Shattered Air: A True Account of Catastrophe and Courage on Yosemite's Half Dome

by Bob Madgic

  Increasingly, he and Esteban took their personal quests to natural settings, especially those offering unique vistas. At night, they often climbed a towering tree and sat on a high limb, fueling their talk with beer or tequila. One time Rice chose a tree in the middle of a cemetery at midnight to put them in the presence of spirits; relating to the dead, he figured, was an excellent way to confront fear. Another night found them high up in a century-old oak, the tallest in San Jose. Esteban had played in it while growing up and carried a scar on his chest from where one of its branches had broken his fall and saved his life after he lost his grip higher up. The interior of this grandfatherly oak was hollow, burned out from a lightning strike. At the time, they gave its charred black surfaces no particular thought.

  Years later, they would have abundant cause to.

  Another favorite place was 'Acid Rock' in the foothills above the Bay Area, a huge formation rounded on one side and with a steep vertical cliff on the other. A 'mini Half Dome,' Esteban called it. The top provides a panoramic view of South San Francisco, the South Bay, and even much of the East Bay and Oakland. The two often went up there at night to enjoy the necklace of shimmering lights surrounding the dark bay waters, all of it encapsulated by star-filled heavens. Sometimes they stayed until sunrise.

  For larger social gatherings, usually on the beach in Santa Cruz and often involving women, Rice prepared his 'famous guava juice,' a potent blend of fresh cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, oranges, lemons, limes, seedless green grapes, mangoes, pineapples, nectarines, peaches, and a 'sacred' guava, all submerged in massive amounts of Hansen’s Natural Soda in a huge ice chest and laced with at least two bottles of Bacardi rum 151 proof. After a caveat from Rice that the 'inspired chef' was not responsible for any actions that might result after downing two glasses of this concoction, the juice was duly imbibed and the 'enriched fruit' eaten. The recipe’s natural sugars tended to keep everybody up all night; happily, few got sick. It was, in Rice’s lexicon, 'the original nectar of the gods.'

  Rice often provided an enormous chuck steak as well. To properly prepare the meat, he first elevated it above his head and then walked into the ocean until both he and the steak were submerged. This 'sacrifice to the gods,' he claimed, also seasoned the meat with spices from the sea.

  The ocean figured in another of Rice’s rituals. With Esteban, he would swim out to the quarter-mile buoy in apparent disregard of the frigid water and its powerful riptides and undertows—not to mention the possible presence of sharks—while each swimmer held a joint above his head. At the buoy they smoked the joints, then swam back stoned—a good test of their basic manhood and survival abilities, Rice believed.

  Their thrill seeking sometimes bordered on insanity. Once, en route to Santa Cruz on Highway 17—aka Blood Alley—Esteban sped his motorcycle perilously close to Rice’s car so they could pass a joint back and forth. The road is a winding, treacherous, two-lane speedway (center dividers would be installed years later) where few weekends passed without a major accident. On another occasion, Rice misjudged and strained his back diving off a cliff. On yet another, he damaged his teeth when his truck slammed into a telephone pole. Esteban suffered mishaps of his own but accepted them as the price for being an outdoor soldier: Minor wounds were inevitable and should be disregarded or serve as proud emblems of missions during which fear had been conquered.

  Esteban came to believe that, together, he and Rice were invincible.

  Eventually, Rice focused on the grandest of all locations— Yosemite and its crown jewel, Half Dome. He himself already had hiked to its summit several times. Now Rice, twenty-four, judged Esteban, twenty-two, ready for the granite monolith.

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED IN Yosemite Valley on that Saturday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend in 1981 and saw Half Dome, its striking image reflected in the Merced River, the moment was a defining one for Esteban. Still exhilarated from the leap into Paradise and the discovery of the antlers, he now felt an irresistible new power tugging at him.

  The two had decided to backpack four miles into Little Yosemite Valley and spend the night above Nevada Fall, braving the company of insatiable mosquitoes and pesky bears. The next day they would hike the remaining four miles to the top of Half Dome. Leaving the Valley floor, Rice set off at a fast pace. He and Esteban took pride in their fitness, the drinking and drugging notwithstanding. They swam vigorously, hiked long distances, scaled heights. Esteban lifted weights. On all such adventures, each tried to outdo the other, and neither would admit weakness or back away from a challenge. Once, on a backpacking trip in the rugged Big Sur coastal region, Esteban had fallen way behind. Rice told him his fatigue was mental, something he could overcome if he wanted to. He branded Esteban a puss, gutless, a laggard, all of which inflamed Esteban, who then somehow pushed his spent legs in an effort to exceed Rice’s pace.

  And so it went between them.

  On this day in Yosemite, the two sped up the easiest part of the Mist Trail to the bridge, where they savored Vernal Fall in its full spring glory Then it was up the constricted canyon, where they attacked the high granite risers, sucking in ever-larger quantities of ever-thinner air as they ascended. A two-thousand-foot elevation gain in that narrow ravine was a push even for someone without a backpack. For Rice and Esteban, the physical demands and muscle burn added zest to the experience.

  Above Vernal Fall, Rice tried to climb faster yet. More steps had to be navigated, but most of them were low and graduated. For Esteban, the tramp up what they called staircase canyon was more than just a test of stamina and strength. He felt his spirit absorbing powerful energy from some distant source.

  Atop Nevada Fall, their hearts pounding, they stretched their legs out for long minutes to ward off cramping. Their quadriceps ached and their inner thighs were as taut as bass fiddle strings. But pain was transmuted by a heady sense of conquest. 'Doing the staircase' would thereafter become one of their mandatory rituals.

  At midmorning on Sunday, they struck out for the Dome.

  As he marched upward for what seemed like unending miles, it became evident to Esteban he was not prepared for the hike’s relentless demands. Without a sports regimen to keep himself in top shape, he had allowed his body to deteriorate. The constant partying, done to mask his many failings, was now taking its toll. To escape the pain his body was experiencing, he turned inward, contemplating things going on in his life.

  By this time he deeply regretted his lapses in high school, mainly his not fulfilling his potential in sports. He knew he should have repeated his all-league performance in football his senior year, and that he could have played baseball at the college level, perhaps even professionally. His self-destructive ways ultimately had robbed him of success in the most important area of his life, and nothing else offered that sense of personal worth and accomplishment. A huge vacuum now existed, which he filled by hanging out with a bunch of alcoholics and drug addicts, and even a criminal element.

  He realized that he had accomplished nothing of real worth or importance in his life. And he had no clue on what he would do next.

  But this trek to Half Dome felt right.

  Rice paused halfway up at a stream bubbling out of the hillside, a tiny flow in a gully off the trail. The water was refreshing and cold, tasting like the granite rock of Yosemite. As the only source of fresh water along the trail, the partly concealed outflow attracted many hikers. But for Esteban and Rice it was their secret good-luck spring of artesian water, an obligatory pause to quench thirst and replenish spirit. On the descent, Rice would refill his canteen and carry the precious contents home, a gift of nectar from the gods to cleanse and sustain his body between quests.

  The trail took them to Half Dome’s shoulder (then informally called quarter dome, and now known as Sub Dome). The steepness of the abrupt hump surprises most first-timers. Traversing it required climbing the nearly six hundred steps put in place by Yosemite trail crews over the years.

  Beside the stairway at the base
of Sub Dome was a metal sign in both English and Spanish in bold red letters:

  DANGER

  IF A THUNDERSTORM IS ANYWHERE ON THE HORIZON

  DO NOT PASS BEYOND THIS SIGN.

  LIGHTNING HAS STRUCK HALF DOME DURING EVERY

  MONTH OF THE YEAR.

  PELIGRO

  SI ESTA EMINENTE UNA TORMENTA

  NO PASE ESTE PUNTO.

  EL RELAMPAGO CAE SOBRE HALF DOME

  CADA MES DEL ANO.

  Esteban and Rice, preoccupied with their push to the top, proceeded up the stairs with nary a glance at the sign. In any case, the sky was clear. By this point Esteban’s physical condition was near-ing its limits. With his stamina exhausted and legs that both ached and felt like butter, it was as though he were pushing against an immovable wall. He didn't think he could continue up this steep grade, never mind the final push to the top of Half Dome. After taking a few steps he stopped and leaned on his legs, his hands pressing against his knees to support his upper body, all the while gasping for breath.

  Rice looked at him and told him that he didn't have what it took to do the Dome with him; he was weak.

  Once again, Esteban had to dig deeply to meet Rice’s challenge. He forced his legs to move, one step at a time, fighting back the muscle burn, and made it to the top of Sub Dome where Rice waited.

  There the two looked across a low saddle at cables running high up the granite slope of Half Dome. The daunting sight usually triggers an adrenaline rush in newcomers. Esteban was no exception. It was the last hurdle, now only six hundred feet away, and when he surmounted it he would stand at the apex of that wondrous pinnacle that had stared down on him just the prior day. At that moment, Esteban felt powerful vibrations emanating from Half Dome and resonating deep inside. He knew that this mountain would change his life. What he couldn't know was the extent to which this granite temple would affect not only his life, but also that of the companion who'd brought him here this day, and those of others who'd follow in their footsteps.

  AFTER CROSSING THE SADDLE and now at the base of Half Dome’s final steep slope, Esteban and Rice stared at the parallel steel cables leading skyward. Most mountain trails—Mount Whitney’s, for example—have switchbacks to maintain a fifteen-degree gradient. The typical home staircase rises at an angle not exceeding forty degrees. But Half Dome’s incline from that point is around forty-five degrees for the most part, and up to sixty degrees along certain portions. More intimidating are the steep, rounded slopes off to the sides of the cables; without something to hold on to, a hiker would likely slide to oblivion. So the cables provide essential grip. Gloves help, both to protect climbers' hands and to enhance their grasp.

  But even with the cables and gloves, the prospect of pressing on is simply too fearsome for some; they go no farther. Some who do proceed suffer leg cramps or muscle strains from the high leg lifts that are necessary; they quit, too. Still others lack the upper-body strength to pull themselves up the cables, which, strung on metal poles, are above the heads of many hikers bent forward to counteract the incline. Despite the rigors, most who get as far as the cables manage to complete the ascent by pushing their bodies in a last supreme effort. Waif-like women shorter than five feet complete the climb, as do hikers in their sixties, in a few hardy cases seventies, and even on occasion eighties.

  The usual climbing mode is an accelerated driving of the legs coordinated with determined pulling on the cables, a rest at one of the horizontal two-by-four boards affixed at ground level to the vertical iron poles at ten-foot intervals, and another spurt up the grade to the next board, followed by another rest. Sometimes, if there’s a traffic jam, faster climbers go outside the cables, gripping just one of them. Even when the way is clear, only the strongest and fittest attempt nonstop ascents.

  Arriving at the top of Half Dome is a memorable achievement, and those who climb the rock are quick to congratulate themselves. But the looming journey back down casts a shadow over the minds of many, particularly those who have even the slightest fear of heights. The mountain climber’s credo, Going up is optional, coming down is not, applies in this case, too. In practice, though, the descent doesn't live up to the dread of it. Again, the cables are key. Although some hikers go backward down the mountain so they don't have to look at the frightful depths just beyond the granite curvature, many others, emboldened by their success up until then, slide down rapidly, allowing the cables to whiz through their gloved hands.

  With the successful descent comes relief and a strong feeling of fulfillment, but there’s still that eight-plus-mile trek back to the Valley floor. By this time, the legs of all but the best conditioned of hikers are wobbly. The trail’s unrelenting downward course stresses your knees, and if your footwear lacks room to absorb the pounding, you may end your outing with painful and blackened toenails.

  Esteban and Rice attacked the granite incline with resurgent energy. As if the duo were racing—which, in a sense, was true— they bulled their way up along the cables without halting. Esteban found strength that he didn't know he had. Whatever fatigue he had previously felt was now overcome by his resurgent motivation to get to the top.

  In a final burst, Esteban pulled at the last of the cables and eclipsed the final rock barrier before arriving at the summit where Rice waited. There a sign—tucked among the rocks and easy to miss—read:

  DANGER

  IF A THUNDERSTORM OCCURS WHILE YO U ARE HERE,

  THESE ARE THE SAFEST THINGS TO DO:

  1. STAY AWAY FROM THE CABLES.

  2. GET RID OF ANY METALLIC OBJECTS.

  3. STAY AWAY FROM CAVES, OVERHANGS, AND LARGE CRACKS IN THE RO CKS.

  4. GO TO THE LOWEST PLACE ON TOP AND SIT ON ANY NONMETALLIC OBJECTS YOU HAVE TO INSULATE YOU FROM THE ROCK.

  WAIT. STAY THERE UNTIL THE STORM HAS PASSED.

  The two men barely glanced at the sign, as though such warnings didn't apply to them.

  Once on the summit, the broad expanse of the mostly flat surface surprised Esteban, as it does most. From down in the Valley, he hadn't grasped how large an area would greet him here. As expected, the summit was barren other than for a single gnarled, weather-beaten pine tree clinging to the rock and half a dozen or so low rock enclosures that previous climbers had constructed as shelters from the wind. Over toward the edge overlooking the Valley, the surface was covered by stone slabs resembling giant pancakes. The section known as the Visor jutted out about twenty feet from the edge.

  What consumed Esteban, however, was not what he found on the summit. It was the 360-degree vista that greeted his eyes.

  To the west towered El Capitan, the earth’s largest granite mass, its three-thousand-foot face double the height of Gibraltar. Across the Valley—native Ahwahneechees called it 'the place of the gaping mouth'—Yosemite Falls stumbled down the canyon wall in two majestic spills. The Upper Fall registered 1,430 feet, the Lower Fall 320, the intermediate cascade 675—a total of 2,425 feet, which makes it the highest waterfall in the United States and the eighth highest worldwide. Just then, the tumultuous torrent was swollen to its greatest volume from spring runoff.

  Across the narrow Valley, lower than Half Dome, rose the polished granite of North Dome. To the east lay vast Tenaya Canyon, where glaciers in past eons emerged and sculpted Yosemite Valley. Jutting above the canyon, two miles long and one mile tall, rose the mammoth exposure of granite bluffs known as Clouds Rest. Nearby, to the south, stood Mount Starr King, among the parks tallest domes. Finally, nearly a mile directly below Rice and Esteban, lay the floor of Yosemite Valley, where lush meadows, dark groves, and the sun-sparkled river, with massive canyon walls as a frame, teased the senses like a real-life masterpiece.

  Now Esteban realized beyond any doubt why Rice had wanted to bring him here. We are on top of the world here, he thought. The gods are talking to us.

  Rice wasn't finished with his exhibitions for the day. As Esteban stared in fascination at the Valley floor far below, Rice approached a stone slab known as the
diving board* that extended some five feet out from the Dome’s sheer face. Not only does the projection bank ten degrees, but its width narrows from four feet at the cliff face to a scant fifteen inches at the tip.

  Beneath this lies twenty-two hundred feet of empty space.

  Esteban watched in horror as Rice, barefoot now, stepped onto the small slab. He inched his way backward to the tip, paused to intensify his focus, then slid his heels carefully over the edge until only the front half of his feet remained on the rock, his body leaning forward and arms extended before him. He held this position, his balance perfect, as if he were preparing to dive backward into the depths behind. Then, still balanced and with breathtaking composure, he slowly lifted a foot and stood on one leg.

  After several seconds, Rice lowered his foot and walked calmly back. Esteban, transfixed, felt limp and nearly sick with relief when Rice ended his stunt. Rice’s theatrics also had mesmerized others on the Dome that day, many of whom at first gaped at Rice’s outrageous act and then shut their eyes in dread. His performance on that gargantuan stage suggested that, given a ready audience, there was no risk he was unwilling to take.

  About then, a premonition began haunting Esteban.

  He feared that someone he knew would fall from Half Dome.

  FOOTNOTE

  *Not to be confused with the formally designated Diving Board, a Yosemite rock formation shown on maps. The latter is a craggy rock tower extending from the west shoulder of Half Dome midway between the Valley floor and the summit. Here, two thousand feet up the steep granite, a twenty-five-year-old by the name of Ansel Adams unloaded forty pounds of photography gear in 1927 to get a shot of Half Dome’s face. The striking result, Monolith: The Face of Half Dome, changed Adams’s understanding of his medium and launched his career as one of America’s most innovative photographers. Things might have gone differently had he not, with only one plate remaining, used a deep red filter to darken the sky and shadows dramatically. The result gave him what he wanted—"not the way the subject appeared in reality but how it felt to me." Thereafter, photography became for him a supremely creative process that transcended mere recording.