The East Wall of Upper Yosemite Fall

Royal Robbins

Flanked by steep walls of granite, the Upper Yosemite Fall springs from a notch cut deep by Yosemite Creek and plunges 1400 feet to a great basin formed by glaciers and millions of years of hydraulic pounding. On the left, or west wall, a short route ("Aqua Via”) traverses in from a trail and ascends 400 feet to the top of the Fall. This was first climbed on April 12, 1960 by Dave Rearick, Glen Denny, and Herb Swedlund, in six hours of moderate and enjoyable climbing. But the wall on the east side of the Fall poses much more of a problem. An obvious but unattractive route lies there, unattractive because of a scarcity of bivouac ledges and a hot, dry, southerly exposure. Over the years, however, as the more attractive first ascents were claimed by ambitious rock experts, more and more interest became focused upon this unsolved problem.

One evening in late May, 1963, as several of us climbers sat in the lounge of Yosemite Lodge, a Curry Company employee walked up with some startling news. He told us of a radio report describing an attempt which was to take place next day on the right side of the Upper Fall. This attempt, the report said, would probably take five days and involve several nights spent in slings. The participants were to be Ed Cooper, from Washington, Glen Denny, of California, and Jim Baldwin, a Canadian. Upon hearing of this mysterious leak to the radio stations, Denny, disdaining publicity, dropped out of the team. Somewhat later, Baldwin did the same. Thus died the first attempt. Subsequently, Cooper enlisted the aid of another Washington climber, Eric Bjornstad. One afternoon in early June they climbed the first two pitches and bivouacked at the base of the wall. Next morning, rain threatened and the attempt was again called off. About a week later Cooper inexplicably gave up the project and had his fixed ropes removed.

Dick McCracken and I had watched these events with interest. Long considering a Yosemite Fall route, we had thought a springtime ascent too hazardous because the plunging water might blow over onto the bottom of the route. We now reconsidered. Closer observation showed the water rarely blew toward the east and in the afternoon blew far to the west. The lure of a fine "first” was strong, and now convinced we could avoid a dowsing, we decided to attempt this beautiful wall. After all, we reasoned, besides possibly making this southerly face cooler, the Fall would provide a beautiful diversion for the boring periods of belaying.

At dawn, on June 21, we were scrambling up slabs and through brush toward the East Wall. Arriving at its base at eight, we found ourselves on a bench 300 feet above the bottom of the Upper Fall. The Lost Arrow towered grimly on our right. The Fall was roaring in all its springtime glory: a great white cataract leaping from the hanging valley 1100 feet above us and falling free 1400 feet to explode in a tempestuous maelstrom of swirling mist, before the waters quickly gathered themselves to race in snowy fury down a tortuous gorge, and finally drop over the 300 foot Lower Fall to the Valley floor.

Humbled by this awe-inspiring display of Nature’s power and beauty, we began our little adventure. With a couple of pitons for aid, we easily traversed left to a large platform exposed to the caprice of the Fall. Dick belayed as I started the second pitch. The wind shifted and chilling spray, which had shortly before been snow on the slopes of Mount Hoffman, began to rain upon us. I quickly climbed out of range, but Dick had no place to hide, and the wind-driven water beat upon him like a thundershower. Drenched, shoes filled with ice water, he shivered violently but with stoic silence. I hurriedly finished the pitch, hauled the pack, and then protected Dick with the rope. Starting was the worst. As my tall and lanky friend climbed slowly upward, he shocked me with the pallidity of his face and the absence of that familiar smile under adversity. His riant eyes, however, still sparkled with intelligence, and he soon regained his usual "aplomb in the midst of irrational things”. Two hours later the scene changed abruptly as we emerged into warm and welcome sunlight. Cooper had done well to climb the first two pitches during the afternoon, when the Fall blows far westward.

At the end of the fourth pitch we mantled the large steps of the "Giant’s Staircase”, and entered a long trough. Here, we enjoyed ourselves on good rock, using balance and finesse rather than muscle power. Conditions, however, worsened as we climbed higher. The rock became rotten and steep, handholds dwindled, and free climbing changed to use of stirrups. Ledges gradually disappeared and we were soon belaying continually in slings. Often we needed to search out hidden cracks and drive the pins hard to establish a sound, if uncomfortable, belay.

On the eighth pitch Dick bypassed an ugly overhang by climbing, with his usual precision and coolness, an unlikely face on the right. In the late afternoon he led the crux of the climb. As I belayed in slings directly beneath him, Dick struggled in a rotten, shallow jamcrack. Attempting to protect himself, he started to place a piton behind a flake. Ominously, it expanded and creaked. No help there. Finally, with a determined effort, he grasped the outside of the fragile flake with his right hand, and jamming with his left arm and leg and scraping at the smooth face with his right leg, he fought past the severe section, as I waited tensely below. After resting in the chimney above, he nailed a large and complex overhang, where placing each piton was a physical and mental struggle. Above, he placed a bolt for another sling belay. Then it was my turn. After nearly falling out of the jamcrack, I removed the pins from the awkward and strenuous overhang, realizing once again that the modest person to whom I was entrusting my life was one of the most competent rock climbers in the country.

As dusk approached, I began the next lead. With two chockstones for protection, I wedged my way up a squeeze chimney, and, to our delighted surprise, found a smooth, flat, and commodious ledge. We named it "Happy Ledge”, for we were glad to avoid a night in slings.

As we lay comfortably sprawled, the night grew surprisingly cold as the wind brought chill air from the icy slopes of Mount Hoffman. Numbed, we got a late start next morning. Dick led the first pitch. I was glad, for it was one of those "I know I could do it, but I’m glad it’s your lead” pitches. About mid-morning, updrafts began bringing warm air from below. As the day warmed, we passed several more roofs, each très athlétique, and reached a band of ceilings stretching 300 feet and meeting Yosemite Creek just where it starts the great descent. We had to decide whether to traverse beneath the ceilings or to climb directly over one of them and ascend 300 feet to the rim of the Valley. The apparent necessity of using bolts to pass the ceilings was decisive. We started traversing.

Progress was slow and the unremittingly delicate direct aid, with the yawning void below, was nerve-wracking for both leader and second. The thunder of the Fall beat upon our ears. As we maneuvered from one recess to another, rope drag became intolerable and communication difficult, so we kept the pitches short. Once, Dick used two tiny CMI "crack tacks” to hold his weight. He needed both.

Darkness forced a second bivouac. This time we were cramped together on a small ledge. Rain threatened. Since mid-June rainstorms are rare at night, we had brought no protection.

Next morning, through the grey scud in the Valley, we observed the rain-slickened roads below us. Indeed, rain was still falling. The steepness of the wall was keeping us dry. Clouds hung amorphously about the rim of the Valley, obscuring a grey, dank morning. Some 2500 feet below was another world, populated by creatures with their own concerns of a new day. Automobiles crept along the wet asphalt like ants. Somber and impassive, the granite walls stood as they have for millions of years, seemingly eternal, while Nature’s creatures passed part of their momentary and insignificant existence between them. And what significance had our little adventure? None. Knowing this, we took it for what it was: a stimulating experience which awakened our minds and spirits to a lust for life and a keener awareness of beauty.

Just 100 feet away, Yosemite Creek, rushing carelessly along, suddenly found itself in mid-air. Shooting far out from the wall, the water curved downward. From the main column, streamers spurted like comets, soon to lose their separate identities by dissolving into spray or becoming again engulfed in the main torrent. Below, "with ceaseless turmoil seething”, the cataract struck fearfully at the durable granite.

The end looked close, but we fought for every foot. In the cold morning, our bright red down jackets cheerfully contrasted with the ubiquitous grey around us. At noon, after five hours of direct-aid traversing, we rounded a corner and there was Yosemite Creek, boiling at our feet.

Summary of Statistics

Area: Yosemite Valley.

Ascent: First ascent of the East Wall of Upper Yosemite Fall, June 21-23, 1963. (NCCS VI-9-A4, 20 pitches, 8 sling belays). Hardware: 235 pitons, 1 bolt placed. 2 3", 2 2½", 4 1½", 5 1", 6 regular angles, 15 horizontals, 6 knifeblades, 2 crack tacks.

Personnel: Richard McCracken, Royal Robbins.