Discussion Topic |
|
This thread has been locked |
Clint Cummins
Trad climber
SF Bay area, CA
|
|
Wow, I hadn't heard of that 1977 accident - what a nightmare scenario in the dark.
|
|
Big Mike
Trad climber
BC
|
|
Wow. So glad my rescue wasn't this extreme!! Flat open places make for the safest rescues!
Edit although, helis are helis....
|
|
BASE1361
climber
Yosemite Valley National Park
|
|
Jason suffered more injuries than stated......
Dude is lucky to be alive
just say'n
|
|
neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
|
|
hey there say, ed, werner, warbler and all...
no words, but an oh my...
as to this, quote, warber:
Amazing - I couldn't believe I was watching them bail out of the ship one by one after what happened.
that feelings that you are about to watch folks die, turned into the
miracle that so many wish for... glad you were able to see something good
from something so awful, that day...
salutes, to all those fine folks that fly these precarious machines...
and prayers for those that continue to do so...
sad to hear of all the losses...
the general public, such as me, we never KNOW how precarious this is...
we think folks have a good chance, being that are trained to do this,
but--we do not understand the full mechanics of this machine, nor of the
winds that they deal with, or the areas that they try to approach...
thank you to all that do so...
you are not going to be forgotten, or unthought of...
thanks for sharing, ed...
good share for us ...
|
|
mynameismud
climber
backseat
|
|
On the helicopter evacuation, Jason Laird (Naval airman) was the litter attendant. The litter was hooked up to the ship with a cable and they lifted off. Shortly after, there was red light on the panel, and the pilot attempted to jettison the load to save the ship. He released the cable, but it was backed up by a rope, so Jason and Rick were not actually dropped much. Then the pilot made an emergency descent to try to land in El Cap Meadow while he still had some power. In the process of this emergency descent, Jason and Rick were slammed into a big tree in the Spires Gully. The impact actually broke off part of the tree. The impact injured Rick fatally, and Jason got a collapsed lung, broken ribs, broken pelvis and severe lacerations. The pilot managed to land the ship in El Cap Meadow and Jason was hospitalized.
I witnessed this from the Crucifix and that is not how it seemed to happen from my view point. Heard the fall, took a while for everything to unfold but it came to the time. The heli lifted the gurney and the gurney initially went through some nearby trees, not bad but enough for me to think, glad that is not me. Shortly after that the heli seemed to lose lift and actually seemed to sink a bit. Then the pilot banked the heli and started down slope. Initially it seemed to almost parallel the talus field and I was giving it at best fifty percent odds of not crashing. The heli gained a lot of speed and then started to pull up and the gurney started to whip along an arc and almost at the apex it hit the tree. I can still see this in my mind today, the tree exploded. At this point the gurney fell straight down and I figured it was going to the ground but it stopped after approximately 40 or so feet. When the gurney hit the end of the rope it folded in half.
Perhaps this is when the cable snapped or they jettisoned the load but there was a backup rope and that is what caught the gurney. Not sure what happened but at this point I do not think the folks in the heli thought they still had a load because they were flying low and the gurney came really close to a couple of trees. They continued in the direction of the toe of Lower Cathedral Spire and I thought for sure the basket would hit Lower Spire but just at that point they must have notice something was down there or someone contacted them because they slowed, gained altitude, and proceeded more directly toward the river and El Cap meadow.
I really did not figure it was possible for anyone to survive that. While the heli was flying away a few items flew out of the basket and someone's leg kept swinging out of the basket. On the hike down, out of pure chance, we ended up walking under the Pine ( I think it was a Pine) and some of the tree limbs were lying about and were about six to eight inches in diameter and sheered right off. Tragic accident and very unfortunate for everyone but I am glad the rescue folks do what they do and I am thankful for my one and only (hopefully the only one) rescue.
I think it was right after the Heli accident, about two pitches later, when the two guys almost got taken out by a large boulder coming loose on Higher Cathedral Spire. One guy held on to a small edge and the other guy basically climbed over him to get on a ledge. The guy that hung on was slim and the dude that climbed up the slim guy and onto the ledge was a big guy. Heard the boulder go, heard shouting, did not really think much till minutes later when people started to move. To this day do not know how that slim guy held on. Ended up talking to them a bit in Camp 4.
|
|
Clint Cummins
Trad climber
SF Bay area, CA
|
|
Erik,
Thanks for sharing your direct observations of the accident.
Actually your observations seem to match up with my description fairly well - where do I have it wrong?
I believe the "boulder coming loose" accident was Jay Selvidge and partner at the base of South by Southwest on Lower Spire. There was a loose block at the ledge, and you could put cams behind it, but if you weighted them, the block moved and they would come loose. This happened to them, and they started sliding toward the edge, but managed to stop themselves.
I had noticed the loose block earlier, and considered trundling it, but didn't do that because I didn't have a clear view of all the pitches on the regular route below it. I'm sure glad Jay and partner survived, or I would have badly regretted not trundling.
|
|
mynameismud
climber
backseat
|
|
It was the part where they dropped the gurney. In the other report it seems to indicate the gurney was dropped or they thought the gurney was dropped before hitting the tree or before they got control of the heli. From what I saw the gurney was dropped right after hitting the tree or a result of hitting the tree. Which also seems to correlate with the point in time when they seemed to get full control of the heli.
Yes, I think one guy was Jay. That was a close shave for the two of them. From what I remember they actually ended up dangling in space. I think Jay was the bigger guy, but not sure. I think that block was loose when Steve and I were up there as well. Glad it worked out for those two.
|
|
scuffy b
climber
heading slowly NNW
|
|
Jay and a slim guy? Kinda redefines slim.
|
|
WBraun
climber
|
|
This is supposed to be the helo getting Barton or the flight out with the body in the litter before the crash.
After the crash:
|
|
Clint Cummins
Trad climber
SF Bay area, CA
|
|
Erik,
Thanks for explaining - I understand now.
I edited my version - hopefully correct now!
|
|
Captain...or Skully
climber
|
|
These stories & my own experiences are why I don't like choppers or flying.
Chilling stories BTW, you guys.
|
|
Edge
Trad climber
New Durham, NH
|
|
I have only been on three helicopter rides, all associated with the same rescue. I am glad I didn't have this thread to reflect on prior to jumping in the mechanical hummingbird. The following is a cut and paste from an article I wrote years after the fact:
In October of 1984 I was recruited by Yosemite Search and Rescue to help with what, at the time, was their largest ever technical rescue. An early season snowstorm had blown in over night and dumped 4 inches of powder on my tent in the Valley floor, and much more in the high country. The next morning most climbers packed up and drove to Joshua Tree or warmer climes, while my friend Doug and I waited until afternoon to do what we do best. We went to the bar to drink.
In need of climbers to help with the mission, one of the lead rescuers knew where to look for able bodies. He approached us mid-beverage, and asked if we would be willing to help rescue two Japanese climbers stranded on the last pitch of the Nose, two Americans on Zodiac, and Ed Drummond soloing the NA Wall. Doug looked at me and said the same thing that I was thinking, “If it were us up there, we would want people to help”. We told him that we were in.
As night was approaching, we were told to get some sleep and at 5 am report to a shuttle bus that would take us to the backside of the Captain, where we would walk in. The next morning we were driven to the trailhead, but when the weather cleared, helicopters began showing up to ferry us to the summit. I boarded a Navy chopper with Doug and another friend, and the pilot informed us that he needed to refuel in the Meadows. We started out by flying about 100 feet above the tree line, and then suddenly over the edge of the Captain for 3000 feet of instant exposure. To say that we were impressed would be an understatement.
We spiraled down, passing the Cathedral Rocks, then Sentinel Rock, and eventually we landed amid the crowd of onlookers in the Meadows. When the Navy refueling rig refused to work, a private chopper was called in to pick us up. I sat in the front seat right next to the pilot, who headed straight for the Nose and then climbed completely vertically, straight up the route, about 75 feet away. In the back seat, Les was screaming, "Look at Boot Flake". "There's the King Swing." "Check out the Great Roof; we're having fun now!"
At this point the pilot turned around to look at Les (I'm thinking, um, please look where you are going...) and said, "You're having fun, Huh? Well those two guys on the Nose are dead!"
That was the first we had heard of this, as we had assumed everyone was OK and just needed help getting off. Sure enough, a few seconds later we passed them. The leader had fallen trying to get off the iced up final pitch, and was hanging in space, spinning in air with icicles clearly visible on his fingertips. The second had tried to find refuge under the portaledge fly, and had eventually died there from the exposure. Our hearts sunk.
Several minutes later Doug and Les were dropped off at one spot to hump loads to the team atop Zodiac, and then I was dropped off at the trail to the top of NA Wall. When the chopper took off leaving me atop a snow covered Captain with a big bag of gear, I looked around at the beautiful scene and the lack of anyone in site. When the chopper disappeared from view over the treetops, I thought of the two Japanese climbers on the Nose and felt an overwhelming emptiness. There was nothing to do but grab the bag and report to the edge team.
Working with that crew on the edge of El Cap was at once a privilege, a joy, and a wonderment. We rigged anchors then lowered Werner Braun on a single rope to the stranded climber 500 feet below the top. Werner was able to throw a line in to the famous Brit, who pulled him into the wall. Later, after many preparations, they both jugged slowly to safety. Similar actions were happening over atop Zodiac, where the two climbers were suffering from mild frostbite. While both the Zodiac and NA Wall rescues were successful, a ranger had been lowered to the Japanese pair to confirm their deaths; the body recovery would take place the next day.
With climbers and gear now retrieved, we hiked up to our camp for the night, as darkness now precluded the choppers from operating. We all spent the night atop El Cap under makeshift tarpaulin tents in barely warm enough Park Service sleeping bags, bodies strewn like logs, huddling to stay warm. My third and last ever helicopter ride the next morning circumnavigated west, dropped into the Valley over Cookie Cliff, and deposited me in El Cap Meadow. From there a shuttle brought us to Yosemite Village, where I began walking back to Camp 4 (Sunnyside at the time).
On my way there, I passed a Japanese climber; he was part of a tight knit group who had taken over two side-by-side sites with a large group of tents. By now they all knew that their friends had passed on the Nose and when he saw me returning in my double boots and overnight pack he knew that I had been involved in the rescue. I will always remember the look on his face as he recognized me for my efforts, and saluted.
I left early the following day, 15 climbers pushing my starterless truck through the snow in the parking lot so that I could pop the clutch. Within two days Doug and I were enjoying the warmth of Moab and the bite of Supercrack's jams, seemingly a lifetime away from the Captain, but experiences like this never really leave you.
|
|
Ward Trotter
Trad climber
|
|
Excellent , well-written article . It provides a perspective not often appreciated surrounding these events. Like many of the posts on this thread.
|
|
Gene
climber
|
|
Does anyone know when the first helicopter-assited rescue in YV took place?
g
|
|
mucci
Trad climber
The pitch of Bagalaar above you
|
|
^^^^1985 Half dome rescue, was the 1st use of the short haul tech I believe in Yos. Not sure about "Assisted"
Nothing more scary than having a bird right on top of you, for a few moments anything can happen.
|
|
mooch
Trad climber
Old Climbers' Home (Adopted)
|
|
I seem to recall a rescue attempt of a climber who was badly injured after taking a fall on Braille Book. Lemoore SAR managed to get him into the litter along with the SAR tech. As they lifted off, the pilot failed to lift off far enough for the litter to clear the trees. The litter then caught limbs off the tree, with the crew resorting to pickling the cable and the litter in fear that the helo would be taken down as well. The result: a rescue became a recovery. The SAR tech (who I knew while I was stationed in Lemoore) as injured; collapsed lung, broken ribs and a broken wrist. The climber died on the scene. Circa 2002? Werner?
|
|
cragnshag
Social climber
san joser
|
|
BigWallPaul and I were up on Lower Cathedral Rock East Buttress during the Braille Book rescue and heli mishap. We only saw the chopper on the way up to the extraction and after it cleared Middle on the way down, but I noticed that the load swinging below it appeared to make the heli difficult to control- and it seemed a long time (4 minutes?) before the pilot could gain control enough to land in ECM without swing the load into the ground. The load kept swinging back and forth and appeared to be moving the heli like the tail wagging the dog. Due to the distance and the shape of the load we both assumed it was some heavy haulbags that were hanging below. We did not find out until the next day that the "load" was the fallen climber and the attendant.
|
|
Largo
Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
|
|
Those are very fascinating stories for many reasons. I can't stop reading that stuff. I have a story about a near copter accident up on Middle and if I can fine it I'll post it.
JL
|
|
Largo
Sport climber
The Big Wide Open Face
|
|
HERE IT IS. Strangely, Peter Barton figures into this one as well:
On The Wire
I was eighteen years old with almost no experience and had only been in Yosemite Valley for a week. By the oddest coincidence, my cousin, Roger Rudolph, was head backcountry ranger and allied with the budding Search and Rescue Team. Late one afternoon Roger rushed into camp and over to my site. There’d been a climbing accident on the East Buttress of Middle Cathedral, two pitches below the summit; a leader fall and a head injury. A helicopter was heading in to ferry the Valley czars Jim Bridwell and Mark Klemons to the top of Middle to conduct a rescue. In case that plan did not work, the Park Service needed another team to trudge to the top of Middle, schlepping an enormous green backpack at Roger’s feet. If the Bridwell/ Klemons team hadn’t set down by the time we gained the top, I’d rap to the victim and . . . well, we’d flesh out the plan from there.
“You handle that?” Roger asked. Roger was about 15 years older than me and a mentor who had skied 100 miles across Tioga Pass in winter, carted injured hikers out of the backcountry on his back, and ran a government department with 40 men. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing but if Roger thought I was worthy I’d go with it.
“I’m in,” I said.
“Meet me back here in five,” Roger said. I dashed for Camp 4’s rescue site, urgent to find someone who could handle the job. Luckily I found Englishman Ben Campbell-Kelly lounging around camp, recovering from an early ascent of the North American Wall with his countryman Bryan Wyvill. I explained the situation, and that I needed him along, and Ben said, “Let’s go, man.”
Roger, Ben and I manhandled the pack into Roger’s squad car and a few minutes later he dropped us at the roadside below Middle Cathedral.
“You’ll have to bust ass, boys,” said Roger. “You got about three hours of daylight. You know where you’re going?”
“Exactly,” I said. I’d climbed the East Buttress but it took all day and we hacked down the descent gulley at night. I didn’t remember a thing about it.
I shouldered the pack and staggered up through the pines toward the gully left of Middle. I couldn’t have had a better man alongside me than Ben Campbell-Kelly, a proven veteran of these walls, solid as Solomon.
Shortly we entered a steep labyrinth of dead-end trails, teetering minarets and low-angled choss corridors. We hadn’t a clue about a proper path and never found one. For two hours we flailed and cursed our way up that gully, sometimes hand-carrying the pack and shoving it through a pinch when we couldn’t wiggle through with it on our backs. We could more easily have dragged a moped up that gulley than that pack. About halfway up we heard a copter circling above, and Ben and I wondered if we weren’t killing ourselves for nothing.
When we finally busted out onto the shoulder beneath Middle’s shapeless summit, Ben claimed he’d burned more gas and lost more hide grappling up that damned gully than he had climbing El Capitan. I shouldered the pig, and with Ben shoving from behind, we trudged up grainy slabs toward the top. Only the crown of El Capitan shimmered in light. We had maybe an hour before night fell like a curtain.
A few minutes later we met a team who’d just topped out on the East Buttress. In their late 20s, both wore colorful, long-sleeved rugby shirts and thin, white navy pants, the formal costume of the ’70s Yosemite climber. I wondered about these guys’ lives, and their jobs that allowed them to have just fixed two brand-new ropes above the injured climber, before dashing back to San Fran for work and family. They’d fetch their ropes later, or never.
The two men said that gusting winds kept the copter from landing on the summit, scrubbing the Bridwell/Klemons rescue effort. I confirmed as much with Roger, over the walkie-talkie. We thanked the two climbers and moved over to the fixed lines. I clipped in and started down, battling not to get pulled over backward by the pack.
Ben shouldered the pig for the last rap and we touched down on a lower-angled, terraced recess by a big pine tree growing straight out of the rock. The injured climber — I never learned his name — lay curled in a fetal knot on a sloping ledge scarcely bigger than his body.
His partner, Peter Barton, sitting dejectedly on a shelf 10 feet below, had tied the victim taut to a cluster of pitons. Ben and I rigged a line off the victim’s anchor and moved to a small, tapering ledge 10 feet lower. According to Peter, the victim had taken a tumbling fall and banged the back of his head. Though partially responsive at first, he hadn’t moved in two or three hours.
I asked Ben what he knew about first aid and he said, “Nothing.” Since I was the son of a doctor, Ben reckoned I’d absorbed essential medical know-how by association, and suggested I paddle up to the victim and play doctor.
The victim’s breathing seemed smooth, though hurried. He mumbled now and then but couldn’t answer any questions. On the back of his head the hair was raked off in one spot, but no shocking dent or gash. As to how this guy looked, or even his age, I can’t say. Had the victim looked at me, or said something instead of just lying inert, I might remember his eyes, or his face. But it’s all a blank.
I reported the victim’s condition to Roger, over the radio, and he said to pack the guy into a sleeping bag — there was one inside the giant pack — and to watch his airway. It took all three of us to wheedle the victim into the bag. I felt useless, knowing this guy needed assistance we couldn’t hope to provide. Roger said there wasn’t much more to do, and to just settle in for the night. Back at park headquarters, Bridwell and two rescue rangers were devising a strategy for tomorrow. Pray the victim somehow holds on. Over and out.
Ben and I rapped to the lower ledge and sat back. The slab dropped below for 20 or so feet, then the wall steepened and plunged out of sight. Peering off that perch, I hunkered down for my first bivouac on a rock wall.
We dug into the pack and found a headlamp, several gallons of water, a 12-pack of lemonade mix, a wall rack, a lead rope, a great mass of pulleys and bewildering rescue tackle, a frightening 12-inch knife, two balaclavas, a second radio, several packs of batteries, a first-aid kit that folded out like an accordion, a shovel, a compass, two ensolite pads, and 20 other items I can’t remember — but not so much as a breadstick to eat.
“We’re buggered,” said Ben. Thankfully we had a couple packs of smokes between us and we lit up, gazing into the gloom. Far below, the earth seemed to open up, then night crawled out and swallowed the wall and the world.
Ben, 30, had a rowdy head of red hair and an elegant sideburn-goatee constellation befitting the British academic he was in the private world. His calm, rational manner was a balm to my willies which, after an hour in pitch darkness, were once more rearing up and stampeding over my resolve. To divert myself I pried Ben about his many adventures on big walls in Norway, the Alps and of course most recently the great El Capitan. His comments were so understated I came to believe that sitting there on that tiny ledge in my flimsy white navy pants and a T-shirt was no big deal after all. I admired myself for throwing in with the Yosemite hardmen and, around midnight, figured I was nearly one myself. Then it got very cold, and the victim started wailing in tongues. Peter asked what the hell we were going to do, and things went south from there.
Ben and I took turns making sure the man didn’t swallow his tongue or do something worse. The guy bit our fingers down to the wood, and sometimes his arms flailed and his legs churned inside the bag. We couldn’t have been less helpful.
Around dawn, the victim quieted, and might have died for all we knew. The notion frightened me so I hand-walked up the slab and found him still alive, but apparently in a coma. We couldn’t do a thing. I returned to the ledge and shimmied my legs into the big pack for warmth. I never knew a person could feel so wasted. Then Roger cut in over the radio. A copter was blading in from Livermore Air Force base to attempt an “extraction.” This was long before cliff rescue techniques had been standardized and neither Ben nor I knew what they were talking about. Roger explained. Bridwell had reckoned that at our present location, the wall was sufficiently low-angled to allow a copter to hover some hundreds of feet above, and lower a litter down on a cable winch.
“That should be pretty good theater!” said Ben. And we’d be seeing it momentarily, as the percussive thumping of copter blades started echoing up the Valley.
“Will you look at that bugger!” Ben yelled. Whatever copter I had envisioned, it wasn’t the monstrosity hoving to several hundred feet above. Big as a Greyhound bus, it looked like something out of Star Wars. Two enormous blades produced a pulsing thunder that rattled our bones and shot down a shaft of prop wash that swirled every pine needle and bit of turf into a choking tornado. I thrust my head into the big pack and when I pulled it back out, the surroundings looked as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. A soldier stepped from the open cargo bay door of the copter and lowered down on a cable, like a dummy on a string. He sat on a “chaparral Leveler,” a bullet-shaped cylinder the size of a fire hydrant with two fold-down metal flaps on the bottom. Later someone said they used to swoop the Leveler through “hot zones” during the Viet Nam campaign, and would pluck out of the fire anyone who could mount the Leveler at speed.
The giant Sikorsky “Hercules” stayed glued in the sky and the soldier slowly descended perhaps 175 feet until finally touching down on the slab about 10 feet below our ledge. Whoever piloted the ship was a dead-eye who basically delivered the soldier in our laps. With his huge helmet and smoky visor, plus the dashing Air Force jumpsuit, the soldier looked like Flash Gordon. The moment Flash stepped off the chaparral Leveler he was unroped, 1,600 feet off the deck. His mountaineering boots skedaddled on the slab as his hands pawed for a hold, and we knew right off Flash Gordon was no climber.
Ben quickly anchored off a loop of rope, handwalked down and clipped in Flash, who pulled up his smoky visor, exposing the face of a 15-year-old boy, which he compensated for by screaming out his orders. The plan sounded basic and, surprisingly, went off without a hitch. The copter lowered down a litter and we loaded up and lashed down the victim, who was winched straight into the hovering ship.
“OK,” said Flash, staring at the ship still hanging directly overhead. “Who’s going with me?”
“How’s that?” Ben asked. We’d figured Flash would jug out on the fixed lines with Ben, Peter and me.
“I’m going out on the Leveler,” said Flash. “And it gets squirrelly with one man. I need another guy to balance the load.”
“I’ll go,” I said without thinking.
“Good man,” Ben replied. He’d climb El Cap in a snowstorm but he wasn’t daft enough to volunteer to get winched off a Yosemite wall on a guitar string. I wasn’t courageous, I’d just opened up my trap and blurted.
The next 15 minutes passed in a blur. I remember just before sitting onto the Leveler that Flash said not to worry and to simply hold on tight. We sat, face-to-face, on two metal flaps barely larger than my hand. This set us up like two guys bear-hugging with a flagpole between them. There were no straps or tie-ins at all.
Suddenly the cable came taut and my stomach fell into my boots as we were pulled off the wall and into mid-air. After 10 feet we started yawing side to side and the copter motored out away from the wall, initiating a harrowing pendulum. Lest we smacked the face, the pilot swept even farther out into open space, away from the wall, which set us swinging in wild horizontal arcs. Only vaguely could I feel the winch pulling us up as we sliced through the air like trapeze artists hitched to the moon. I remember flashing on a saucy French tourist girl I’d met in the cafeteria, and how she’d probably have to spend the rest of her life without me now. With nothing more to lose, I enjoyed the indescribable view as best I could.
About 15 feet from the cargo door, right when we stopped swinging, we began spinning, faster and faster. In 30 seconds I felt so dizzy I thought I might pass out and pitch off. Then they shut off the winch and we dropped a few horrible feet and wrenched to a stop. I glanced up and saw a flurry of airmen fiddling around the winch, which started back up with a lurch and then stopped again, with Flash and me dangling about waist-level with the open cargo bay door. Flash was nearest the ship, and one of the airman reached down and yanked him on board. This instantly rocked the Leveler out of balance and I nearly fell off. For a moment the airmen, with curious blank looks on their faces, stared down at me dangling in space. Then Bridwell appeared from somewhere, grabbed a strut on the door and reached down his hand — and his was the Hand of God if ever I saw it. We locked arms; the Bird yanked and I shot off the flap and belly flopped into the bay. The Bird, who’d been spotting for the pilot, gave a thumbs up and the big ship banked and headed for El Cap Meadow.
Several medics huddled over the victim. His vital signs checked out and they figured his chances were good (I later learned he did survive, following several operations to relieve pressure on his brainpan), which amazed and relieved me. Several minutes later the big ship touched down. In a 50-yard radius the tall grass in Yosemite Meadow was pummeled flush as the pitch on a putting green. Bridwell and I jumped out and the ship thumped off for the trauma unit in Fresno.
Roger rushed up and started laughing and smacking me. I’d expected an official reception, or at any rate a swelling tourist mob. But it was barely seven in the morning and the three of us found ourselves alone in the middle of the meadow. In a few short minutes, everything went still and quiet. It seemed as if nothing had ever happened. But something had. In the midst of a firestorm of personal doubts, circumstances had conspired to knit me into the very fabric of Yosemite life — with the Park Service, the rescue team, the climbers of the day and the great walls that remained our hope and our passion. From that moment on I accepted doubt and fear as the lot of every Yosemite climber, and never again did I question where I should play out my youth.
A few summers later I fell in with Peter Barton, the partner of the victim on the Middle Cathedral rescue. We teamed up for several significant climbs, including the first ascent of Stoner’s Highway, also on Middle. A year later, while ferrying loads up to the West Face of El Capitan, Peter lost his footing on a steep bit and suffered a tumbling fall that proved fatal. A helicopter flew in from Livermore to recover Peter’s body. Over the steep moraine below the West Face, the copter experienced mechanical problems and ditched in the boulders, the crew barely escaping when the ship burst into flames. His mother released Peter’s ashes over El Cap.
I haven’t seen Ben since the rescue on Middle. I trust he’s doing well.
Several years later, Roger went to the Grand Tetons.
|
|
Ihateplastic
Trad climber
It ain't El Cap, Oregon
|
|
I never climbed with Peter Barton but who could forget his red mop. That guy was visible for miles!
|
|
|
SuperTopo on the Web
|
Let us know!