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"When someone is seeking, it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal."

---Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

Perhaps you've noticed that the subject matter of late in The Life Of Bryan--still officially an offshoot of the Mike Keneally Page--hasn't had very much to do with Mike Keneally. As I began writing this Act, I wondered: Why is that?

After all, things are happening in KeneallyLand. Nonkertompf has been out for some time and I haven't mustered up so much as an opinion. We recently played a show in San Diego (the "Campland by the Bay" gig in early October) that could easily be classified as one of our best ever. And, of course, the Vai tour is well underway, replete with pre-enlisted Kenealliasons in such disparate locales as Brisbane, Australia and Peoria, Illinois. We all know it's not like me to reserve comment on anything, let alone events as described above. So what gives?

The truth is that I haven't had much to do with any of it. Nonkertompf, as Lamn Xavb could surely tell with greater verve than I, was an MK solo effort. (Not that this means I don't like it--I very much dig the more song-oriented chunks, especially "Self `N' Other".) Aside from the Campland gig, there hasn't been much on the live calendar for BFD in the last two months. Recording for the new studio album has been put on hold due to the . . . Vai tour, and you can probably put two and two together and understand my personal ambivalence towards discussing that in too much detail (though from what I hear the show is fantastic and you should all go and see our Mikey in action if he comes within 300 miles of you). So, in regards to the question posed in the opening paragraph, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

It stands to cruel reason that while my summer was chock-full with more gigs than I could handle, all of my other musical freelance work dried up the second Mike took off with Vai. But nature abhors a vacuum, and my nature even more so. Then it hit me. Here was the chance to live the credo spoken in the final words of the previous Act: Do less and gain more from it. I could use this rare opportunity, this magical opening in the ever-hectic schedule of the LOB, to get away from it all for once in my life. To think about where I am and where I'm going. And maybe even risk my life in the process.


* * * * * *


I'd been warned about hiking Half Dome. "It's the toughest day hike in California." "Don't try it alone." "There are these cables near the end . . . if you're afraid of heights you'll hike a long way for nothing."

I'd heard it all before. Back in 1996 I set out to conquer Yosemite's crown jewel with three other hardy souls: Wes Wehmiller (not only the supremely talented bassist for Duran Duran, but a remarkable physical specimen for whom challenges such as Half Dome were made), the former sexpot roomie Joanne Bigbee (a workout fanatic with hiking experience in the Grand Canyon) and Berklee alum Griff Peters (a mountain man of the first order; the kind of guy who hikes sixty miles from one end of Yosemite to the other by himself for fun). We were thwarted by the weather on that occasion and were forced to turn back after only two miles, a bitter disappointment considering I was in the best shape of my life.

This year I vowed a return and contacted Mountain Man Peters in early summer to gain his companionship and guidance for the journey. Problem was, he's a busy guitarist as well, and designated weekend after weekend fell through as gigs came for both of us at all the wrong times. The mysterious Half Dome cables--without which the peak is unattainable--only stay up from late May to early October, and so when our September weekend got 86'd by a last minute gig on his part, I asked him if the first weekend in October would work. No dice. Either I was to do it alone or wait until next year. Alone it was.

I didn't take the decision lightly. Fifteen pounds heavier, three years older and countless packs of cigarettes later, I wanted someone there with me in case my body told me to fuck off at an inopportune moment. But it's not like I knew a whole slew of people who could even attempt this hike in the first place, and calls to those I thought capable proved fruitless. When I told Griff I was going solo, he kindly went into guru mode (maybe because he feared for my well being). There were long conversations on do's and dont's, tales of prior experiences, and finally an offer of loaner hiking gear from his own personal collection. This included a waistpack for food, a specialized backpack capable of holding several quarts of water (complete with a tube that extended forward for mid-hike comsumption), and a large-brimmed, olive hat for protection from direct sun. In his words, it was a grueling, relentless 18-mile roundtrip hike that would take 10-12 hours to complete. Was I really sure I wanted to do it by myself? By the time I went over to his place to pick up the gear, he knew the answer.

The closer I got to the magic weekend, the more I warmed to the thought of traveling alone. No one to cater to, no one to interfere with my every scheduling whim, plenty of time to think about Life. Way overdue. I set the schedule to my liking: leave on noon Saturday, arrive in Yosemite's Curry Village by six, get in my tent cabin by seven, eat and be in bed by nine, wake up at 5:30 AM Sunday and get to it. After the hike I'd drive straight out to Fresno for a long night's sleep in a cheap hotel, then drive back Monday at a leisurely pace on a well-deserved day off from SWR. I'd been working out furiously for six weeks--forty minutes on the stairmaster followed by a two-mile run--and my legs and aerobic capacity were better than they'd been in two years. I'd even gotten down to 185 pounds. If I didn't make it up, it wouldn't be because my body gave out on me. Or so I hoped.


* * * * * *


Saturday's drive was perfect. My gift to myself of a new car stereo was paying huge dividends as I soaked in two brilliant new CD's: Chris Cornell's Euphoria Morning (fuck the critics, this is a good record) and Nine Inch Nails' The Fragile (in my opinion, a work worthy of favorable comparison to Pink Floyd's The Wall). Arrival was right on schedule, and I checked into Curry Village at 6:30 PM.

It was packed. Not exactly the get-away-from-it-all kind of place you'd expect in a national forest. There were hundreds of tent cabins in the "village," all filled with outdoor enthusiasts of varying commitment from around the world. A full bar and restaurant sat squarely in the village center, and people were getting hammered and being loud. Kids were scurrying about. A TV in the bar was showing college football. Pretty disappointing, but rather than lament the lack of civilization, I joined the throng by pulling down two Absolut screwdrivers (yes, they even had premium liquors) and catching a nice buzz from the elevation.

In stark contrast to this mob of humanity was the view on the other side of the parking lot. Half Dome and a rival peak, El Capitan, stared down on the village with seeming disdain. I imagined them chortling to each other, fully aware that they'd be around long after us pathetic humans had run our course. I looked up in awe, hardly believing I dared to challenge one of these behemoths in less than 18 hours.

But before I could go to bed, I had to lock my edibles and smellables (including all toiletries) in a "bear locker." Signs were posted everywhere about what would happen to your car if you left such items inside. Those who might choose to use their tent cabins as food storage lockers would suffer an even worse fate. The warning signs were big and yellow, and it was all pretty eerie. I took no chances and followed the instructions to the letter before retiring, half-drunk and anxious, to my heated tent cabin for as much sleep as I could get.

* * * * * *


I was the very first soul to awaken in my section of the village. It was still dark, and I needed to get my shower stuff out of the bear locker.

With my mag light in hand, I treaded lightly down to the parking lot. This was nighttime. Bear Time. If I took my scented shampoo and conditioner out of the locker, and in turn exposed my various foodstuffs to the open air, would a bear-in-waiting suddenly charge me? I scanned the parking lot for signs of animal action. The mag light froze on two garbage cans next to my locker. The tops were off. One was overturned. These were huge, heavy, metal garbage cans. My heart pumped wildly. My feet froze. It would be five whole minutes before I got up the nerve to rush over to the locker, get my stuff, and get the hell out of there so I could shower.

Forty-five minutes later I was fully dressed in Griff's hiking gear and ready to rock. A few early birds had arisen, but for the most part the village was still snoozing. Light had just begun to peek over the horizon, and it made my return trip to the bear locker (to stow my shower stuff and grab my food) much easier to deal with. This was daytime. Human Time. I took one last look across the parking lot at my target. Ready or not, here I come.

The first mile was flat, a hike along a service road that led to the trailhead (to Yosemite's credit, they don't let public vehicles anywhere near it). The dawn was barely bright enough to illuminate the large wooden sign that marked the entrance to points near and far on the trail, complete with distance in miles and kilometers. Vernal Falls was 1.5 miles. Little Yosemite Campground was 4.3 miles. Half Dome was 8.2 miles (a roundtrip total of 16.4 miles, plus the mile and back to Curry Village, all totaling 18.4 miles!). There was even a marker for Mount Whitney--211 miles via the John Muir Trail. Maybe next time.

The climb began just past the sign. A steady grade on a cement trail that quickly faded into dirt. There were some others who'd made it out as early as I had, but not many. One of them was kind enough to stop me and point into the forest. She was staring at a bear cub. It was just sitting on a rock, about forty feet away, hanging out and being the cutest thing in the whole wide world. I grabbed my camera and managed to snap three quick pictures before the flash scared him (her?) into scampering away. Then I realized what the baby bear usually means--the mama bear can't be far behind--and I double-timed it out of there.

Then came the first tough climb, up a mile-long rock staircase. I remembered it from the weather-aborted hike in '96. I recalled it being tough, but nothing I couldn't handle. Well, stairmaster or no stairmaster, the ten-pound difference became immediately evident as sweat quickly formed and dripped from my brow down onto my nose and cheeks in streams. The dawn's chill gave way to the morning sun, and my heart rate shot up faster than I'd hoped. The nice part, though, was the view of Vernal Falls to my left. A towering waterfall, the kind you only see in movies, was in plain sight throughout the entire rock staircase. That, plus the immense presence of my Walkman, helped keep me from becoming too grumpy about my apparent lack of conditioning by the time I'd reached the top of the falls. Although you'd never know it from this picture.

After killing off three granola bars and sucking down plenty of water, King's X's Gretchen Goes To Nebraska serenaded me as I set off for the next leg, another steep climb up another waterfall. Breathtaking views were abound from nearly every angle by this point, and the previous steep climb had proven to be quite enough for some of the hikers I'd seen on the first trail. The herd was thinning. Fine with me.

Griff was right. The trail was relentless . . . but not impossible. I was now past the point where we'd been forced to turn back in '96. I got an adrenaline rush out of that, and the music was right, and the weather had turned out perfectly. After the initial shock to my system, my less-than-naturally athletic body seemed to be adjusting nicely to the conditions. No cramps, no shortness of breath, no imminent seizures. Not bad. I pressed on to the halfway point, Little Yosemite Valley.

The terrain was again flat, hence the area's moniker. I felt good, hardly believing that I was almost halfway up. I reflected back on my original reason for doing the hike--to get out of town and away from everything for a weekend, in my favorite setting of all, the mountains. But that lofty rationale was fading into the background. The journey was turning into a battle against myself, to see if I was made of the stuff to complete the hike, to reach the summit, to achieve the goal. By the time I completed the half-mile that led to the official Half Dome Trail, I was more than ready for it.


* * * * * *


I should have known better. The grade turned ugly right away, providing the steepest section since the rock staircase. With four miles already under my legs, and nearly four more to go, this climb looked and felt endless. Soundgarden's "Head Down" was grinding through my eardrums as I plodded my way up this punishing trail. My waistpack was getting heavier. I found myself sucking on the water tube more and more often. I began needing breaks every ten minutes or so. There were few others on this trail. I understood why.

I pushed forward. Time for another tape, which meant the hours were flying by. How long was this taking me? Was I going too slowly? I certainly couldn't go any faster. My legs were pained and hanging in there, but my aerobic capacity was reaching its limits. How about a mile marker somewhere? Please?

Another break, this time a long one. Dried fruit and more granola bars. Water, water, water. Another hiker, about my age, was striding wearily towards me. We exchanged knowing glances as he passed by.

I got back on my feet and went on with it. Twenty minutes later I saw the hiker in the position in which he'd just seen me, sucking down fluids and resting. We kept doing this to each other for the next hour, passing while the other sat, until finally I opened my mouth and introduced myself. He was Chaz, a 30-year-old former marathoner from San Francisco. Nice guy. We chatted for a while, then watched in amazement as a man in his mid-50's creaked past us. If he could do it, so could we. Chaz wanted to rest for a bit more, so I went on without him, figuring that I'd probably run into him again along the way.

Finally, a mile marker. Two more miles to the summit. The floppy hat was working miracles at keeping the sun off of my face, but the top of my head was now a sopping wet mess. Sweat was leaking out of my every pore, my body a slick, olive raincoat. I grunted and groaned for another mile before stopping at a clear, seemingly close view of Half Dome. There was a group of seven people gathered at the viewpoint, shaking their heads and moaning. I walked over and asked them what was wrong. They pointed at the Dome. Their leader, a bearded, jolly trail veteran in his forties, said, "See those specks on the rock? Those are folks on the cables." I squinted to see what he was talking about. Then I gasped. The specks were inching upwards on what looked to be a sheer rockface. Cables? I didn't see any fucking cables! God only knew what they really looked like. One thing was for sure--if any of those specks were to have lost their balance, they'd soon be dead specks.

Half Dome grew much larger during the eighth mile. The trail kept its fearsome grade, but the sight of the goal kept me moving forward in a determined stagger. The elevation was starting to get to me, and my pace slowed considerably. The key moment came just as I was about to sit down again. Led Zeppelin's "In The Light" accompanied the trail's transition into a small valley, from which the panoramic views were simply incredible.

And . . . if . . . you . . . feeeeeeeeel . . . that you can't . . . go on. . . . .

Fuck that--I can go on. I'm almost there. . . .

The valley led to the opening of another rock staircase. There was a metal sign next to its entrance that contained a stern warning about weather conditions. "Lightning has struck Half Dome during every month of the year," it read. This was why we had to turn back in '96. According to Griff, there was no point in trying to reach the summit if it was raining, because the cables were metal and literally acted as lightning rods during a storm. He went on to tell us that if you were on the summit, a black cloud mass could come in at a moment's notice . . . and that it was safer to stay on the summit and ride out the storm than try to get down the cables quickly. It was that dangerous. Fortunately the weather on this day was pristine, and I went ahead feeling OK about it.

Until I began climbing the rock stairs. These weren't like the ones back by the waterfall. These were steeper, sometimes requiring you to get on all fours to get up to the next one. They were also done in switchback fashion, and a slip could send you rolling down the rock. Bones would undoubtedly snap upon impact. This, plus the elevation, plus the seven miles already under my legs, had me stopping every ten stairs or so for a composure break. I turned my Walkman off to concentrate. My heart was at its absolute limit. The scene around and beneath me was ridiculous, and I should have stopped and taken more pictures, but I was too focused on not falling--and possibly too disoriented--to think about it. I was beginning to regret being alone. The heights and my shaky legs were combining to scare the shit out of me. Every step was taken with trepidation. It would be the better part of an hour before I scaled the last rock switchback, after which I scampered to the top of a relatively small hill to see what was on the other side.

There they were. The cables. Oh my God.

Words cannot do this justice, but allow me to try. Before me stood a rock, both taller and wider than I could see in one vision. The grade was somewhere between 50 and 60 degrees, which as you know from Geometry class is not quite straight up, but it sure as hell looked like it from the bottom. Up the rock's face was an endless string of thick metal poles in pairs, three feet apart in width, sticking straight out in perpendicular fashion, parallel to the ground. Holes were cut into the tip of each pole, allowing enough room for a 1-inch metal cable to fit through and run up along each set of poles, left and right. The only solace for a weary body in mid-climb were the wood blocks that lay across each pair of poles and against the rock, creating a poor man's stepladder of sorts where feet could stand in between hoists from one set of poles to another. The cable climb from one poles-and-wood-block step up to the next was 8-10 feet. And in case you're wondering how many "steps" there were in total . . . I'd say somewhere between 75 and 100.

I'd been staring at the beast for nearly a minute before realizing that there was a crowd of people all around me. They voiced their opinions aloud at random.

"Holy shit . . . how long do you think it takes?"

"I'm not doing that. I've had enough. Sixteen miles is enough."

"Do you mean to tell me you have to come down those cables too?"

"Oh. It's no big deal. You just don't look down."

"I saw a woman stop halfway and turn around. Once that happens, man, mentally you'll never make it back."

Three girls of college age, two Asian and one white, were the loudest amidst the clamor. The Asians were desperately trying to convince the white girl to do it.

"Come on!" they cried. "You're in the best shape of all of us! You can't not do it!"

"But I'm not good with heights, and I don't want to hold you guys up."

"Hold us up? You were PAC-10 cross-country champion the last two years!"

Then I saw Chaz. It was nice to see a familiar face. We discussed our fears and backgrounds some more.
Oh yeah, I reminded myself, he runs marathons. The stories kept coming. Cross-country champion. Triathelete. Bike racer. Seven-time Half Dome veteran. German national with experience in the Swiss Alps. And . . . a not-so-physically-gifted Jewish musician from New Jersey who trained on a stairmaster for six weeks. What the fuck am I doing here?


* * * * * *


I wasn't taking any chances with fatigue, and neither was anybody else. We sat for thirty minutes and drank water, ate various types of trail food and swapped stories. Waistpacks and backpacks were tossed aside into a pile--no need to add extra weight to this nightmare. Then, in a collective determined groan, we rose to take it on. Well, most of us did. Our group of climbers numbered ten. Five stayed behind.

A pile of gloves lay at the base of the cables. For public use. A nice communal touch. We tore through them, trying some on and tossing some back, joking about how perhaps this mound of fabric could help break a fall. Once we were all satisfied with our choices, only one question remained.

"So," I asked, "who's going up first?"

Most shook their heads. "No way." "Yeah, right." "You don't want me at the head of this pack." And then, "How about you?"

"Uh," I stammered after looking up, "I don't think so. Here, this guy right here can do it. Just look at him."

I was pointing at the German. He had the perfect hiker's body: 6'1", 170 lbs., long lean legs, arms and shoulders lined with sinewy muscle. He nodded in agreement. "Yes. I will go first."

"Great. I'll go second, and Chaz, you get right behind me."

We lined up like good little boy and girl scouts. The German threw himself onto the rock and climbed from the first set of poles to the second, then the third. I got right behind him and we both climbed another set. Adrenaline was pumping and it felt easy. Chaz got on board, followed by the cross-country champion. I climbed another set without thinking. Five people were now on the cables. There was some debate at the bottom as to who would be next, and I looked down in amusement for a good fifteen seconds, standing on the fifth woodblock, resting comfortably. Then I looked back up and saw . . . nothing.

The German guy had taken off. He was scaling the rock at an inhuman pace. This guy's feet were just inches above my head not more than a minute ago! I must be going too slow. I took my feet off of the woodblock and used my arms--spread at nearly their maximum wingspan--to hoist myself up to the next pair of poles and wood. My feet were only good for occasional traction; the grade was far too steep for foot-planting. Done. Now the next set. Foot release, arms and hands lock, left arm hoist, small foot boost, right arm hoist, left arm hoist, foot boost, right arm hoist, foot plant on wood block. And again. I looked up. The German was even further away. There was no realistic chance at catching him. Congratulations, leader boy!

My breath shortened. I was still wearing my water-backpack, and I sucked mightily on the tube. Our group of nine was now all aboard. I called down to them.

"Well, it looks like you're all going at my pace. I'll try not to go too slow, OK?"

They were most kind in group response, telling me not to rush and, more than anything, to be safe. Maybe they didn't like the idea of 185 pounds crashing down on them as they stood on a woodblock several stories above the nearest ground. My mind flashed on the climactic scene of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. No wonder they told me not to rush.

The climb was underway, and the pattern was established. Release, hoist, boost, hoist, boost, hoist, foot plant on wood block. I could do three or four "steps" in succession before needing a rest. I looked down. Everyone seemed spread out and comfortable. We were only fifteen "steps" off the ground. About 100 feet. Not too bad. I looked up. I couldn't see the top. What I could see was someone above me . . . coming down.

Actually it was two people, working their way down the cables towards us. Their backs were facing the open air so I wasn't sure if they knew I was only three steps below them.

"Hey, you guys see me? I got eight behind me."

The leader of the pair, a tan, rugged, beefy man in his late thirties, stopped his descent and turned his head to spot me. "Eight? Jesus Christ. Well, you wanna pass or let us pass? It's your call."

How the hell was this going to work? "Uh, what do you mean?" I stuttered.

"Well, you're coming up so you guys have the right of way. If you wanna keep climbing, we'll hang to one side and let you around us. If you wanna rest, then you hang to one side and we'll go down past you."

I didn't know there were house rules to this thing, but I knew damn well I didn't want to hang to one side, for Christ's sake. "OK, I'll climb past you." I looked down to the group for a split second. "You guys see what's going on up here?" I heard scattered groans and a "yeah" as well. OK, here we go.

I did two full steps before meeting Tan Beefy on the third. Pride was a factor here; I didn't want these guys to think I was laboring too badly, so I put extra oomph into getting up on the quick. Tan was crouched in a squat, with both arms on the left cable and his body as small as he could make it, which wasn't very. His friend was the next step up in the same position. I would have to pass them both and keep moving so the group behind me didn't get stuck in a traffic jam. Slowly but surely, I angled myself for a right-leaning climb.

Right arm up and hoist. Left arm up as high as possible to get the left leg around Tan Beefy. Left leg up and over Beefy's head. Left foot scrape on the rock. Right arm hoist. Right foot scrape. Left arm hoist. Left foot plant on the woodblock of Beefy's friend, almost stepping on his foot. Rest.

Eight behind you. Gotta keep moving.

I repeated the tortured motion of getting around a crouching, hanging-to-one-side dude. My heart rate was shooting through the sky, but as leader I felt I couldn't stop. Another step in succession. Then another. Now two of our group was past the coming-downers, two were stuck next to them, and four were waiting. I was panting too heavily to keep moving. I looked down, this time not just glancing but staring at the group with my mouth hanging open.

"I need--to--take a--break."

As I said the word "break," I noticed something. I was very high up off the ground. Eight stories, maybe more. The view was shattering. No matter what, I'm not doing THAT again.

I didn't know whether or not I was holding anyone up, and I was starting not to care. I rested for a minute, then resumed climbing. Five more steps would clear the way for Tan Beefy and his friend, and then I could rest again. Loud grunts came shooting out of my mouth as I scaled the rock to the Beefy-free zone. Then, another long rest.

It was a huge relief to know that the group was again climbing as I was, past the hazard of two-way traffic. My mind lightened, and I established a pace I could live with. Two, maybe three steps at a time, then a minute or so to rest on a woodblock, then onward. My mind stayed focused on my gloved hands making lock-tight contact with the cables. Not once did I look down for a height check, or up past the next step. At least, not until I felt it, the unexpected enemy, creeping into my bloodstream.

I'd trained very hard for an amateur. I'd worn out the stairmaster and gone jogging very late at night. As a result, my legs were tired but not in unbearable pain during the hike up, and my lung capacity was large enough to get me by--after all, I could always rest and recover--but I failed to consider one element. A tool necessary for reaching the summit. A part of my body I didn't think I'd need to work on for this hike. My upper body. And now it was failing me.

I could feel my shoulder and arm muscles burning, the kind of pain usually associated with the last rep in a weightlifting superset. The type of muscle failure that could result in a barbell coming to rest on your neck. I could feel it now after every completed step. My negligence, my general upper body weakness, and my natural disadvantage of being heavier than the average bear were all chipping away at my mental stability. What if I can't make it? What do I do then? Turn around?

I stopped and looked up. Maybe I was more than halfway, maybe not. My lungs were heaving in and out with every breath. Disorientation was setting in, and my ability to judge distance was fading dangerously.

"You--guys," I groaned, "my upper body--I need a long rest--maybe two or three minutes."

Chaz was right behind me. "Man, take it easy. I'm exhausted too. You're going really fast! Half the group is way down there."

Me? Fast? "Oh--OK--I'm staying here--for a while."

And I did. The thing about muscle strength as opposed to aerobic capacity is, once you've fatigued your muscles, you can't just rest a minute and simply wait for them to roar back at full pop. If you work them hard enough, those rests will give you less and less working time until, finally, there's nothing left in the tank at all. It's kind of like Pac-Man, when by the seventh board, the power pellets only turn Blinky & Co. into edible treats for a second before they revert back to their true, adorably lethal nature.

But this wasn't funny. I had a ways to go--maybe twenty-five steps--before I saw a lessening of the grade above, which probably meant the top was just beyond that point. I knew I didn't have much left, but I wasn't turning around. Not now. Not this close. I don't know how many minutes I rested, but at some point--and here it gets fuzzy--I put my head down and began climbing again.

The only things I remember about the next ten minutes were the sounds of pain, the smell of sweat, and the animalistic determination to reach the step above me and not fall once I got there.

When I exited the haze of overexertion, I found myself walking upright on the same rock I'd been climbing for the past forty minutes. My arms were still extended, but the cables from which they hung now more resembled staircase banisters. The rock was still on a grade, but just barely enough to notice. After a seeming eternity of tension, I released my hands from the cables and let my arms flop to my sides. I kept walking until the last set of poles, where the cables were tied off and some people were standing up and smiling.

"Congratulations! You did it!" They were clapping. Kind souls. I can't recall what they look like.

Chaz followed behind me, and we gave each other a mid-five. Then the cross-country champion. Her Asian friends were not yet in sight. Chaz reached into his pocket, beaming. "Hey man, let's take some pictures!"

He already had his camera out when it hit me. I only had two pictures left on my current roll of film. And I didn't bring any spares. Son of a bitch. The self-beration, however, was fleeting. I didn't have the energy to be mad at myself. Hell, I could barely stand. I managed to take my last two pictures and pose for some with Chad before realizing that my faculties were not in full order. I excused myself and shuffled away from the top of the cables towards the other side of the summit, slurping gobs of water now that I remembered I had some on my back.

There were maybe 30-40 folks on the entire summit, which was more than I'd expected. Most of them were on the side where a piece of the rock jutted out, providing the brave soul with a view thousands of feet straight down if he dared to venture forth. I declined, neither trusting my balance nor desiring company. I wanted the quiet end.

The view on the walk over was, well, indescribable. I don't remember enough of it, which is why I'm glad I have this picture.

Once I got far enough away from everyone, I sat down on the jagged, rocky ground, leaned my head back, curled onto my side, and passed out.


* * * * * *


"Hey Bryan . . . you alright?"

Chaz was standing over me. I tried to roll myself up into an Indian-style sitting position, but it didn't work. I collapsed back down. "Shit. How long have I been out?"

"Thirty minutes. You figure we got another half an hour and then we have to start heading back if we don't want to end up hiking in the dark."

He was right. I'd left at around 6:30 AM and reached the summit at high noon. After an hour at the top and a five-hour hike down it would be 6:00 PM, just a half-hour before nightfall and the return of Bear Time. Chaz was kind enough to notice my wrecked physical condition and sit down beside me, engaging me in casual conversation about the kinds of people who would subject themselves to such a strenuous "leisure" activity. We even joked about what it would be like to watch someone suddenly appear from our end of the summit, a mythic figure who'd scaled the deadly rock sans cables. Superhero jokes were bandied about. In true LOB fashion, this person appeared mere moments later.

A tall, thin, ruddy-faced, scraggly-haired man in his mid-forties (or was that just the sun wrinkles?) stepped slowly and deliberately up from the edge. He was wearing a worn-out gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Thick purple rope was hanging off his back, just above a waistpack that looked older than I was. Chaz and I stopped talking and stared in awe. This guy didn't need no stinking cables.

"You just came up that side?" I asked.

He acknowledged me with a weighty nod and nothing more.

"How long did it take you?"

Refusing to interrupt his stride, he turned his head slightly and reluctantly spoke. "Three hours. Faster than the trails and cables, that's for sure. Less crowded, too."

That was the end of that conversation. He kept on walking and Chaz and I kept on talking, mostly about how we were not worthy to even ask this Mountain Man such silly questions. It was instructive to realize that guys like this were hanging around Yosemite well before the recent additions of cables and heated tent cabins and bear lockers and ATM's in Curry Village. The thought inspired me to stand up and use my remaining twenty minutes on the summit in a more productive fashion.

The peak was larger than I'd thought. It was a three minute walk from one end to the other, with plenty of varying viewpoints and special little nooks and crannies along the way. Frankly, I don't want to sully my memory of the view with some mealy-mouthed description of how gorgeous it was. Just believe me when I tell you that it truly felt like standing on top of the world, with the delicious satisfaction of knowing a helicopter didn't get me up there.

I made my way over to the more populated side, near the death-defying tip of the rock (where Chaz was crazy enough to stand for a few seconds). The number of people on the summit had doubled since my nap, with some notable additions. The cross-country girl's Asian friends were taking pictures together. A very large (6'4", 250 easy) man was enjoying a sandwich lunch, and how he made it up the cables I'll never know. I even spotted the German hiker, who looked as if he was disappointed by how easy it all was for him. But the Most Unlikely Cable-Scaler award went to the man in his mid-50's that Chaz and I had watched pass us on the trail some two hours ago. Quite a remarkable accomplishment for a guy at least fifteen years older than anyone else up there. I put the odds of me repeating this feat at the age of 55 at somewhere between Powerball Lottery and Red Sox World Series Championship (the latter being the greater of the two, of course).

* * * * * *


Chaz looked at his watch. Our twenty minutes were up. We whimpered, took a last look around, and walked back over to the cables for the first time in an hour. People were staggering up from whence we came, heaving and red-faced. Chaz and I nodded in silent recognition, then applauded the brave souls as was done for us. It really did mean something, even if I was woozy when I was on the receiving end of the sentiment.

"So," Chaz asked me, "you going down forwards or backwards?"

"Uh, I think backwards. I'm not sure I can look straight down that thing. I looked down once on the way up and almost got sick."

"You going first?"

I figured from the way he asked me that perhaps he wanted it that way. "Well, sure. It shouldn't be as bad going down, right?"

Our descent began harmlessly. There were a good twenty or thirty paces on an easy downward grade, almost like a ramp, before the point where it looked like a cliff's edge. I eased up into the nearing horizon point, stretched my arms lengthwise, and once again placed my gloved hands on the cables. Then I looked down over the dropoff. I couldn't believe what I saw.

Thirty, maybe forty people on their way up. Where did they all come from? Curry Village? They'd be hiking back in the dark, I thought. Maybe they camped up at Little Yosemite and weren't on the same deadline as us. Either way, it was going to be a traffic-jammed clusterfuck getting down. Suddenly I had a change of heart.

"Chaz, man, I'm not going down backwards with all those people coming up. I don't want to have to keep looking down over my shoulder. Better off I can see when they're coming."

His eyes widened as he shook his head. "Fuck that. I just can't go staring down while I'm doing this. You can let me know when we have to get to one side and wait."

"Alrighty, then."

I measured the first step down. A new technique would be required. With my feet resting on the top woodblock, I placed my hands on the cables just in front of the set of poles (at the poles' tips) upon which the woodblock I stood on was resting (at the poles' base where they stuck in the rock). Then I stepped in front of the woodblock and. . . .

Wheeeeeeee!

I released my hands just enough to let me slide down the cables. My feet provided friction, though they could only slow me, not stop me outright. Most of my weight was centered on my wrists and hands, which were acting as the brakes. Hey, I'm a bassist. These were good muscles to depend on.

The slide continued until my feet were nearing the next woodblock, at which point I tightened my grip on the cables, slowed down, and eventually stopped when I found myself standing up comfortably. My hands were resting on the pole-tips' cable rings. I was now as I began, just one step lower. The view straight down was fearsome, to be sure, but not unbearable. I could see all the human traffic and measure accordingly. This was easy!

I repeated the maneuver. Hands move from above the pole rings to below. Feet step in front of woodblock. Weight shifts to wrists and hands. Slide begins. Feet skid on rock, slowing descent. Hands tighten as next set of wood-and-poles approaches. Stop. Rest. Wow! Fun!

After four more successful slides down, I looked back up to check on Chaz. He was well behind, unable to keep the same pace because he was going down backwards. No problem, because in another few steps we'd both have to wait for a group of six to pass us.

They looked shot. Arms twitching, faces either deep red or pale white, lungs heaving. They were taking each inch up as if it were their last. I flashed back to my final ascent, the section where I went fuzzy, and thought, that's probably what I looked like. Ewwwwww.

Chaz did indeed catch up to me in time for them to pass, and it took nearly five minutes for them all to get by. There was an even bigger logjam way down below, but I saw nothing but cable daylight right in front of me and I was eager to get going again. Perhaps a little too eager.

I started my next descending maneuver by moving my feet off of the woodblock before placing my hands in front of the pole-tips' cable-rings. By the time I realized the flawed physics of that motion, it was too late--my legs were dangling and kicking gravel off of the rock as I tried in vain to gain any kind of traction, and my life rested upon my wrists, triceps and shoulders.

The secret of the slide-down-theory's success was, as I now knew all too well, the positioning of the hands at the point of foot release. Once you take your feet off of the woodblock, all the weight shifts to your hands and wrists, and just so long as nothing interrupts your hands' smooth path down the cable, the slide begins and stays under control until the next set of poles-and-woodblock, at which point you stop to keep yourself from gaining too much speed. But that same safety catch for your hands at the end of a sliding step--the pole-tips--was now why my life was hanging in the balance. I had released my feet and waited for the double hand-slide to begin, and it never did because their path was fully impeded by the pole-tips. Before I realized my grave error, gravity had already taken hold of my body. My arms, which had been locked straight for maximum hand-brake control, suddenly bent at the elbows. I tried to plant my feet but they caught nothing but air. Only at the last possible second did my reflexes kick in to save my life. When the terrifying half-second was over, I found myself in what some workout enthusiasts and gymnasts call a "dip"--elbows bent at right angles, hands hammerlocked onto the cables and parallel with my chest, legs in freefall and adding nothing but dead weight.

It was a Catch-22 to the hilt. In order to slide down properly from this point, I needed to get my hands from behind the pole-tips to in front of them. But if I released either hand, it was all over; I'd be halfway down the rock before I ever got one back on. The kicker was the front view straight down. It wasn't like I could look in another direction--up? to the left?--so my possible future was in plain sight. The only way out was to defy gravity and perform the second half of a successful dip, raising my body by the triceps and shoulders back up to the step I'd so unwisely left feet first. Then I could replant my feet and do it right. I'd done nine in a row successfully in the gym some two years ago, so I knew what I had to do. Three deep breaths and then I'd do it. One . . . two . . . three. . . .

The adrenaline rushed like a waterfall into my upper body as I thrust myself up, arms shaking violently the whole time. I watched carefully as my elbows straightened, and once I saw them nearly unbent, I swung my feet back up to catch the woodblock. I felt it on my heels and slowly shifted the weight from my arms down to my legs.

My feet didn't catch. They slipped off of the block and gravity took me down once again.

This one was even closer to being catastrophic. Arm fatigue was setting in, and I almost didn't catch myself. Still, somehow, I was back in the dip position, a muscle twitch from death.

My inner drill sergeant let me have it in a way I'd never before experienced. The words came flying uncontrollably off of my tongue, directed at no one but me.

"You goddamn motherfucking cunt son of a fucking whore stupid ass fucking son of a bitch! Get your motherfucking ass back up there!"

I didn't wait. It was almost like a swinging motion, for as soon as I realized I was back where I started, I began another upward thrust. This time I didn't take any chances. This time I waited until my elbows were completely locked before kicking my legs up to catch the woodblock. This time I felt my feet standing securely on the block before shifting my weight downwards. And this time I did it right.

"Bryan," Chaz called out, "you OK?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm just fucking stupid, that's all. I'll explain it to you when I get off of these goddamn things."


* * * * * *


It took a little while for me to get my confidence again, but eventually I was back to my good ol' sliding self. The toughest part about getting down turned out to be the endless waiting while groups of ten and fifteen climbers passed us at a time, and slowly at that. The most interesting moment came when Chaz and I encountered a Frenchman about halfway down who was too tired to climb and wanted to rest while we passed him--his prerogative, since climbers had the right-of-way--but was too terrified to cling to one side while we did so. Efforts to calm him down proved fruitless, so we were forced to hang on to one cable and swing ourselves around him, on the outside of the cables. Dangerous as it was, I have to say that we looked pretty cool doing it.

Nearly forty minutes after we first began our descent, we took our last slide down the cables and felt our feet hit solid ground. Physically I was fine, and so was Chaz, and we danced around like happy idiots, high-fiving each other and jumping up and down. Within seconds we were back at our previously ditched packs, tearing through them and eating everything in sight. Nuts, granola bars, dried fruit, sandwiches, all gone faster than you could say Birkenstock. I could only laugh as I took out my camera and replaced the spent roll of film. Oh well.

The next big descent was down the rock switchbacks that had nearly crippled me on the way up. This took far longer and was much harder on the legs than I'd expected. I had a sinking feeling that the way down might be a lot more painful than the way up. By the time this section was done, I also realized the physical cruelty of the last two stages of Half Dome: the rock switchbacks take out your legs, and the cables take out your arms. By the time you reach the summit, you've got nothing left but your will. Quite a thing to behold. I could only wonder who the freaks were that originally scaled the rock to put the poles and cables in place.

Now that I'd returned to the trail, I put my Walkman back on and cranked up Me'Shell Ndegeocello's Peace Beyond Passion. Chaz had a Walkman as well, and even though we weren't doing much talking, we silently made the decision to stay together the rest of the way down. A bond had been formed, as if we'd shared a battlefield experience. But the battle wasn't over.

After four miles of hiking downhill, our legs began to throb in pain. The excitement and adrenaline rush of climbing with an unknown goal in mind had given way to a desperate craving for base camp and all its trappings: real food, flavored liquid, showers, a bed. Eventually we lowered our Walkmans to talking level and used each other as sounding boards about how painful it was to walk. And this was with four miles to go.

All of the things that had made the hike up charming were now accursed torture devices. Endless switchbacks on steep grades. The rock staircase beside the waterfall. The views didn't matter anymore. We just wanted to get home. We kept checking the clock. At 5:00 PM we still had two miles left. Excluding the hour spent at the top and the various breaks, we'd now been on our feet for ten hours. The only saving grace was that my hiking boots just happened to fit me perfectly, and I hadn't grown a single blister. I highly recommend Yukon's appropriately named Adrenaline model.

The last mile downhill was a study in agony. Our strides had grown absurdly short and slow, and painful groans accompanied every step (an audiotape recording probably would have sounded like an amateur homosexual S&M session). When we finally reached flat ground, a grand gesture was necessary. I stood beside the original wooden sign that listed the mile markers for each point of interest along the trail and determined what that grand gesture would be. Only problem was, there were these two little kids sitting nearby. I was in no mood to wait.

"Hey, you two!" I growled. "Turn around. Look the other way."

They looked confused. "Why?" they asked.

"Because I said so. Just look over there, will ya?"

They obeyed. Then, being the wise adult I am, I waited for one of them to try and sneak a peek. One did.

"Did you hear me? I said turn around!"

The kid's neck snapped back on the double. Then, as Chaz pointed and clicked, I grimaced and gave the "Half Dome--8.2 miles" listing the one-finger salute. By the time the picture was taken, both kids were looking and giggling. I snarled at them and hobbled away.

* * * * * *


We had one last flat mile to go before reaching Curry Village, and Chaz had an idea.

"You know, there are these shuttles that come here and go back to Curry. I need to be back in San Fran by tonight and could use the extra time. What do you think?"

It sounded nice. I could barely walk. I mean literally. It was now more a death march than a hike. Still. . . .

"Man, I can't. I just can't do that. I'll never forgive myself. I need to know that I did it all the way up and back. It's only a mile and we're gonna hurt either way."

Sure as shit, a shuttle came rolling up alongside us and we just happened to be walking past a pickup point.

"Man, are you sure about this?" said Chaz. "We can be back in our cars in a minute."

The doors swung open. I thought about what a freezing cold Lipton Iced Tea would taste like. Then I looked at myself. The hat that my personal Mountain Man Griff Peters had given me was nearly soaked through the top with sweat, but my face was unburnt. His waistpack was dangling off my hips, now practically empty of food but still proudly in service. The waterpack he'd lent me was now drained as well, having done everything I'd requested of it. I asked myself: would Griff get on this shuttle?

"Chaz, man, I really want to, but I can't. I just can't. Come on, walk back with me."

As he hedged, the shuttle doors swung shut and the vehicle pulled away. "You are a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that?"

I smiled. "Yep."

We passed the final agonizing mile with talk of the meal we'd eat at first opportunity. He had a clear idea of where he'd go, some pizza joint outside the Bay Area. I wasn't so sure, but I knew I wasn't spending the night in Yosemite; my destination was Fresno, and there would be ample opportunity along the way. I remembered seeing an old-fashioned Bar-B-Que joint on the way in. That would do nicely.

At 6:30 PM, almost twelve hours after the journey began, we finally reached the parking lot in Curry Village. Chaz and I exchanged goodbyes and contact information, and got one last picture together before he split for his car and a reputedly excellent Italian restaurant. Not the prettiest shot in the world, but it certainly captured the moment.

I relieved myself of the waistpack and waterpack, throwing them defiantly into the rear of my trusty Eagle Summit Wagon. Then I staggered over to a vending machine and secured myself one of those Lipton Iced Teas I'd been daydreaming about. I made it disappear in two quick gulps. Then another. I stopped halfway through the third one, suddenly realizing what I smelled like. This I could bear no longer. I went back to my car, got my stuff, and had one of the most satisfying showers of my life. All throughout it my leg muscles were twitching in strange, arrhythmic spasms. No stairmaster could have prepared them for what they just went endured, and still they came through for me. I was grateful to have them. My upper body would be addressed separately at some time in the future.

The hunger that set in once I finished showering was overwhelming. I have a naturally slow metabolism and can go several hours without a meal, just so long as I eat eventually. The downside, of course, is a tendency to gain weight. I'm quite envious of those with hyperspeed metabolisms, for they can eat seemingly whatever they want without having to watch their waistlines. Their burden is that they must eat often or else their body and mind will go on general strike. Now I knew what they felt like, if only for a day. I was that undernourished.

Still, the thought of mixing it up with the beer-swilling hordes of Curry Village's bar-and-restaurant area appealed to me about as much as heading straight back up the mountain. No, it would be the Bar-B-Que joint. I got in the car and made my way out to State Highway 41, a maddeningly curvy road that ran for an hour inside Yosemite's borders before releasing back into civilization. My senses heightened by the near-panic hunger, I took the route like a Grand Prix racer, tires screeching on every turn, my body leaning up over the wheel and into the corners.

I didn't reach the restaurant until well after 8:00 PM. When I got there I consumed the following meal:

Bowl of chili, large
Caesar salad, dinner (full) portion
Fried mushrooms appetizer
Baby back ribs, full rack
Bowl of cole slaw
Baked potato, topped with butter and sour cream
Eight pieces of garlic bread
One Absolut screwdriver
Two Diet Cokes, large

Hey, if you're gonna eat like that, you have to get the Diet Coke. You know, for balance. I can honestly tell you that the waiter was just a bit frightened.

But even though I wasn't hungry anymore, my body was still in many kinds of distress. Muscles were traumatized. Mind craved sleep. Stomach--let's not even go there. I got back in my car and drove the remaining 45 minutes to Fresno with the same kind of urgency that got me to the restaurant. When I finally checked into my room at the Red Roof Inn, my body just gave out completely. I almost passed out trying to get undressed for bed. I curled up into a fetal position, shaking and queasy, my body temperature fluctuating wildly between too hot and too cold. After making a couple of calls to worried friends I'd promised to phone upon my safe return (if they only knew!), I went down hard and fast for ten hours.


* * * * * *


It would be four days before I could walk normally again. By that time I was back in Los Angeles, limping around the halls of SWR, easing myself in and out of my car for the less-than-scenic drive to and from work. I showed the pictures to anyone who would look at them, and maybe it's fitting that I have practically no photographic evidence of the infamous cables, and few shots of me at the peak. Maybe that's the way it should be. Because no matter how accurately I try to describe it, the words will inevitably fall short of the visions in my mind's eye. But so what? I know what I did. And I'll always be intensely proud of the fact that I, Bryan Beller, a not-so-physically-gifted Jewish musician from New Jersey who trained on a stairmaster for six weeks, had what it took to hang with the few marathoners, cross-country champions and all-around hiking-and-fitness freaks who didn't consider the incredible task of hiking Half Dome an impossible one.

Now, thanks to this, do I have any clearer an idea of where I am and where I'm going? More than likely, that's a hike for another day, one that cannot be measured with a mile marker carved into a wooden board. As a matter of fact, I think I'm still searching for the mountain. If I ever find it, I can only hope I'm prepared for the ascent.


* * * * * *


On a lighter closing note: thanks to SWR I recently had a private thirty-minute conversation with John Paul Jones, which I'll tell you about next time (if there is one). And you thought the title of this Act didn't make any sense.

From life's dip position,
The Bassboy Number Sixty-Nine