180° South

Timmy O’Neill racking up for the North America Wall. El Capitan Meadow, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Keith is 20 feet off the ground hanging in a ponderosa pine, the massive granite walls of Yosemite Valley towering around. He spins in circles, tangled in a mess of webbing and rope.

Timmy yells to him, trying to explain things. “When you extend your right ascender your daisy chain should be within an arm’s reach, your feet should be even in your étriers.”

“Okay,” Timmy continues, “if you’re sketched out, weight your upper ascender and put on your Grigri. Suck your weight onto the Grigri, take off your ascender, and rappel. Back yourself up with a chicken knot if that makes you feel better.”

Timmy looks at the ground. “We need another guy to go with us,” he says desperately. He eyes a few friends who have been checking our progress. “I’m going to need some help up there.”

Keith is silent, trying to come to terms with this confusion in a tree and how it applies to climbing the 3,000-foot wall of El Capitan. He bites his lower lip and chews his beard – a habit that will grow increasingly worse over the next week.

The next morning Keith and I wait for Timmy in the El Cap meadow. We kneel over our random assortment of gear spread out on a blue tarp. It’s calm, quiet – a few climbers huddle together, drink coffee, and watch the sun light up the southeast wall of the Captain.

Timmy pulls up in his car around 9 o’clock. His stereo blasts an early 1980s cheese-ball song. He sings at the top of his lungs and dances seductively like an androgynous glam rocker, rubbing himself all over, swaying and winking to an imaginary crowd.

Timmy is hung-over again. Drunk even. His thick, reddish-brown hair is matted on one side of his head and pokes out like small cathedrals on the other, his eyes red as embers. While Keith and I have been rushing around the Valley trying to get our shit squared away for the climb, Timmy has enjoyed what he declares to be the biggest party week he’s seen in Yosemite.

Like a small whirlwind he dances toward us. “Oh my God,” he says. “Are you two monks? You guys missed it again. More chicks than ever last night – dirty dancing! Pelvises like Elvis’s grinding all over the place.”

Wound tight like a golf ball’s rubber-band innards, Timmy rolls up his sleeves, exposing his veiny forearms, and dumps out the contents of a haul bag. He introduces us to Dave Turner, the guy he has recruited to join us on the North America Wall. Dave is tall and lanky, quiet and casual. He’s known for rope-soloing the hardest aid lines on El Capitan.

Keith Malloy and Timmy O’Neill bivouac in the infamous Black Cave on the North America Wall. El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Keith has grown quieter as the days count down. He fumbles through a bunch of carabiners, fiddles with a wall-hauler, and throws it onto the heap. He stares up at El Capitan, one of the world’s tallest granite walls, one that he’ll be climbing in less than a day, a wall he called Half Dome while talking to someone on the phone last night.

The next morning we wake up on Mazatlán ledge. Thousands of feet of granite tower over us, nothing below but air. Timmy and Dave share their first 50/50 “cigarette” of the day. Keith remains deep in his sleeping bag, pressed between the wall and Timmy. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t say a word.

In the fall of 1964, Royal Robbins, Tom Frost, Chuck Pratt, and Yvon Chouinard – the dream team of their era – assembled to attempt the unclimbed North America Wall on the southeast face of El Capitan. After 10 days of climbing, battling rain and snow, they topped out on what was considered at the time the hardest rock climb in the world. Things are different now. The gear has improved and many have climbed this route since, but there remains an unbelievable amount of stress involved – both physical and mental.

Our crew is definitely not a “dream team.” Timmy is a speed freak – a fast-moving, impatient, top-notch climber. Dave is extraordinarily mellow – has everything so dialed he could do this in his sleep. Keith is mere luggage – an accomplished big-wave surfer, but not a climber by any standards. And I have done just enough of these climbs to be dangerous.

Later, at a belay, Timmy lights his fourth 50/50 of the morning and says, “Oh my God. I can’t believe we’re doing this. I’ve been up El Cap something like twenty-five times and it still freaks me out. I mean look where we are. It’s crazy. You’d think I’d get used to it, but no.”

He blows out a plume of smoke, pauses in thought, then yells, “Okay, Meaty Malloy! Put your jugs on that thing and haul!” Keith and I have become haul monkeys, counterweights as we drag an absurd amount of gear up the face. Dave is on lead, quietly gaining distance above.

It is morning again and we’re hanging in a bottomless alcove 1,600 feet off the ground. Everyone else is asleep. Light seeps over the horizon and drips like hot oil down the cold wall of the cave. I peek out over the portaledge, straight down to the valley floor. It’s strange to feel enclosed and protected but still very exposed.

Timmy wakes up. I hear him say, “No. We’re still here? Damn it. I thought I was dreaming.”

Morning moves slowly. We’re all tired, but Keith still hasn’t said much and I’m beginning to worry. “Keith,” I say. “Keith…” A long pause, and then he mumbles something from inside his sleeping bag.

The next day I wake to a light tapping sound on our rain fly. I stick my camera out the bottom of the fly and take a shot. I pull it back in; the entire LCD screen is white. We are floating in a cloud high above the earth. I listen to the snowflakes dancing on the fly, a lullaby rhythm increasing and decreasing with each gust of wind. Mesmerized, I fall back to sleep.

All day and night we are trapped in the Cyclops Eye, a 200-foot-high and 30-foot-deep indentation three-quarters of the way up the wall. In the calm between storm flurries, we crawl from our bivies and congregate on the narrow ledges. We share food, pass beers around, and drink French-pressed coffee. Timmy and Dave roll one cigarette after another. Dave takes out his solar-powered iPod and dances precariously on a tiny ledge. Next to him Keith, curled up in his sleeping bag, clutches at whatever he can get his hands on.

Farthest to the right is local legend Sean “Stanley” Leary. He was attempting to free climb El Niño, a variation of the original North America route, with his partner, who is hidden within the yellow portaledge. The storm forced the two teams to congregate in the Cyclops Eye for two nights until it cleared. North America Wall, El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Timmy O’Neill, Sean Leary, and Dave Turner wait out the storm in the Cyclops Eye. The North America Wall on El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Dark clouds pour in over the walls of Yosemite Valley and fill the valley floor. Then, with a light updraft, the clouds creep slowly up the wall and engulf us. Snowflakes appear in the whiteout, whipping around our faces. We crawl back into our cocoons and wait. The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep is Johnny Cash’s voice piercing the dull silence of snow, “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.”

We wake the next morning to bluebird conditions. It is cold, crisp, and unbelievably clear. The storm has set us back two days, and we’ve begun to ration food and water. Keith is showing rare signs of excitement.

In our first real conversation in five days, Keith says, “I don’t like sitting around. I like having something to do. It keeps my mind off the height.”

We lower him out over the abyss, 2,000 feet of air below and nothing but sky above. He yelps – a muffled attempt to yodel, but with his heart in his throat. I think of a Royal Robbins quote during an interview in his later years. He said, “You climb because you are afraid.”

We top out in the afternoon of the seventh day and head for the east ledges. The descent is the sketchiest part of the whole climb, almost worse than the climb itself. At least on the climb you are protected by the anchors you place. Here we have nothing but huge, awkward haul bags strapped to our backs. We’re tired, we’re anxious – one slip on the steep slabs could result in a hundred cartwheels followed by a 2,000-foot free-fall.

I remember how the first time I climbed El Capitan, I vowed, while on this same descent, to never do it again. And here I am again, the third time, stumbling down a trail, cursing my selective memory. I keep an eye on Keith. I can tell he is definitely not going to do this again.

Back at Curry Village I sleep heavily in my van while Keith finds a bed in one of the canvas tents. I get up early the next day and go for a walk, thinking Keith would sleep in. Surprised, I find him standing near the pizza deck, a huge smile on his face, drinking a large coffee.

“Man,” he replies, “I couldn’t sleep. I was so excited to just walk around, see new faces, not have to worry about dying all the time.”

Keith pulls out his wallet and holds it out in front of his face. “Watch this!” he says, and drops the wallet on the floor. “See, just pick it up. Ha! No problem! Ha, ha!”

There is a long pause as he studies the flow of ambling tourists. “Hey,” he says looking straight into my eyes, a wide smile, his ice-blue eyes glowing. “That was the toughest seven days of my entire life.”

Keith Malloy jugs above the Cyclops Eye. The North America Wall on El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Timmy O’Neill and Keith Malloy waking up in the Igloo, two pitches from the summit, last day on the North America Wall. El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Keith Malloy and Dave Turner in the Igloo, two pitches from the summit of the North America Wall. El Capitan, Yosemite, California. Photo: Jeff Johnson

Previous spread: Keith Malloy and Jeff Johnson part ways after the climb, and Jeff ventures south to catch a boat in Mexico that is headed for Patagonia, Chile. Photo: Jeff Johnson