Half Dome havoc

By: CADE GRUNST

Posted: 10/19/07

Ladies, you may not understand today's column. Gentlemen, just tell me this isn't true. Fact: Every guy believes that, if given just the right set of circumstances, he could become the most fearsomely hardcore dude in history. This belief persists until forcibly proven otherwise.
Before you sputter your denials, think back to that first tuxedo you put on for prom. Did it really matter that you were paying three-digit dollars in order to play dress-up in an outfit you only got to keep for a night? No, it didn't matter.
Because that night you were James Bond.
I'm no exception. It didn't matter that I was about half a foot too short for my meeting with M. It's a fantasy. I was a 16-year-old male, clearly invincible and omnipotent. Perhaps I'm as yet too young to wax nostalgically over my youth, but I've noticed these days I'm pretty vincible. It was an ugly realization.
Four of us headed off to Yosemite with the ill-conceived notion that Half Dome couldn't possibly withstand our combined might. The plan was to camp in the valley after driving in, wake up early and tackle the 17-mile hike on day two. We definitely did some of that.
Oh, we camped. Armed with a tent, food, grill, games, drinks and fire, ours was a regular party site. We spent the evening relaxing, preparing our bodies and minds for the ordeal ahead. Our relaxation rang long and loud through the night. We passed out only after getting severely chastised by another camper who (for some odd reason) didn't want to listen to us giggling through phone calls to girls we hadn't seen since high school Spanish class. We slept.
We awoke at the crack of 11. We made it to the mountain by noon. We were dead tired by one. We wanted to fall down and die by four.
The short version of the story is that the hike was really hard.
The long version would involve the four of us teetering on a foot-wide walkway with ice on one side and a precipitous doom on the other, ditching one of our packs to streamline our performance, then slogging up a cliff through crotch-deep snow. All this is aside from running out of water, time and hope before mid-afternoon, not to mention quite a bit of cursing.
The sun was on its way down when we finally collapsed. We lay near the base of the cables that run the last few thousand vertical, ice-covered, grueling feet to the summit - cables that were closed because we were attempting a summer hike through the snow. There we ate the best meal life could ever provide: Hopelessly squashed PB&Js that tasted like they were forged from pure awesome.
Through worlds of pain we longed for the summit, if only so we could later boast about joining the Mile High (Mountain) Club: Beverage Division. Fortunately, a couple Marines jogging(!) down brought us to our senses and sent us on the long, dark, painful journey back to camp.
Those dudes made me realize something important. I will never be the roughest guy around. That position has been filled by a couple of maritime mountaineers who prevented our inevitable deaths. Thanks, guys.
Ladies, if you've made it this far, let me be the first to warn you: None of this is supposed to make sense. Despite a partial collegiate education, we menfolk are still just that dumb.
Gentlemen, I'm no expert on college, but I think it's at least partially a chance to grow out of teenage silliness and realize your true potential. Let go of the fantasy. Stop pretending you can do everything and focus on what you enjoy, what you're good at. If hiking is your thing, rock on. But if not, don't go climbing Half Dome just because Half Dome is there. Stick to your strengths - it'll be less painful. Trust me.

Tell CADE GRUNST how much more hardcore you are than him at acgrunst@ucdavis.edu.