In a helicopter.

Blyak — it's supposed to mean Blue Yak :-)

Good thing that a calendar hangs in my kitchen. Torn out of our household routine for two weeks, I had been standing in front of my external memory for five minutes every morning, trying to get essential data in my confused head, such as when and where I should be, who is supposed to bring what to school, and who goes when to which doctor. As the greatest success I considered when I DID NOT FORGET this year's Airshow in Salinas.

We set out in full strength (granny, I think, has never been to an airshow before, so we could not leave her behind) to lunch and then to the airport. Almost with a tear in my eye I watched how our kids were enjoying this happening now, but then I realized that my latest reference was THREE years old (we forgot last year and the previous airshow was practically canceled on account of nasty weather that did not favor jets). My tear, naturally, dried rather quickly when my children unmistakably headed for the gifts stands with plastic toy jets — sometimes I would still wish that my offspring were remembering less. So we promised to buy the little planes at the end, so that we would not deal in next few hours with toys broken or left behind in the general confusion of this county-wide fair.

We were slowly walking through the exhibition and practically by chance occurred near some Monster Trucks — cars on large wheels were jumping over obstacles and rolling over wrecks. It seemed such a truly country fun, but Lisa was absolutely fascinated by the show of horsepower in this very manly sport. I have never wrote in these journals before, I think, how much I "look forward" to her puberty — I start to see it in ever clearer colors — so clear that my head begins to spin.

Lisa's fighter jet closely copied real Thunderbirds.

Truck standing up.

Then we finally got to the purchase of the toy jet fighters, and arrival of Thunderbirds. Lisa with her jet carefully copied aerobatic moves of real pilots; eventually we had to lift children on our shoulders so that they could see over the heads of heavy crowds.

Beginning Monday, school attendance applies in full effect. Pupils got no homework throughout the first few weeks, then we went to Czech Republic, but now we had no more excuses. The school maintains that each homework task should not take longer than fifteen minutes. That's nice, but when multiplied by two children, plus fifteen to twenty minutes for reading = at least one full hour of the afternoon is gone.

In reality it means that I sit the kids down and oscillate between them and the kitchen where I cook dinner. I solve various problems between cleaning the potatoes and frying chopped onion — for example Tom starting to squeal than he can't do his homework. A closer investigation shows that he can (and he has long finished his calculations), but this one is about airplanes and he's supposed to subtract — cross out planes that had departed, and he does not want to cross them out. He objects to planes flying away; so I explain that aircraft want to fly, must fly, that's their reason for being there, and they'd be sad if they could not fly. My logic convinces Tom — who still has a very strong feeling about not crossing any airplanes out. Finally we find a compromise — Tom colors the departed planes yellow; the aircraft that is still loading passengers is going to be blue. Sigh.

The airport crisis makes me busy to the point that I don't notice what Lisa has been doing with her homework. She has long since counted all flower-pots and napkins and plates and balloons. Her only unguided task was to sign the paper with her homework. Right on a black line with a label NAME, which is features on almost all papers my kids ever receive. That's no fun, though — Lisa elaborates her name in the middle of the homework, beautifying it with ornaments. Artistic level ten points, but the original solution is practically unreadable. For a while I contemplate an option blasting both my descendants to the planet Mars, but then I find it unfair — I need to go to Mars, to be rid of EVERYBODY.

Thunderbird 6

Truck flies.

I lose my battle with school supplies in a similar way. Both kids visit the school library on Wednesdays. We find books at home that they should return (one of Lisa's, Tom gets two), so that they can borrow more. Lisa returns from the school with the old book — they did not lend her another, since she did not return the old one, namely because she could not find it (there's only this one book in her bag, and a snack, nothing else). I'm furious. Tommy declares that he has brought no books, for he returned the old ones, borrowed new ones, but they "must have stayed back at the school somewhere". I repeat my thoughts on Mars.

To somewhat balance this school madness out, I implore Pavel that we should go on this promised climbing weekend to Yosemite. The weather looks good, our plans are great: we will set out on Saturday morning, reaching the Valley by noon, then we warm up on something easy. We'll camp and on Sunday we conquer East Buttress of El Capitan. Unlike routes on the real El Cap, this one is found on the eastern (lower) part of the famous, imposing wall, and therefore is not regarded as the true El Capitan. Still — it is the El Cap rock and the route is (according to a guide) "climbed mostly in one day". I found the expression funny at first, but after my experience I can imagine, that there really is a minority of climbers who spend several days there — in spite of their original intent.

Peter bursts my cheerful bubble at the gym, when he, upon discovering where we're headed, keeps repeating that it's really, really not difficult at all. He describes his own ascent in great details — one hard step in the second pitch, but don't worry, nothing horrible, then this kind of trough that's polished by a seasonal creek, but now in the fall it will be OK, don't worry, there won't be any water. This kind of perpetual comforting, dispelling all fears, makes me suddenly strongly anxious; until then I did not think of being afraid.

Everything runs smoothly according to a plan on Saturday, until we reach Oakdale. After making a bathroom stop at grocery store (me) and for coffee (Pavel), our car's cruise control ceases to work. It's not the first time, alas, we know all of our wagon's tricks by now. And I also know that it does not affect the engine, so we push on. Shortly before noon we park near the entrance to the park, at a turn-out under Reed's Pinnacle, packing very lightly — the start is five minutes walking from the car.

Four of the six Thunderbirds.

Lunatic Fringe 5.10c (one of the Polish is climbing). (photo Pavel)

Perhaps I should have studied the history of Yosemite climbing more thoroughly. Wally Reed is said to have classified his routes along "nice climb" and "not really too hard", while the latter frequently wasn't really true. Pavel claims, that this rock features some niner and a few tens (5.9 - 5.10), which seems alright with me (see my ignorance of Wally's style).

Alas, a bunch of climbers mill under Regular Route (5.9) and Direct (5.10a); we're taking a hike around the rock to Lunatic Fringe (5.10c). Pavel runs it up pretty much without issues. I am somewhat huffing and puffing and cursing, for I fail to pull one friend and one stopper. Since we are going to rapell the same way, I'm leaving the gear in the crack for Pavel to pick them up on our way down.

Before I get to climb, two guys show up; one starts a conversation with me in pidgin English. When he translates for his colleague, I find his Polish quite understandable (that's the influence of my girlfriends from Ostrava region, who talk half-Polish anyway). Fortunately even Pavel understands, as the chap stops him with a war cry; he was about to miss the half-forgotten pro while sliding down. We say our farewells and move on around another corned to the Stone Groove (5.10b). My spirits are excellent; since I got through 5.10c, the "b" shall be easier, right?

Pavel is again smoothly creeping upwards. I follow with an embarrassing half-hour of Mickey-Mousing — I can more or less cling on to the crack, but my feet slip so fast that I expect my shoes' soles to start smoking. Hanging in my harness isn't any more comfortable, souring my mood. What more, interested audience begins gathering at the foot of the wall. Fortunately, I stick to showering Pavel in complaints about my own clumsiness, quality of the rock, and climate conditions; I avoid objecting to "morons gaping stupidly at me", although I feel a strong urge to do so (cursing in a foreign language often gives one much more leeway than English). After watching me for a while, one of the "morons" says that I should put my foot left over there. Only after I manage to step on the only decent foothold within hundred square feet and catch my breath, I realize that the man spoke in Polish (and would have probably understood my Czech invectives). Still I probably don't look too convincing in this route, for the Polish pack and leave, soon being replaced by another gang. By then the hard spot is behind me and for the rest of the route my fight is (hopefully) more dignified.

Pavel declares that we will return under the easier routes and finally try the five niner. Seeing my hitherto achievements, I find it an adequate plan. Alas, our familiar Polish guys hang in the niner — Regular Route. We are left with 5.10a Direct. A crack as far as eye can see, which makes me somewhat queasy. It would appear that even Pavel is sweating lightly in this route, but that does not prepare me for this completely unfair fight with polished granite, which won't let me through any other way than through the crack. My tricks from sandstone where I could merrily detour cracks through the face, don't work here. I crawl up in an unworthy half-sit, hoping nobody can see me. Meeting Pavel on a wide ledge, he announces happily that it continues through an interesting chimney, and throws himself into the next pitch. I find consolation in a rapidly descending solar disc — dusk approaches, offering me a wonderful and more or less honorable opportunity to avoid the joys of bruised back from an ugly hole between a huge flake and the rest of the massive. Given the fact that in this pitch Pavel SCREAMS like a beast, I find the sunset ever more so beautiful and desirable. Meanwhile one of the Poles reaches the ledge by way of Regular Route. He seems to have a disagreement with his belayer, and I discover how international some unpublishable expressions are.

Chimney in first pitch of East Buttress. (photo Pavel)

Rear tower on the left is Higher Cathedral Spire — we climbed it in June. (photo Pavel)

The Pole threads his rope and rappels, his rope soon follows with a hiss, and I have my ledge for myself again. Besides the sun, a thin sickle of the Moon starts turning towards the horizon and it suddenly gets darker and colder. I reassure Pavel that I really do not desire to climb the chimney, and wait for him to rappel to my anchor. We combine our ropes for final rappel. A yellow rope is OK, but the blue one developed a Gordian knot. We lose many precious minutes disentangling it in the darkness. My headlamp lies snugly in my little backpack at the foot of the face; Pavel's sits in the car. The rope gets stuck in the crack twice while we rappel, but we somehow get it free again and finally arrive at the floor; at least one flashlight.

Retreat from Yosemite is a well-practiced affair. One circles around the Valley on a one-way loop, buys beer in the store and calls one's significant other, then proceeds to the cafeteria for dinner. Unlike last year, we skip bathing in Merced River; there's no way I would bare any section of my skin above my wrist in these temperatures. Fortunately, the cafeteria is trafficked by climbers and similar riffraff in various degrees of dirtiness, and I probably don't even look out of place here.

We lay down to sleep on the first suitable spot outside the National Park boundary — which proves to be a bad idea, for we are by far neither the first nor the last to do so. When I wake for the third time to a car shining its headlights into my car, and I, startled, sit up abruptly, I get cramps in my legs. I try to stretch, but eventually there's no other way, I have to leave the limited confinement of the car and walk a little to relax my muscles. I have a great idea to use the outing for the call of the nature, so that I would not need to get out of my warm sleeping bag again later. If anyone were filming me (and I'm glad nobody is), this would be a good piece for the Funniest Home Videos. Imagine a person trying to squat down while getting cramps in her legs and subsequently toppling into the woods, followed by many moaning while trying to get up. Great idea indeed.

I get the feeling that as soon as I fell asleep again, Pavel's flashlight waves outside the windows (Pavel refused to sleep inside the car as pure cowardice), and I have to get up. While I pack my bed, Pavel brews coffee; we breakfast on our way to the Valley. A hint of fog rolls around the river, but El Cap is already in full sunshine. Do you recall those pictures from Yosemite, where everything is filled with this soft, golden light? It looks exactly like that under the famous face. Sunshine reflected off granite gets the kitschy tone that I had always attributed to Photoshop.

Arrows point to the Englishmen's position in (I think) seventh pitch of East Buttress. (photo Pavel)

A view to the Nose of El Capitan. (photo Pavel)

Pavel does not care about natural wonders and rushes around the Nose to the east. I care about them (while awfully huffing and puffing uphill), and regret not having brought a camera along. Despite my falling behind, we arrive under the beginning of East Buttress. Pavel finds out that he has forgotten his snack. Two Englishmen hang in the first pitch, which we find rather fortunate ("only" one group ahead of us); we don't know yet that we are right now losing precious minutes. The whole day is ahead of us!

Pavel soon scrambles up, but he has to wait at the first anchor for the Englishmen to climb away. Meanwhile I am getting mentally ready for the chimney, which I can see perhaps too well. Before it is my turn, more interested people show up at the foot of the face. They linger for a while, but then they declare that it may be too late and they would not make it; they leave in search for another route. I throw myself into this easy start, clipping my backpack into a line on my harness, resolved to conquer this chimney. Not that I would be any good at it, but I still burst with optimism, imagining what would all my former climbing partners say if they could see ME VOLUNTARILY enter a chimney. The end of the first pitch surprises me a little — I repeat my circus number with Mickey Mouse, but then somehow reach the top.

Pavel suffers for a moment in his proverbial crux of the route, but then he disappears from view. He does not take long to finish and it is my turn to enjoy climbing this wall. The move is difficult, but in the end I scramble through it and exhale. Too soon. In a spot where I expect an easy terrain — the rock tilts mercifully — my Waterloo comes. Imagine a rain-gutter (alas, vertically oriented), carved in a polished concrete. Inside this gutter, a finger crack. Which you can't reach properly. One can stick (count them) one hand and one foot in the gutter, but the other half of your body slides along the slick surface like spittle on a mirror. Every time I find out a way to move up (like stemming in a corner next to the gutter, or one hand in the crack and another pinching the edge of the gutter), the slope of the gutter — or its width — changes and I slide like soap.

I complete the second pitch strongly resolved to ask for retreat from this route — first two pitches took too much time to realistically finish eleven more in the same day. Pavel quiets me down, saying that this was the hardest one, the rest is easy according to the guide. OK. I sit down on our ledge to rest my legs, and enjoy the view of all the natural beauty around us. And the rock has changed — polished light granite turned into darker part of rocky blocks. Climbing really looks easier and it is. Definitely the third and fourth pitch, the fifth being a walking part. Number six requires me to convince my legs and arms into climbing another crack. Seven wiggles a lot, I cannot disentangle from under an overhung block and feel like I won't move any more. I declare a snack break when we anchor; we munch on the first of my müsli bars. I can also untie my shoes for a moment.

Half Dome still in shade. (photo Pavel)

At the end of the seventh pitch. (photo Pavel)

Pavel dances on an exposed edge and soon disappears in a crack under an overhang — it looks very interesting. The break and food did well with me — fascinated, I balance on the edge, watching my perfect shadow in the wall east of me. Then it gets me — EAST of me: sun must be far past noon and we are still barely past the middle of the route. It's beautiful climbing though, I hang in the crack, making tiny steps in the slippery wall — and then I find myself in the ugliest anchor of the whole route. I don't like anchors where I hang, much less if I do so on a few flimsy pieces of iron. Fortunately, Pavel soon climbs ahead and the rope between us winds through many more protections.

Shadows are getting longer; Pavel is heading up the crack. Then he returns and tries to step over to the face. I hope for a moment that he wins, but the rest of the ninth pitch does not come for free. Soon I have to huff and puff through the same spots. My transfer to the face is complicated by collecting of our gear. Then I discover on my own why Pavel climbed so carefully around two old bolts — flimsy holds, vast area of the face. At least the next anchor is better than the previous one.

The tenth pitch is easy, and the eleventh looks impossible. Pavel climbs over a completely smooth flake DOWN and disappears from view. After a while I stop hearing him as well, and the only thing I can work by are the movements of the rope. I hope to be interpreting correctly a long pause and a fast pickup — that I can climb now. Actually, I have to. I follow the rope and relax past the flake — the route IS climbable. Granite changes again — blocks and cracks turned into a rock face with funny little bowls. It's great to climb. Half Dome can be seen through the Valley, illuminated red by the setting sun. I long for my troubles with school library and homework with airplanes leaving the airport — it's obvious we have gotten in a bad situation; there's no way rappelling down (last chance came with the end of the third pitch) — and we'll be reaching the top in darkness.

We anchor on a huge rocky ledge. Pavel repeats several times that I must forget clean climbing and instead get as fast up as I can. No, he cannot scare me any more than I am already. I nod. Sure, I know. Pavel tries to span the twelfth and thirteenth pitches all in one, our rope does not reach. No loss, the rest of the thirteen is a hike anyway, our only problem being the darkness. I cannot see anymore, by I don't want to stop and look for and set up my headlamp.

Eventually I sit somewhere up there on a rock under a pine tree. I change my shoes, chewing on a bar. I can see only the spot illuminated by my headlamp — even the tiny sliver of moon had set. It's dark like in one's posterior. My car is about third mile below — it's a matter of getting back to it quickly (but not too quickly). I reject an idea to look for a rappelling anchor. I don't really feel up to it, in the chaos atop El Capitan full of gravel, slippery boulders, thickets of bushes and sudden drop-offs. I cowardly vote for an attempt to walk around somehow, although it is clear to me that a multi-hour march is the last thing I should wish for right now.

Ninth pitch. Our problem becomes apparent; shadows are lengthening. (photo Pavel)

Panorama of Half Dome illuminated by the setting sun would be much more enjoyable from my car parked at Glacier Point. (photo Pavel)

Then we are incredibly lucky. After several minutes of wandering around, we run into two silent chaps with a haulbag. They admit having been here a few times before, and should be able to find the rappel. I stumble at the end of the line. A man who has just spent several days on the face of El Capitan, now carrying a bag in which both our children would fit, manages to walk, climb or skip over gaps between rocks — then I should be able to do the same, I keep convincing myself. In the moment when I naively think we have reached the rappel, we meet those wandering Englishmen. They join us; we become a sizable expedition.

I have a feeling we have been stumbling for hours and hours through the same bushes, rocks, arroyos and creeks. I must not watch my step too well — in one spot my wet shoe slips on a rock face, chaps are caching me. Then we climb down and slip and reach a viewpoint that makes me sick. A last little tree and the lights of the Valley behind it. The guys claim that one can rappel here, but some way farther there must be a better way down and some fixed ropes. We send a sentry, who reports having found the rappel. Last yards and one more skip (I hate skips, I hate edges, I hate look-outs, I hate rock faces, I hate — everything). My companions are very lucky that I am so tired, otherwise I would have certainly shown them some tantrum.

First one to go is the chap with the haul bag. So that he would not take anyone down with a rock dislodged by the bag or so. Pavel follows, then me. Then the rest. I know I am slowing them down, the guys are faster, but I don't care. I check each rappel three times, I know that I am totally shaken and therefore more likely to make some stupid mistake. Fixed ropes are new, but still they make me nervous. Eventually I reach the bottom, now we only must hike down the rest of the slope. The light of my headlamp does not improve my problems with estimating distances, which most likely slows us down, too. Then we reach the road — only a small distance to the car. We try to hitch-hike, no luck.

At the car by ten thirty, we call home that we're OK. Vendula takes it calmly, she's apparently used to it; Hippo is upset. I am surprised that after two cereal bars for the whole day I don't feel more hungry. I also find myself rather perky, a feeling that abandons me after about one hour of driving; I get stiff like a mummy. By two in the morning I toss Pavel's bags out in front of his house — I've got only about seven miles to go home.

Well, Hippo's talking to me again, so it's all good. One shall see if Pavel is going to climb with me again.