- Speed climbing on The Nose – 1000m on El Capitan, Yosemite -
Vertical sprints. The endless cracks steepen, hand jam after hand jam. My breathing grows labored. Placing gear takes time, so I rarely bother. Falling is unthinkable, but is a possibility. Earlier, Libby had had a close call when her feet cut and she caught herself with a hand jam. Then on the Great Roof, a fixed nut fell out just after I’d trusted my entire weight to it. I hadn’t clipped a single piece of gear on the lead…
The upper pitches of the Nose blur to the final bolt ladder. I practically dyno between the bolts with 1,000 meters of granite dropping away below me. Then I’m running up the final slab, headed for the tree—the finish line.
Moments later, Libby is racing up, reaching for the tree.
On September 23, 2012, my climbing partner, Chantel Astorga and I climbed the Nose in 7.26 hours, then kept climbing to become the first female team to do the “link up”: El Capitan and Half Dome in under 24 hours.
The next day, basking in the last rays of sun in El Cap Meadow, we gazed contentedly at the Nose. When I had first arrived in Yosemite three years earlier, El Capitan had seemed unimaginably huge—I’d doubted whether a Kiwi rookie like me could ever climb it. Yet the next year I realized a life goal by freeing and leading every pitch on the Salathé and a few days after that did a free-as-can-be ascent of Free Rider in 14 hours.
The Salathé was a steep learning curve, that taught me proper jamming, and how El Cap granite works. I began to trust bad finger locks and tiny foot chips, and to relax and move quickly and efficiently despite the exposure. I also learned that El Cap is serious—you can easily get stuck up there in a bad situation.
As dusk fell over the Meadow, the once sizable group of tourists, climbers and Valley bums wandered off. I remained, chatting with Sean “Stanley” Leary. Stanley was quiet and unassuming – you’d never have guessed that he already climbed El Cap over 70 times, held the speed record for the Salathé (4:55, and he climbed the Nose that same day), had done three El Cap routes in a day and had blazed up the Nose in 2:36.
“I’m looking for a partner for a speed run on the Nose,” Stanley said.
I didn’t know if I could keep up with him, but blurted out a yes anyway.
“I might be a little slow though,” I added, “and have to be off by 2:00. I need to be at the airport by 4:00.”
Stanley nodded, even offered me a ride to the airport. We spent the next few hours discussing strategy and racking. Our plan was to simul-climb the 3,000-foot route in two blocks, Sean leading first, to Boot Flake, where I would take the lead. We’d carry a skeleton rack that wasn’t even two complete sets of cams and a few offset wires—a meager amount of gear for one of the biggest walls on Earth.
We started at first light, moving together up the lower pitches. Although I was breathing hard, I kept pace with Stanley. I wasn’t a dead weight at the end of the rope, after all! When it was my lead, I raced through the upper half. We hit the top in 4:30 hours.
I was stunned and hooked by the rush of moving quickly on a big wall. For decades the men’s speed record had continually gotten faster, yet women had never really dabbled: The women’s record was still over 10 hours. I had always wanted to learn how Sean and Dean Potter, Hans Florine and the Huber brothers could climb the Nose in under three hours. Now I knew – confidence, fitness and familiarity with the route let them shave hours, then minutes, off the time. They were also willing to take big risks. Stanley and I had simul-climbed, moving together with very little gear between us. Although we had carried a skeleton rack, it had been just enough even though we’d only done one changeover, and only had to tag gear up to the leader once, halfway up my block.
Even though Stanley and I had worked well together, we knew we could go a lot faster. This run had been our first together, and neither of us was especially fit. If we learned to work better in unison, got in shape and made minor adjustments to our strategy, the record might even be beatable—the women’s record certainly was.
September, 2013 When I returned to Yosemite my goal was the speed record. I spent the first week juggling partners, trying for records with Stanley and another good friend, Libby Sauter.
Libby and I went for the record twice. Uncomfortable with simul-climbing the more difficult upper half of the route, we instead used the infamous Pakistani Death Loop (PDL) technique. The PDL is riskier than traditional belayed climbing, yet not as risky as simul-climbing. Using the PDL, the leader climbs a pitch, clips the anchor, quickly hauls up the slack on the lead rope and ties it off. The leader then takes off with 30 to 100 feet of slack and no belay while the second jugs. Once the second reaches the chains, the leader goes back on belay—it’s not uncommon for the leader to climb most of the next pitch completely without a belay.
Our first run felt slow, and we struggled with dehydration and hot, slimy rock. We flowed better on our second effort and trimmed off a huge amount of time, establishing a new female record of 5:39 hours. Yet, Libby and I knew we could do better. We still had a lot to learn.
Over the following weeks, Stanley and I roped up, refining our teamwork and gaining the fitness necessary for a sub- three-hour push to break the men’s record. Almost ready for the real thing, we did one more practice run. Topping out that time, I saw Sean below me clawing up the summit slab. His hands were bloodied and he had fear in his eyes. After catching his breath, he
said he had nearly slipped in the steep section near the top while we were simul-climbing with minimal pieces between us. A fall would have been horrific. We both accepted the risks entailed in speed climbing, yet that brush with disaster made me consider the risks in greater detail.
Then the unexpected happened. Yosemite was to be closed because of the government shut down. Some climbers left, and others prepared for El Cap—if they were on the wall before the closure, they couldn’t get busted.
After the park closed, rangers watched the popular climbs, ambushing climbers on their descents and fining them for breaking the law. Determined, Stanley and I planned for another run on the Nose. To avoid being caught, we’d wear discrete clothes that blended with the rock. Friends would drop us off and warn us of ranger activity.
Plan in place, Stanley and I walked briskly to the Nose in the first rays of light. There, we were surprised to see teams lined up on the first pitches— everyone seemed to have the same idea. We simul-climbed and caught team after team. Realizing that we were speed climbing, everyone graciously stepped aside to let us pass. When I took over the lead at halfway, I had lost track of the number of groups we had passed. Higher on the route, the crowd thinned, but I still didn’t feel like we were moving fast. On top, I glanced at the timer and was stunned: 3:29!
Later, Stanley and I calculated that we had passed 11 parties, at least 22 people, costing us precious minutes. If we made another run when the route was less crowded, we were sure we could go sub three hours—faster than that was possible, but would be very difficult.
Hiding in the Valley became increasingly difficult. The entrances were guarded and even residents were told not to recreate. It was incredible to experience the typically bustling Yosemite Valley nearly empty, but the fear of getting caught became too great, and I left the Valley on a perfect day in early October.
September, 2014: “Fuck!” I muttered, submitting to fatigue and slouching onto the small ledge. “I just want to be off this fucking route”
My body ached, my feet burned and my mouth was so dry that even eating a Shot Blok was impossible. Libby and I had been climbing on the Nose for over five hours and we still weren’t near the top. Thinking that the day would be cooler—and that we’d move much faster—I’d brought just over half a liter of water, and drank that before we reached half way.
“You’re doing great, Mayan!” Libby encouraged, nearly catching up to me as I slowly starting aiding the thin, flared pin scars of the Glowering Spot.
“I hate aid climbing.” I cursed.
Tangled in a mess of aiders, daisy chains and clusters of cams, I wondered why I had wanted to break the record Libby and I already held. I had planned to return with Stanley to attempt the overall record, but he had died BASE jumping in Zion. His death stunned me. Initially I amazed that he’d ever climb with me, but then we’d become good friends—he was one of the most kind and genuine people I’ve known – an unsung hero of Yosemite.
Tears flooded my eyes. Maybe my mother, who had also recently passed away leaving another hole in my life, was right by questioning my drive to push everything to the limit. Destructive thoughts continued, and tears started flowing down my cheeks. Then an inner voice told me to “fucking pull it together!” I quickly wiped my eyes to hide my breakdown from Libby, pushing my inner struggle to the depths of consciousness.
At last, Libby and I reached the top. We were exhausted and glad to have the climb behind us but disappointed in our performance. We knew this run would be slow as we relearned the route, but we’d been annihilated.
“I guess doing a speed run up the Nose is still a rough intro to Yosemite, after being away for a year,” I said.
“It’s OK,” Libby reassured me. “Remember our first run last year? It was the same thing. Then we crushed it the next time!”
I nodded. She was right.
After two days rest and rehydration, we tried again. This time the Nose felt like a different route. Everything was easier and I was back to my usual self— blocking out fear and enjoying the climbing. We reached the top almost an hour under our previous time, with a new record of 5:02.
Speed climbing on the Nose is an addiction. I love the feeling of climbing ceaselessly for 3,000 feet, when everything flows and you experience the harmony and trust required to climb quickly. Speed climbing requires me to discard all of the rules I generally follow. Style doesn’t matter, speed does. You clip, pull or stand on anything available. We often only place a couple of pieces per pitch. Being “safe” takes on a new meaning. We clip one carabiner to one bolt at belays. It’s a calculated risk. Each time I reach the top I know with small improvements I could go faster.
October 30, 2014. “Three. Two. One. GO!” I hit start on my timer, and Libby begins climbing. She moves smoothly up the first pitch, not racing, but aiming for perfect execution.
“Move slow to move fast,” Libby says under her breath “Start off slow, go go go. Start off fast, just won’t last.” These had become our mantras, the second a quote from one of the current men’s record holders, Hans Florine.
Seconds later, Libby’s foot pops and with a cry she is off.
The rope catches her after just a few feet—she has fallen in one of the only places on the entire route where pro is nearby and when she has a real belay. Though rattled, she pulls back and finishes the pitch, still hitting the chains at the end of the pitch in record time. I consider asking if she wants to start over, but when she charges past the anchors,
I yell encouragement. Moments later the rope runs out and it’s my turn to start climbing. After witnessing Libby’s fall, I place my hands and feet with care.
“Take! I’m at the first pendy,” comes Libby’s voice, drifting down from above.
“Perfect, got you,” I reply, yarding in on the rope and letting her counterweight boost me through the first crux, a few delicate moves halfway up the first pitch.
“OK, back on. Climbing!” Libby yells seconds later.
We continue, falling into a rhythm and talking only when necessary. The pitches zip by, and my fatigue and nervousness disappear as I realize we are moving faster than ever. Our timing is perfect. Whenever Libby needs to take and lower at a pendulum, she pulls me through a crux section. Near the top of Sickle Ledge at the end of four pitches, I pause, waiting for Libby to reach the next bolt, and sneak a sip of water.
“In hard,” comes her voice.
I lower myself and sprint sideways across the slab, snagging a diagonal hold, then dyno for a bolt.
“OK, off,” I yell. “I’ll pop the Gri?”
“Fuck yeah! I’m climbing!” shouts Libby and we are off again, 60 meters of slack hanging between us, both facing terrible falls as we move simultaneously up the Stove Legs to Dolt Tower a third of the way up the wall.
Five pitches later, Libby leads without gear up Boot flake, our change-over point. Fifty feet below her, I cinch down my shoes and shove a Shot Blok in my mouth. She finishes the pitch and I check my watch: 2:05—our record time!
Libby takes me hard on the rope as I unclip and instantly begin running sideways across the big pendulum of the King Swing, leaping the concave and lunging for a small edge.
“Got it! Slack!” I shout, beginning to climb again. Once I reach the belay, Libby sends the remaining gear flying down the rope to me. Slinging the gear over my shoulder, I move across a delicate slab, large loops of slack hanging below me. We continue moving together and soon I’m passing a belayer in the upper corners. I catch the leader at the next belay, and he shuffles aside so I can join him, expecting, that I’ll stop and belay Libby up to me. When I instead short fix the rope and take off unbelayed, his face scrunches up in confusion.
Breathing heavily, I plug in hand jam after hand jam, barely stopping to place gear. “A hand jam is as good as a bolt,” I remind myself.
Then, suddenly, I’m at the last bolt ladder, throwing dynamically from bolt to bolt, then running up the last slab, and around the tree at end of the 34th and last pitch, not stopping until the rope comes taut. Almost doubling over, I wheeze as Libby sprints up the pitch, hands scrambling on the slab. She throws herself at the tree, fingertips just touching as she collapses.
Beep… “4:43!” I yell, and run to join Libby.
We’ve done it. We’ve broken our record by nearly an hour. Everything went perfectly and we are happy with our time. We never have to try again. We really are done.
Yet, standing at the tree, gear tangled around us and with most of the day still left, we know we can go faster.
New Zealander Mayan Smith-Gobat is one of the most accomplished climbers, male or female.