El Capitan Rises

Sunday, January 18, 2009
Still hanging above Brazil and I am in a writing mood about as much as I am in the mood to get a tooth filled. We are 500 or so NM north of the estuaries of the Amazon River. That water flows in its own mud and freshness more than 200 miles out to sea. Drilling there is difficult, because the current is four knots, enough to bend pipe. The Orinoco also muddies the sea for many miles.

Monday, January 19, 2009
Still bogged down with blockage between head bone and finger bone. Spent good part of the day researching and reminescing mountains and rivers, so I shall start a monolog tomorrow and for a day or two on some particular pieces of nature. Today was the roughest day we’ve had, actually having spillages and falls. Finally, we ballasted down into the water to smooth the ride, which it did, but also costs us speed. We are down to 4.5 knots, which adds a lot of days to the trip. At 2130 hours, we are at N 6° 48.1’ and W 44° 26.7’ in a bit over 18,000 feet of water.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009
N6° 11’ / W43° 43.6’, CMG 140.
I was a freshman in college at Christmas, 1961, and weighed 166 pounds and stood 6’2”. (now I stand 5’10”. It seems all my vertical characteristics shrank, while the horizontal ones got bigger.) My brother, Bobby was a couple inches taller. He and Bob Andrews and I took a sabbatical of sorts to the Guadalupe Mountains. This was several years before it was made a national park by Lyndon Johnson. They were really remote, with one little store at a place that called itself Indian Springs. I remember it as being called Nichols, but can find no history of it, and It may have been spelled differently. Anyway, it was run by an old woman who lived alone and made her living at the little store, which was located on the south side of the highway. The park is on the other side. Later, when the National Park Service took over the land, they tried for years to evict the poor old thing, but she beat them hands down in court until she died. Then the Feds bulldozed the place, and her little bit of property and history were buried in the megatons of the government’s National Parks Bureaucracy. That is not the only property that Lyndon took: he transferred the best part of Stonewall to his legacy.

The old woman had gasoline and cold drinks, some lunch meat and bread, matches, water…not much, but there was a part-time telephone there, if you needed it. It is about 70 miles east to Carlsbad and about the same south to Van Horn. I don’t remember anything to the west except Hueco Tanks, until El Paso, about 200 miles. Hueco Tanks is a state park about a hundred miles west of Indian Springs. Nestled in the elbow of mountains at the base of Guadalupe Peak was Del City, where New York City now dumps its sewage . There were not a hundred people within a hundred miles.

This abutment is an ancient marine reef that now sits sentinel over the Sonoran Desert. I have found marine fossils high up in those mountains. Now, it is desert country, big and open, and one can peer far enough to see the earth curve. What one actually is seeing is the bed of the Permian Sea from 300,000,000 years ago. Thus saith the geologists. My dad literally had a ton of fossilized anemones found in that country, and a slew of crustaceans, fish, and other swimming things. That includes petrified wood, and later him, and now me. Actually, being a fossil is pretty easy, and I don’ mind it too badly.

It was really cold that Christmas when we arrived at the foot of El Capitan. Wind was high and temperature was in the twenties. There was snow in light to heavy patches all over the mountains, so water would not be a problem during the climb. We found a creek bed about twelve feet deep that took some of the sting out of the wind. There also was an abandoned bridge that offered a little protection against rain or snow, as we were to sleep in the open, with chill for a bedmate and a rock for a pillow. Walls of the creek were stone, and near vertical, so we parked on the bridge and tossed equipment down into waiting arms. Soon we had a respectable camp, and it wasn’t dark yet. To the north lay the great prow of El Capitan, with westerly winds blowing snow off the top. Wood gathered, I built the neatest fire pit. There was an abundance of flat rocks of one-inch thickness, fifteen inches long and eight wide. A whole house could have been built. Since it was cold, even numbing, we elected to have a hot meal and not waste all these great architectural rocks. I had a nice fire going, we were warming our bodies, the stew was coming to a boil, and coffee was perking when the rock shelf upon which all that stuff was sitting blew up. It blew stew and sharp rock particles all over everybody. I thought someone was shooting at us, so we all took up guns and scattered, looking for outlaws or gunmen. About the time I climbed out on top, the whole fire pit blew up. Those danged rocks were full of gas, and when they became hot, they blew. Now we had stew, coffee, and rock dust all over our warm sleeping bags, and the culprit had been found, and he was us.
I don’t recall what was for supper that night, but it wasn’t hot.

That should be the end of the story for a night of tough luck, but it isn’t. We stoked a big fire to go to bed by, and maybe to have some coals in the morning. I laid my boots near the fire in order to have comfy, warm feet to begin the climb. Nothing gets as cold as leather. Andrews stoked the fire during the night, and it caught my sleeping boots unaware, and they burned up—everything but the eyelets. It looked bleak for my climb, but I considered trying it bare-footed for about a second. Fortunately, Andrews brought a pair of work boots that I had given him as spares, so I managed to shoe the jackass who had dreamt up the bright idea of having warm boots. Those boots had spent the night in the pick up, and they had polar ice caps on the toes.

The climb was remarkable, beautiful. We went up the east side to the east face until we came to vertical rock. The east face looked less daunting than the west face, and it was. We found foot holds and hand holds for a bit, and –thank the fates—a parachute chord tied to the top of a 40-foot escarpment. After that, the ascent was manageable, but steep. Vertical pieces were easy enough. There was snow, so moisture and hydration were simple. On top were scrub pines and junipers, dead grasses and trees, There have been fires up here over the eons. There were fossils at such elevation as to overlook a magnificent vista in any direction. To the north, less than a mile, was Guadalupe Peak, rising another seven hundred feet above us, but that mountain is less imposing, less inspiring than our El Capitan.

El Capitan’s west face is spectacular. It is a vertical massif of some 2000 feet. That distance is my own guess. We threw a big rock over the side and timed its fall and calculated as best we could what the distance was, only guessing at the speed of sound. Now I do not recall any of the numbers, but it was a fur piece. We held each other by the ankles as each of us in turn peered straight down for half a mile. It was dizzying and wonderful. And we stank. The day was sunny and cold, but not too much wind. Humidity was almost non-existent, so we could see for perhaps 70 miles, before the world melted into infinity. The south face presents a spill-way, or so it appears. It should create a water fall in a hard rain, but I’ve never seen photos like that. It is a place I’d like to go again, but I can not.


As A.E. Housman wrote in A Shropshire Lad:
“Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue-remembered hills?
What farms, what spires are those?
It is the land of lost content—
I see it shining plain—
The happy places where we went
And can not go again.”
It was isolated: the whole planet was lonely-looking to us. I do not recall any highway traffic, although there was bound to be an auto now and then. I do recall looking at the ribbon of highway glistening gold in the westering sun until it disappeared. Not a lot of people had been up here, and it would be a bad place for a misfortune. On the way down, I happened across a set of car keys about half-way down the mountain. I wish I could have mailed them home, although it might have been thirty years too late.

We packed up camp, ate quickly, and headed south for the Davis Mountains. It was in our heads to climb Sawtooth and the Rockpile. We arrived at the mountain late, and it was exceedingly cold and windy. No campsite could be made, so we drew straws: two would sleep in the pickup bed, and number three would sleep in the cab. This was before the days of extended cabs and such. We managed to get the canvas tarp wrapped over the top of the pickup bed and secured, to act as a wind break for the two Bobs. No one knows how cold it became in the night, nor how much the wind blew, but it was sufficient. Bobby said he was trying to cover up with a pork ‘n bean can. No one really slept, but we were able to be still, except for shivering. I think we all ended up in the cab with the heater on, but it has been so many years…

At dawn, we started the climb, and it was a tough one. It wasn’t because of the grade, nor vertical walls, but the mountain was covered in rotten rocks—weak, non-load-bearing rocks. Step on one and it would break. Another would skitter. You ended up knee deep in voids with rocks cutting your legs, smashing your toes, sliding into the guys around you. The view was beautiful, but we never got to the top. We heard a great clattering of rock and became still and quiet. It was a herd of mule deer, numbering 128. It was the greatest thing I ever saw. We were downwind and were able to watch that parade for several minutes before one of them spooked.

None among us were accomplished climbers, but we were outdoorsmen and knew how to start a fire, climb a rock, fix a snake bite, and trek. Those climbs are not included in the annals of really high, difficult climbs, but they are different enough and remote enough and old enough to serve the purpose. One could still fall for 7 or 8 seconds before he hit anything. Anybody else falling would likely land feet first. Not I, I would land chin, elbows and knees first, with a following boulder headed straight for my noggin. I love that country and its remote quietude. In subsequent trips, I have seen the elk herd, the sun trout in McKittrick Canyon, a black bear, and a hundred skunks. I hiked Dog Canyon, McKittrick Canyon, Hunter’s Peak, Guadalupe Peak, and the rest. I would like to have my ashes spread there, but they would finally wash down into the sea, and I don’t like the sea, so I think I will just have them flushed.

When we started home, it was obvious that bodies had not been washed in several days, and hideous flatulence was a thing to be proud of, because it was too cold outside to roll down the windows. It was night, and we were headed east when we happened across a new car broken down with three women and two men at loose ends as to what to do about it. We stopped to help (you could safely do that in those days). We had come back up to Highway 80 (now I-10), but there is a scarcity of towns up there, too. There was nothing to be done about that car, so we offered to carry the people, who turned out to be TCU students, to Pecos, or Odessa. Naturally, three pretty girls got in the cab, where it stank of dirtybody, but it was warm. The two unlucky lads were in the pickup bed, covered in tarps and stew-spotted sleeping bags. The comment was made that somebody stank, but it was better than waiting in the cold. And it WAS cold. We took addresses and promised to see each other and blah, blah, blah. Never heard from them again, and haven’t even thought of them in 40 years.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009
5° 35.0’ north and 43° 18.15’ west. 3.7 knots. We made 60 whole miles today! We should be in Cape Town by New Years’ Day, and we’ll all be really skinny.

Columbus gathered together three hard-used ships, none of which were ever meant for exploration. They were the Santa Maria de la Immaculada Concepcion (Santa Maria), the Niňa (the “Girl”, a play on the owner’s name), and the Pinta (the “Painted”, as in too much makeup). The Santa Maria was the largest, at 70 feet in length, and it was the slowest, being a carrack. The other two were caravels. The Santa Maria was about the size of an 18-wheeler. Her construction was of pine and oak, with a single deck, and three masts. Her crew was up to 40 men. The pontoons on the vessel I now ride are 290 feet, and it is over 200 feet from the keel to the derrick top, and we are considered small. The Santa Maria was TINY. The Atlantic Ocean that we have ridden from Barbados has been very rough on steel and diesel engines. We are not threatened, but the ride is rough and the seas are large. I try to imagine those poor, scurvy sailors in twenty-one foot heaves and twenty foot waves in a stout northeasterly wind, day after miserable day. Well, they did it, and they survived the wreck of the little Santa Maria at Mole St-Nicolas, Haiti on Christmas Day, 1492.

The Santa Maria was 25 feet wide; we are 229 feet wide. It displaced about 300 tons and could carry 100 tons of cargo. Her draft was considered deep at six feet. We drill at a 60-foot draft. The Explorer drilled at a 32-foot draft at about 50,000 tons.

We are in 16,000+ feet of water and the seas are lying down somewhat, so we are ballasting up to increase speed. We lost two days milling around at less than four knots. I have 30 days of meds remaining. We are out of milk and some vegetables, but Moony knows what to do: the lad is a chef. He is also a very fine man and friend. Several men out here have special diets (diabetics, heart patients, hypoglycemics, and so on), and Moony takes care of them, just like family. He is one of the ones who was not paid on time, and that made the entire crew angry at the trash hounds in town who don’t do their jobs, to wit, payroll. We have been sailing for 24 days, and some pay is still in arrears. Those people ought to be run off.