"Don't forget Dave"

Sam and I arrived in Tuolumne Meadows on Saturday afternoon. We used up our 7-night allowance at Camp 4 and the forecast called for unclimbably hot temperatures, so we left the Valley for the high country.

We set up at the campground and headed to Lembert Dome to test the Tuolumne rock. We opted for a supposed five star classic—Direct North.

We scrambled up forty feet of third class to what we suspected was the base of the route. Sam tentatively wandered over the first pitch of slab—looking for gear and holds that didn’t crumble to the touch. He stopped after sixty feet, announcing that he was already at the start of the second pitch.

The plan was for me to link the second 5.9 and third 5.9-with-one-10a-move pitches and set Sam up for the final 5.10 pitch. I plunged into my lead, stepping delicately on the sandy, rotten rock. I proceeded slowly but surely.

Route finding was next to impossible. The slab was sprawling; one feature was indistinguishable from the next when compared to the guidebook. 

Our certainty about whether we were on the right route was somewhere around “hunch” level.

After fifty or so feet, it seemed likely that I had worked through the supposed 5.9 second pitch bulge and corner system. For the third pitch, I was looking for a 5.8 crack capped by a 10a overhang. I got to a stance at the start of a crack and plugged in a micro wire and green C3.

I tried working into the crack from a few angles before deciding it didn’t feel like 5.8. My lack of confidence about whether I was on the correct route made it so I didn’t want to climb higher into a potentially harder-than-I-was-prepared-for route. 

I added a red Camelot to a horizontal out right to turn my marginal gear into an anchor. Sam followed the pitch, muttering about poor guidebook instructions, crumbling slab rock, and impossible route finding.

He liked the looks of the crack 15 feet to the right of the one I was set up to start. He traversed over to the easier-looking crack and walked up it without hesitation.

We agreed that the crack I attempted looked harder than 5.8, but we both felt that what Sam led was easier than 5.8. So, maybe we weren’t on the route after all. That uncertainty combined with the dirty rock and the setting sun made us decide to quit for the evening. 

We walked off the slab. Sam confidently—even happily—led the way. I followed reluctantly. We traversed the low angle slab at the path of least resistance, but I still felt like I could topple head-over-heels at any moment.

“Oooh, this is scary. This is dangerous,” I said, trying not to whine.

“If you fall, you aren’t going to die. You probably won’t even get hurt. You’ll just slide to the bottom,” Sam tried to assure me, “Anyway, you won’t fall.”

We made it down and back to camp for early bed, our first-day-in-a-new-area fiascos safely behind us.

Sunday, we took the recommendation of a camp ranger and headed to East Cottage Dome. We wandered around on slabs in the blazing sun for an hour before abandoning the questionable guidebook instructions and following our noses to the crag.

The East Cottage Dome was a welcomed playland after Saturday’s wandering dirty slab fest. The cliff was 70 feet at its highest and generously bolted. The rock was golden with orange and black water streaks. It was steep and featured with knobs. The knobs ranged from car radio dial to spaceship launch pad control size.

We had fun, fun, fun mostly flashing routes rated 10a to 11a.

Monday, we woke up feeling psyched. We headed out to the Harlequin Dome to get on Hoodwinked—a crack line with a 10a roof crux.

The dome was across the road from Tenaya Lake. The landscape was gorgeous. 

We parked next to the lake and sorted through our mess of gear and ropes. In the process of organizing, I set the collage-decorated pill bottle holding Dave’s ashes on the car roof.

That bottle has been traveling with me since my first big adventure after Dave’s death in the summer of 2010. I have scattered Dave in places we enjoyed together—like the Adirondacks and Montreal—places I know Dave loved—like Nashville and Kansas City, and places that feel special to me—like Portland and Yosemite.

Bringing Dave’s remains with me on adventures has been a way for me to heal and to honor Dave. 

Two weeks after accepting Sam's Yosemite invite, I packed my camping and climbing gear along with my travel bottle of Dave and hopped on a plane to California.

Yosemite’s massive beauty has been blowing my mind since my arrival.

I have been reverently spreading Dave’s ashes in beautiful spots.

Dave is floating in Yosemite creeks, he is mixing in with pine needles on the forest floor, he is riding the wind, and kissing the grand rock edges.

I carried the bottle up the East Buttress of El Capitan. I spread ashes on ledges and from the summit.

So, over the past couple of weeks, Sam has gotten used to the bottle of ashes. He has listened to plenty of Dave stories.

In the parking area by Tenaya Lake, after we packed our gear, I turned from the car as I hoisted my pack on my back.

Sam nodded to the car roof behind me and said, “Don’t forget Dave.”

Something about Sam’s casual reminder was so endearing. He said Dave's name with ease and familiarity.

Even for someone who didn’t know him, Dave is impossible to forget.