So, two weeks after my leg surgery, I finally got up the gumption to try to climb Pyramid Peak via the Rocky Creek Canyon route. I knew the math of it was daunting: 4250 vertical feat over 3.3 miles (that's just to the top) - the highest vertical climb in the Tahoe Sierras. I started putting it into frames: hmmm, that's 1.5 times as high as El Cap, that's like hiking the Yosemite falls trail 3 times in a row ... Ouch!
So, I get up at 8:30, finally get on the road by 9:30 after Gas, Starbucks, etcetera. When I arrive in the general area between Strawberry and Twin Bridges I start looking for the semi-hidden start to the route. Of course, I miss it on the first run but as I'm going back down hill see some cars parked in a small pull out and figure it must be around there somewhere - no other reason to park.
I had read that there was a hubcap attached to the rock near the start of the route, but there wasn't. Instead, I saw some spray paint and thought that might be it. Relentless steepness and small cairns proved the path. The entire trail took some route finding ability and faith, especially the top. However, the good climbers of the Sierra were kind enough to set and maintain a series of cairns, so I never got off route.
The lower valley, from the road to the rim, is across the highway from Lover's Leap. I knew the Leap was a few hundred feet high, and so tried to get a sense of my progress by measuring its comparative size. It quickly got smaller.
There are some beautiful falls in the spring and I stopped for a minute or two to look around. However, I couldn't allow myself to get into a frame of mind that wasn't about motion. I was using my old Sugar Bowl blue pole like an ice axe, and used my upper body to help me up in many sections. Interestingly, as I was climbing I never thought it was particularly steep, it was only on the decent that I kept saying, 'I came up this?!'
At that top of the canyon, there is of course a break in the trees, you see the sky and start thinking, "I wonder how much farther?" I had no sense of the mountain - you can't see the peak from the route until you are out of the canyon. So, I was tremendously excited when I could finally see the peak. In the altitude (more about that later) the distance was foreshortened and I thought, hmm, maybe an hour to the top.
Ha.
So, the snow begins. Patchy reminder to keep my feet as dry as possible. Gortex doesn't do much good when the snow comes in tops of your shoes. Anyway, route finding in the upper two thirds becomes more challenging, but the general idea of 'go up to the top' kind of straightens things out. About 1/2 way up the route, you finally cross the creek and from then on stay on the left side all the way up to the summit. (I think - there is a snow melt creek you cross but I don't think it's the same thing on the upper slope.)
I finally meet the first people of the day on the upper section of the route, before crossing over to the summit pyramid. Two ridiculously fit 20 year olds with a modicum of misery in their eyes. They wish me a good climb and depart downward. All in all, there are only 6 people (besides me) on the route that day. I don't know how many came up the Rocky Creek canyon route. As I get on the final, truly evil, talus slope leading the last 500 feet to the top I'm joined by someone. When we get to the top we exchange cameras for some photos and he tells me he is from San Jose and that he came up the Horsetail Falls route - a greater distance but much less steep.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Crossing the upper section of the summit pyramid is very windy - maybe 40 miles per hour, and very cold. My hand are nearly numb. I find myself climbing up the ridge side of the talus slope - thinking I can avoid some of the wind - and the boulders are very big - maybe 3-4 feet high. This make the going very hard. By this point I am miserable exhausted. My lungs and general energy seem okay (gaspy and paralytic, but okay), but my legs and particularly my right gluteus are destroyed. They were killed off by the lower canyon climb. I keep thinking how stupid I am to imagine climbing 5.7 on the east face of Whitney, at 14,000 feet is going to be easy. Here I am at 10,000 and heaving for breath every 5 steps. I now realize that I was complete glycogen depleted at this point and If I'd eaten more it wouldn't have hurt so bad. However, I had no hunger. (I later learned that I burned something like 6,000 calories over the course of the day).
Hard to describe the feeling of the talus slope. Very cold, very windy. Incredible views - though I didn't look around much. I was too focused on just getting to the top, knowing I'd enjoy the view there. Moreover, the summit truly blocks all sense of a view of the other side, so when you get to the summit and see the view it is both arresting and breathtaking.
There is a USGS marker, and a little pyramid.
Like so many, I felt great triumph at having climbed to the top. When I looked down, I could see that 300 foot high Lovers Leap was a tiny mound on the horizon. Man,that's a long way down. Again, both astonishment and disbelief. I'm 44, weigh 250 pounds, and climbed it in about 3 hours and 30 minutes. If I take out breaks, call it 3 hours and 15 minutes of straight aerobic output.
I'm not sure how to think about it.
I figured 2 hours for the decent, and it turns out I was right. What I hadn't counted on was the misery.
When I train, it's the climbing muscle groups that get the work - inclined hiking, stairmaster, etcetera. There doesn't seem to be a way to train the quadriceps (and calves) for the punishment of deep downhill climbing on a gym machine.
The first part probably screwed me up the worst. Going down the talus slope mean jumping down on one, off balance leg, 2-4 feet per step. That's just too much impact for me to shake off I guess.
I felt wicked tired, but mostly made my way down fairly quickly. It was steep, and there was a lot of ankle challenging twists and turns, but I don't remember, at that point, feeling very bad.
When I finally crossed the river and started down that canyon proper the angle increased dramatically. Suddenly, I could feel that my legs were getting wobbly. I started to feel some anxiety because I knew I still had a long way to go and each step was getting to be hard. I soon found a walking stick and realized two would be even better. I used them with every step and now think I'd still be up there if I hadn't found them. I was able to transfer a lot of weight onto my arms and they provided much needed stability. At this point, I started to feel what marathoners call ' the bonk' - total glycogen depletion. My legs were getting to where they wouldn't obey my thoughts. That was very scary. It was too steep to really rest - at most I would stop, heave for breath (going downhill no less!) and then quickly move on. I had a real fear that if I actually sat down that the muscles in my legs would sieze. So it continued all the way down. I kept pushing on while simultaneously begging for it to end. I just wanted to get down.
I remember reading Joe Simpson's book, 'Touching the Void' where he said that while he was struggling for life on his decent, that he said the most insipid pop songs kept going through his mind. Here too, I had the cheezy Will Smith's 'Welcome to Miami - Bienvenido a Miami' running through my head.
Too weird.
Anyway, I finally got down to the road. I hobbled across and on down to my car. I was so tired that I collapsed on the hood. Just then my wife called. Great timing.
I took a picture of my exhausted face after I stretched (I feared siezing muscles on the car ride home).
Overall, 8500 vertical feet over 6.6 miles in 6 hours.
I seriously question whether I'll every do that again, but I'm glad I did it at least once.
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