It was a clear and sunny summer morning in the Tuolumne Meadows region of the High Sierra Nevada mountains of California.  Tom, my colleague, had invited me to join him and his 16-year-old daughter, Annie, on a guided climb of 10,916-ft Cathedral Peak.  This iconic, pyramidal peak was so named by John Muir, who having first climbed it in 1869, later wrote, “This I may say is the first time I have been at church in California….”  The climb is popular because of its easy access and exposed five pitches (rope lengths) of moderately difficult climbing on solid granite, culminating in a pointed summit spire topped with a tiny platform pockmarked by past lightning strikes.

I could no longer feel my cold hands and had to visually place them on holds.

The approach hike was only three miles, but still steep enough to take one’s breath away.  At the base, we put on our climbing gear (rock shoes, harnesses, helmets), tied into the ropes, set the belay (i.e., the safety procedure of anchoring oneself and holding the rope in order to catch and hold the climber if he were to fall), and looked up at the 700-ft pinnacle.  Our guide, Gary, led, followed by Annie, Tom, and me.  We climbed steadily up the first three pitches.  At the end of the third pitch, over halfway up, the rockface split, presenting a narrow chimney to wiggle up.  Gary eased up cleft rock.  Then, Annie climbed, but she soon became stuck in a narrow section.  As she struggled to free herself, Gary called down to her to push as hard as she could.  The sky had darkened, and the guide’s hair was standing up, electrified. The storm was moving in fast.  At that position on the climb, it was safer, that is, faster, to continue climbing up toward the summit and to the start of the descent route rather than to begin the slow process of downclimbing or rappelling off.  We sped up the rock, reached the descent route (just 20 feet below the summit), and then scrambled down the unexposed yet steep trail to the base, escaping both the subsequent rain and lightning.  We were relieved.  Still, to have been so close to the summit and not reach it was disappointing.

            A month later, Alan, my regular climbing partner, and I returned to make another attempt.  He invited his girlfriend Jane to join us, even though she had never climbed before.   Because I was now familiar with the route, Alan and I would alternate leads, with Jane tied into the rope between us.  I led the first pitch.  Jane climbed up and anchored herself.  I then asked her to belay Alan.  Jane announced that she did not know how to belay.  I was surprised, yet this was not too much of a problem because Alan and I could easily belay one another, but it would slow us down.

            The climbing route goes up the east buttress of the peak.  Consequently, this makes for a sunny and warm morning climb.  However, from this position, climbers cannot see a storm approaching from the west, as it did that day.  Suddenly, the sky darkened, the wind picked up, the temperature dropped, and the rain started.  The climbing rope became wet and when stretched, a conductor of electricity.  We climbed frantically on the wet granite.  I could no longer feel my cold hands and had to visually place them on holds.  The air was electric. Above the chimney pitch, a pair of climbers offered to have us three tie into their rope so that we could climb faster.  We soon reached the descent route, just short of the summit.  As we began going down, my partner felt a current go through his forearm as his elbow and hand touched two rocks.  We reached the base, took photos, and parted.  These two strangers had slowed their own pace of escape, endangering themselves, in order to help us.  

The following year, on a clear and sunny summer morning, Alan and I finally reached the summit.