Higher Cathedral Spire, second pitch (one climber of the couple preceding us can be seen rapelling below me)

Our family outing worked out (see previous journal) and so I began, pretty much without guilt, to think about a proper climbing trip. Right on the next weekend, I managed to leave kids behind with Hippo and granny, and go with Pavel to Yosemite. They say one never steps into the same river, but I cannot help it, all these climbing trips follow familiar patterns, no matter where in the world they happen. I was not leaving work early with a backpack and instead I got picked up in the comfort of my home, but it still took place at a late hour (Pavel must work). We kept driving like crazy till midnight and by twelve thirty unpacked our mats next to the car on a meadow and fell in our respective sleeping bags. This evoked many a trip to Frankenjura; there had been no room nor time or any tent pitching and proper camping either.

Are my arms of different length...? (Higher Cathedral, 3rd pitch)

We packed our beds in the morning, jumped in the car, and had a breakfast at a table in front of the ranger's booth at the park entrance. This spot also offers decent toilets and place to take care of morning hygiene. On to the rocks! Having studied the guide while munching, I began to understand that this climbing won't have anything to do with Jura. When I later wheezed, covering the fifteen hundred feet of elevation we needed to gain before reaching the foot of the wall, I recalled — with a twinkle in the corner of my eye — routes in the Jura region, where you practically make one step from the car and begin climbing. On the other hand, the inconspicuous path overgrown with bushes and eventually replaced with a rubble slope, contained adequate density of people (i.e., nobody), so were Pavel not ascending with the vigor of a Himalayan sherpa, I could have savored our bucolic surroundings. Yet, I may be exaggerating — it has been a wet summer and neither of us had a mosquito spray; you can add these pests to the deadly pace of our uphill struggle, for they were punishing us for every stop we made.

I could feel the altitude diffrence to the bottom of Yosemite Valley after reaching the foot of Higher Cathedral Spire — it was colder here and a breeze was blowing, which took care of the mosquitos. The first pitch of an old, classic route was embarrasingly easy, making me wonder. A moment later I wondered even more — Pavel (!!!) emitted various (unpublishable) screams in the middle of the second pitch and laid friends in perhaps every yard. I began to sense a challenge. When it was my turn, I had no extra time to scream, all I could was huff. I have no idea how the ancients could climb this in hiking boots — a finger crack, overhang where I could not get one wedge loose again, even when I sat in my rope; simply far out.

Higher Cathedral, third pitch

Next three pitches were more measured — not too easy, not too difficult, and most importantly we gradually rolled over the edge, which opened fantastic views of the Valley, literally from a bird's view. Intrepid fowl attacked (mosquitos, I hope) very close to my head; I would have never believed how much noise wings of a little bird can make. An aerial vista brought back memories of Labák. True, Higher Cathedral Spire is much higher than my familiar sandstone towers in northern Bohemia, but the feeling is similarly uplifting. So much that I did not get fazed by a problem with rapelling. According to a guide, a sixty meter rope should reach to the next ring, but it did not; we had to climb down a bit. Fortunately it only was an easy traverse with places to put protections; I did not even begin to get afraid.

I am reaching the top (Higher Cathedral Spire)

We were back at the foot of the wall by five PM. Pavel gazed glumly at Brail Book, but it was more than clear that we would not be able to muster another five-pitch route before dark. We still had a descent ahead of us through a rock slide field and a down a flimsy forest path, through evening swarms of mosquitos. Reaching our car completely bitten and bitter, we executed a purifying jump into the Merced River (tourists in Yosemite generally stick to paved roads and don't dare to venture into the nature, hence there was nobody to get upset over our exposed underwear) — another Labák déjà vu — only the river is more secluded there, and we used to skinny-dip. Then we assaulted the local store — for a bug spray and beer.

The only memorable thing about our cafeteria dinner was that it had been relatively warm. We drank our beer on a meadow with a view to El Capitan. By then we were being attacked by mosquitos with full terrorist training — oblivious to our bug spray and heavy casualties in their own ranks. Also, the sun was setting and time came to hit the sleeping bags on our meadow outside the park entrance.

A view to Lower Cathedral Spire

Morning started by being immediately hot — we resolved to move to higher altitudes. Perhaps I should not read the guide whilst eating breakfast. Decriptions brimming with expressions like difficult chimney and wide crack, made my coffee grate in my throat. Still Pavel claimed that he had climbed one of our selected routes and that it was good, so I decided to ignore the guide and hope it was really so.

At Tuolumne, in two and half kilometers (8,000ft) above sea level, the spring was just beginning. Lots of water, mud everywhere, and remnants of snow and new grass. And plenty of people. A single car parked on the lot under Phobos and Deimos; before we unpacked our stuff and repacked our bags, two eager muscle boys got ahead of us. I hoped that my slow scrambling up the slope under the rock would give them enough advance to climb up far enough in Phobos. Looking for a path, we lost our way a little once, but even that was not enough — when I finally wheezed up to the foot, the muscles were just starting. The leader did not appear too convincing in a confused, overhung chimney with a few cracks, and I began to worry again.

It was not so bad in the end, although I did a barn door in one spot — I and always thought that I have enough strength for overhangs. Well, we all make mistakes. Beginning with the second pitch, things got dramatically better. I even came to a conclusion that a crack can be beautiful! There is no decent way to rappel the Phobos, and we had to hike down. And since it is one of the relatively more difficult routes, we did not carry our backpacks with regular shoes, and I had to suffer wearing my climbing shoes (which I buy one size smaller than my foot). It's true that in some moments (climbing over rocks) I was rather glad I had my climbers on, but I still cannot recommend them as hiking footwear.

Yosemite Valley panorama from the top of Higher Cathedral Spire

Back under Phobos we were facing two in the afternoon. Too early to drive back home, and as much I was not looking forward to trekking back among the manzanite bushes (among which I sometimes felt like the proverbial expert for fight in a tall grass), I had to admit that climbing Deimos around the corner was a reasonable idea.

Phobos (at the end of second pitch, with a climber - almost - visible in a cract above a black rock)

Deimost may be harder than Phobos, but more spread-out (there's no explicitly brutal spot). All kinds of things alternater there — cracks, chimneys, a bit of wall climbing (with one singular bolt — the only fixed protection that we had encountered over these two days). I admit that towards the end I was rather exhausted, while the descent to my shoes and farther on to the road was still ahead of me. I think that in the whole undertaking, climbs did not take as much out of me as the hikes through the trail-less wilderness did. Over the years of hiking with my children I had gotten used to comfortable pace from a rock to a ditch — and I have got my years, too. To make it short — my legs were to keep hurting me for next three days.

At least I could was my feet in Tenaya Lake (after a whole day in climbing shoes I could not risk Pavel passing out while driving a motor vehicle), and then we were on our way. By approximately nine we landed at Taqueria El Agave in Oakdale. I don't crave for Mexican food, but this one was super. Somewhere at half the price of a cafeteria in Yosemite Valley, while three times better in quality; everything done quickly, so we could continue on our way and get home before midnight.

The only fault on this beautiful trip is my feeling that again I presented myself like a total idiot. At the top of Higher Cathedral Spire, I offered Pavel to take a picture of him to let him have decent proof — and the pictures just AREN'T on the card. I have no idea how I accomplished that — and I am not sure that it can be excused by mere parental dementia.

Sid with kids and granny made a trip to Point Reyes, where granny has not been before. It seems that the rest of the family enjoyed a weekend according to their preferences. And since it was some sixty degrees and windy at the ocean side, nobody's shoulders would get brutally sunburned like mine (apparently, at eight thousand feet, one must apply more sunscreen than usual — and not be a show-off in a tank top, despite a hell of a hot day).