we were looking for. I got carried away at the end of pitch 3 and tried to extend it into the infamous Wilson Overhang, but quickly realized the error of my ways and backed down to the belay directly below it. Ray then showed his true form by free-climbing this tough and sustained flaring overhang. This pitch, which was originally graded 5.9, has lost some key holds over the years and now goes at 5.10+, so I was suitably impressed by Ray’s achievement, in spite of the extra time we needed.

[I’ve led 5.10+ overhangs, but the flaring notch in the Wilson overhang was so much harder than I ever imagined. My back was against a rock wall as I slowly forced and scraped my way upwards. At least I could place protection, so I was going to conquer this pitch free. Man was I tired, and I couldn’t believe Kit was telling me to pull on my gear because we were taking too long. As the off-width above the overhang widened to eight inches I began to feel serious protection panic, so I pulled out my new #3 Big Bro and strained to insert it in a spot with parallel sides as I struggled to stay in the off-width. Every time I tried a new placement, the heavy-duty spring extended and I could hardly retract it with one hand. Finally it was placed...or was it?...I didn’t care. I thrashed upward and rolled onto the belay ledge, feeling sick and knowing we were behind time. Though I’d conquered the pitch by free-climbing it, I realized I was now too exhausted to keep up the pace.]

Pitch 5 proved to be our first 5.9 squeeze chimney, so we each hauled our buttpacks and helmets below us and wriggled our way to a point where we felt safe enough to make a blind traverse around a corner and up to a comfortable belay. I managed to find enough creative protection on the traverse, but wisely avoided testing any of it, as did Ray.

The next three pitches were wonderful, long, exposed climbs, involving route-finding and rationing of protection through an exciting series of 5.7 cracks. Even though we were already behind schedule, we still had prospects of finishing the route before nightfall, but we also realized that we could afford no more unnecessary delays. Around 3:00 pm, we reached the top of the Flying Buttress, which offered an excellent bivy site, but not for Ray and Kit! Here, we made a conscious choice to continue, but also a critical error. Instead of doing the faster aid pitch up the Headwall directly above the buttress, we chose what turned out to be a much slower path by threading our way through a picturesque split rock on top of the buttress, where we found a rappel station leading down to the start of a strenous 5.9 pitch which Ray bravely led, starting around 3:30 pm.

[We were two hours behind the actuarial plan, so I finally listened to Kit, and reluctantly pulled and hung on my gear to save time. Voilà! The Yosemite technique worked and the 5.9 pitch was done in good time.]

Here, I made the mistake of forgetting Allen Steck’s description of the next pitch - a "difficult and devious pitch wanders up the steep slab to the base of the Great Chimney" - and was expecting a moderate 5.8 face. When I was instead faced by this difficult and devious section, and had already used the protection I desperately needed there, I assumed I was off route, backed down, and tried a more appealing direction up a pillar directly below the chimney. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that this pillar was not properly attached to the wall, so I made what turned out to be an excellent decision and once again backed down, this time feeling the need for a break. Ray came to the rescue, did my original start to the pitch, persisted through the more devious section, and completed pitch 10 in masterful style. By the time I had reached the Great Chimney, we were much further behind our original schedule.

In return for Ray’s help, I then led the next overhanging, extremely off-width section with missing bolt hangers, sparse protection and other upsetting qualities too numerous to mention. After much shaking, quaking, whining and whimpering in various languages, we crawled onto the slopey ledge at the base of the dreaded Narrows pitch and considered our options. It was 8:00 pm and we would clearly not be able to finish the route in one day unless we completed the final pitches in the dark with headlamps - an unpleasant prospect. On the other hand, the belay ledge was narrow, tilted badly, and offered little room for an overnight bivouac, so we decided to continue to a better location.

Ray enters The NarrowsThe Narrows looks challenging at the best of times. After an exhausting day of climbing, we wondered if it was even possible. A thin crack splits the roof of the cave from front to back, and is much too small for a climber to enter, except at a three-foot section where the crack widens to a maximum of one foot. I watched nervously as the sun set and Ray gradually wormed his way into this slot, followed slowly by a long, dangling train of slings, buttpack, helmet, descent shoes and water bottles. Soon he was gone and I was alone in the dark cave 2500 feet above the Valley floor, listening to the sounds of Ray scrabbling up through the rock, and watching bats fly out for their nightly feed - hopefully not on me.

[Here I was at the bottom of the famous crux pitch 30 feet inside the Great Chimney and the sun was beginning to set over El Cap. I began by peering upwards into the vertical slot where I was supposed to climb and could see no end in the hole that wound its way upward. A fixed #4 Camelot high up inside the slot offered some hope of protection, but no protection looked possible further up. I hung my near-empty water bottles, helmet and other belongings in train-like fashion, so nothing could wedge me in the slot. I then put on a brave show for Kit, inserted my upper body into the hole, and pushed up with my legs. I placed my Big Bro, then my #4 Camelot, then reached up for the fixed Camelot. My arms were firmly wedged in the hole above my head, and I managed to push my knees slightly forward into the wall while making wormlike movements up through the slot. I tried not to panic as the sunlight faded into dusk, and just kept moving. The lack of protection and handholds had me extremely agitated, but soon a few edges for fingers appeared, and at a horizontal edge I was able to place two small Camelots. By then, the slot had begun to widen and was leading me out to the face of Sentinel Rock. I peered out and looked down at the dizzying sight below me, then looked up the face at Salathé’s five hangerless bolts that seemed to lead nowhere. His fast lane was clearly less inviting than the chimney, so I continued up to a wide ledge and set up anchors.]

Kit at pitch fifteen.After an hour or so, in pitch black, I heard Ray’s distant call of "Off belay!" and began to arrange my train of slings and prepare myself for a claustrophobic slither up through the Narrows. Soon I was on my way, and after much struggling in the dark, found myself firmly jammed in the crack, about 20 feet above the belay ledge. No way of moving up or down, no light, no helmet, no hope it seemed - I was buried alive in rock. As I grew weaker and weaker, I realized that I had to use my limited remaining energy to get back down and set up a bivy for the night. After a short effort to convince me otherwise, Ray understood and slackened the rope so I could wriggle free and return to my cave. Ray quickly lowered me, then I anchored my body and gear to the wall for the night, and put on windjacket and hat for as much warmth as possible. Later in the night, as the temperature dropped, I added my emergency space blanket for extra warmth. My greatest fear was running out of water, as my original supply had shrunk to less than half a litre. I ate an energy bar, took a sip of water, and quickly fell asleep on the hard rock, jammed into the narrow cave like a human Camelot (#20?).

Sleep consisted of about fifteen 20-minute naps interrupted by efforts to re-set my Camelot position. Although I was not aware of it at the time, Ray was on a much roomier ledge above me, but was finding it impossible to sleep in the colder, more exposed situation.

[I bade Kit goodnight and tied myself in on the rocky ledge, using some boulders to simulate a Lazee Boy chair.. I gazed at the lights of Yosemite Lodge below, and assumed the guests were dining on wine and steaks as I munched on my last energy bar and uncorked my last litre of water. As the night temperatures dropped, and my granite chair sucked the heat from my body, I dozed but couldn’t sleep, and wondered if mice were chewing on the 30 metres of rope linking me to Kit.]

At 5:30 am, I awoke and tried to stretch my pretzel-shaped body back into semi-human form, then sorted out my gear, roped up, and called up to Ray to belay when ready. This time I could see my way through the winding tunnel in the Narrows, and made it to Ray’s ledge without me or my gear getting stuck. We greeted each other as well as possible, given the lack of sleep, food, water, and coffee. Ray kindly shared some water with me, and I headed off on pitch 13, which turned out to be relatively easy, but seemed hard enough in our exhausted state.

Ray’s next pitch was harder than expected, but led us to one of the more picturesque sections of the climb - a long soaring traverse across thin flakes, leading to a tree-shaded ledge overlooking the Valley far below. As I belayed Ray up, I looked down at the swimmers frolicking in the Merced River below me, and thought back to Allen Steck’s remarks when he helped establish the route almost exactly 50 years earlier:

"...Steck stared at the swimmers...below. If only they would stop splashing he thought, as he pressed his lips to moist mossy patches..."

Only one pitch to go, I said to Ray as he arrived on the ledge looking ready for a swim himself.

Ray Rutitis sitting on a ledgeWe gathered all our resources for the last pitch, which turned out to be a pleasant jaunt leading to a sandy, sun-drenched outlook on the very top of Sentinel Rock. We made it! At exactly 12:00 noon on our second day, we shook hands, rested, and smiled for the camera. Then we remembered where we were - that we still faced a long and unfamiliar down-climb to the road below - an expected three hours of route-finding on loose blocks, through gear-tangling manzanita trees, in hot unrelenting sun, and with no water. Well, at least we were doing it in daylight, one of the very few benefits of our overnight bivouac.

After two hours of descent, we came to a clear, cold stream of water rushing down the gully between Sentinel Rock and the adjoining hills. We drenched our heads, necks, hats and bandanas, then continued our descent and soon reached the tourist trail leading back to the car where we had left extra water.

[This was the stream that Allen Steck had thrown himself in fully clothed after two days without water. I was parched and ready for a long drink, but Kit had been telling me stories about giardia on the way down, so I decided not to take the risk of drinking from the stream. Kit did the same.]

The lure of safe drinking water gave Ray a new lease on life and he ran ahead to get the car ready. I staggered on at the same slow pace, but had the good fortune to meet a generous tourist on Four Mile Trail, who gave me what was left of his water. Half an hour later, a full 34 hours after we left the car the previous day, I found Ray stretched full length in our rental car, savouring the air-conditioning and guzzling the last of his drinking water.

After a stop for ice cream and cold drinks, we remembered to congratulate each other on a successful ascent and descent, then headed back for a quick camp meal and a long rest in our tents before heading for Tuolumne Meadows next day. What were our final thoughts on Steck-Salathé? Well, it is a burly climb, one of the best, and certainly the hardest long route either of us has ever tackled. We now understand just why Steck-Salathé became so popular with many Yosemite hard climbers, and why so many of them have repeated the route over the years.

[In 1993, Derek Hersey was soloing the Steck-Salathé route. Circumstances caused him to fall to his death. Derek had been my guide the previous summer in Eldorado Canyon. After my experience on Steck-Salathé, I have the feeling that he left some of his climbing skill behind in the Great Chimney for me to use. Thanks Derek.]

Kit Moore is a 60-something retired actuary, and Ray Rutitis is a 48-year-old chemist. Both are Canadians living in the Toronto area. They began rock-climbing together more than 10 years ago. This trip was Rutitis’s first to Yosemite, and Moore’s seventh.