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Last week we headed out to Yosemite for one final round of climbing and camping before winter sets in. Our posse consisted of most of our household, Morgan, Nate, Anita and myself, along with our new roommate Claire, and Riley.

Nate, Claire and I got a late start Saturday morning on our approach to Braille Book, a 5 to 6 pitch 5.8 route on Higher Cathedral Rock. The approach turned out to be a slow-going slog up a boulder and bush filled gully. This gully, which ran between Higher Cathedral and the Cathedral Spires, was covered in the beautiful fallen yellow leaves of big-leaf maple, with giant conifers looming overhead. And towering above the trees, the vast granite walls of Yosemite. Fall rules. Climbing rules.
We reached the base of the route at around 1pm, a bit late in the day to start a 700 ft. climb with a three person team in late October. We also had the pleasure of starting the route just behind another three person team: a Russian family consisting of mom, dad and their 9 yr. old son. Nate led the way and simultaneously belayed Claire and I up after him on seperate ropes.
Nate was thinking, “Duads, we might have to bail on this after a few pitches.”
I was all like, “Yeah, these Borat-like characters are moving pretty slow, but I think we can make it before dark.”
Claire says, “We might have to reverse the approach in the dark, but that wont be too bad.”
Nate again, “Lets just play it by ear. If we decide to rappel off we’ll have to leave gear behind.”

The climbing was super fun and fluid, rather tranquil really. Tons of knobs. With a few steep, but relatively easy cracks. Almost like climbing on really textured limestone. All in all it was a quality climb on a pretty classic route. That said, one pitch was an old-school Yosemite sandbag in the deepest sense. A 5.8 flared crack/chimney with next to no holds. I took a little fall on it about half-way up and Claire decided to forgo the climbing altogether and just ascended the rope with prussik knots. This unpleasant pitch ended with me putting my hand in a reeking mound of bat shit on the belay ledge. The nasty goo smelled like a mix of horse urine and unkempt chicken coup.
As we finished up the sandbag pitch we watched the awesome fall light fade from the valley. Stars came out and night descended upon us. At this point we figured we had roughly two pitches left, maybe doable in one long pitch. After some confusion in the dark about the direction of route we finally reached the ridge top. The last pitch was true to the guide book’s description: “5.4 knob mania.”
The Russians had finished a bit ahead of us and we now nowhere to be seen. As we got our gear together and prepared for our walk-off descent we saw two other headlamps on the ridge wandering around. By the time we were ready to move forward, the other climber’s lights had disappeared. I forged ahead to ascertain the way down to the gully, which should have been down the backside of the ridge, onward to a notch in the ridge and then down the gully we had come up. We descended a few hundred feet of steep 3rd class rock in a small gully for about 20 minutes until it totally cliffed-out in a grove of small oaks. Nate decided to rappel off the cliff and see where it would lead us.
“No good, just more cliffs, ” he says. “This can’t be the right way down.” He came back up and we retraced our steps back up the small gully. We returned to the top of the ridge and followed another mediocre trail that ended up leading us down the backside of the ridge, more or less in the right direction. Unfortunately in the dark we just couldn’t tell exactly where the notch and gully was. As we continued down, tending to our left, we ended up scraping it through the thick Sierra foothill chaparral of manzanita and scrub oak for the next couple of hours. It was starting to get pretty late by this point and I was getting worried about how Morgan and the others back at camp were reacting to our extreme tardiness.
After another hour or so navigating through the nonsense of pseudotrails that wound between rocky outcrops, sharp deadwood and scrubby bushes we decided to call it quits for the night. We were damn fatigued and out of water at this point, though our dried fruit and Snickers scene was straight. Except for our concern for our worried comrades back at camp, we were in good spirits. We unpacked our two day packs and uncoiled our two ropes, transforming the ropes and one pack into some kind of illegitimate mattress to protect us from the cold earth. Nate is wearing his flops and so puts the other pack on his feet for warmth. Thus commenced 6 or so hours of spooning, shivering and fitful rest.

Morning. Up and at ‘em. We climb back up to the top of the ridge to get our bearings. We are treated to a stupendous view of early morning light hitting El Cap and friends. Very fine indeed.
“Well this is just a huge cliff on this side of the ridge” says me. “But check it out, that’s our notch right down there. Oh, we were so close last night. Well, lets git at r.”
Back down we go once more and at long last get ourselves into that elusive notch. I am craving water like the Kottonmouth Kings and so am scrambling fast to get down. From behind me i hear…
“Bees’ Nest!! Run! Its in my ear! Fuck! It bit me in my ear.” Claire and Nate received multiple stings each. The final insult to a long day and longer night. And that topped off by a run-in with a park ranger (he was casually looking for us, as Morgan and Riley had filed a Missing Persons report the night before) who lightheartedly chided us for getting benighted on Braille Book. What a ridiculous and wonderful adventure.