Rock Climbing in Yosemite Valley is a hallowed experience, a test of skill, nerve, and partnership. For years, my climbing partner and I had a tacit agreement forged on the granite walls of this iconic landscape. He excelled at hand jams, effortlessly soloing 5.9 terrain, while I took the lead on technical face climbs, pushing through insecure moves. Our styles were contrasting, yet complementary – until the day we decided to tackle the North Buttress of Middle Cathedral.
He chose the North Buttress, emphasizing it was not the Direct North Buttress (DNB), a route I knew from a previous, unnerving ascent. Middle Cathedral, a giant of a wall, rivals Half Dome in size, dwarfed only by the imposing El Capitan across the valley. While DNB is arguably more popular, the North Buttress promised a different, perhaps more demanding, adventure. Mountain Project describes DNB belays as “marginal” and every pitch as “runout,” with challenging route finding. I anticipated a similar experience on the North Buttress, but I was mistaken. It proved to be a climb I wouldn’t rush to repeat, for reasons beyond the sheer rock.
The North Buttress, first ascended in 1954 by Warren Harding, Frank Tarver, Craig Holden, and John Wittmer, predates even Harding’s legendary Nose on El Capitan. Imagining Harding on that wall in the early 50s, hammering pitons in the shadows while El Cap basked in sunlight, adds to the route’s historical allure. Yet, Mountain Project calls it “a poor man’s DNB, less classic.” The abundance of weathered tat around trees and chockstones suggested a history of retreats, hinting at the route’s challenging nature.
Since our climb, conversations with others who’ve tackled the North Buttress revealed a common theme: it’s a rockfall magnet. One climber recounted encountering a rock-filled tunnel high on the route, requiring him to clear it out. This reputation for loose rock would soon become starkly apparent during our ascent.
Starting up the North Buttress of Middle Cathedral. Photo: Chris Van Leuven
Starting the rock climb on the North Buttress of Middle Cathedral. Yosemite Valley rock climbing adventure captured in photograph by Chris Van Leuven.
On that sweltering July day, after passing the popular Central Pillar of Frenzy and DNB, we headed west, seeking shade in the talus. My partner, a man of action, grabbed a few pieces of gear and launched into the climb. His instruction was brief: he’d put me on belay when I felt a tug on the rope. But the tug never came. Throughout the entire day, I climbed with a constant question mark hanging over me: was I on belay? Communication was immediately absent.
This climb became a stark lesson in the critical need for clear communication during a rock climb. Post-ascent, spurred by this communication breakdown, I invested in a pair of inexpensive radios from Amazon. Initially, these felt like a solution. I rigged them with micro carabiners and tested them guiding on Fresno Dome and Royal Arches. However, these cheap radios proved unreliable. They fell off harnesses, and the buttons were poorly placed, leading to constant static interference during movement. Following the radio failures, my partner’s phone met a cracked-screen demise after a fall and retrieval. Phones were too cumbersome, and cheap radios were inadequate. This led me to Rocky Talkies, which proved to be a game-changer. With the newer, more powerful Rocky Talkie 5W radios boasting extended range and battery life, reliable communication in multi-pitch rock climbing finally became attainable.
Getting higher on the North Buttress. Photo by Van Leuven
Gaining elevation on the North Buttress rock climb. Image depicts the scale and exposure of the Yosemite climb, photo by Van Leuven.
Back on the North Buttress, my partner was long gone, likely linking pitches. We were both in approach shoes. While he moved confidently on the initial terrain, I felt precarious. Adding to my unease, we were using a 9mm rope, known for its significant stretch. A fall from the initial pitch felt like it would result in a ground fall due to rope elongation. Yelling commands was futile against the wind. The lack of communication amplified the inherent risks of the rock climb.
The crux arrived higher up, at a headwall about three-quarters of the way up the route. I had just navigated a terrifyingly loose pitch of precariously balanced blocks. Trying to conserve energy, I stemmed and swung across them, hoping my assumed belay would catch me if anything shifted. Reaching the anchor, I discovered my partner hadn’t clipped a fixed pin and was anchored to two questionable micro offset cams in shallow cracks – a disconcerting discovery.
He then announced we’d be simul-climbing, linking pitches, and that a 70-meter rope (we had an 80m, but this detail was missed) wouldn’t suffice. And just like that, he was off again, leaving me in the dark, both literally and figuratively.
When the rope tightened, the 5.10 climbing began immediately, a thin crack traverse where my partner had lingered for an eternity. Now it was my turn. Uncertain if I was actually on belay, fearing a fall would shear us both off, and struggling to decipher the sequence, panic began to set in. Reaching a weathered sling, an artifact of countless ascents, I instinctively grabbed it, weighting it like an aider. It promptly snapped.
Looking up at the endless North Buttress of Middle Cathedral. Photo: Van Leuven
Upward view of the seemingly endless North Buttress rock climb on Middle Cathedral. Photo showcases the impressive height and scale of the route, captured by Van Leuven.
The ensuing seconds were a blur of freefall. I plummeted downwards, expecting the worst. Then, the rope caught, stretching as if I were attached to a bomber anchor. I was on belay after all. Reaching my partner, I found myself at the best anchor of the entire route – a solid collection of gear in sound rock. Relief washed over me, but the choss continued above. We then encountered a dilapidated bolt ladder, bolts so old they seemed hand-removable, and finished with an offwidth/squeeze chimney that felt like being swallowed by the mountain.
Reaching the summit marked not the end of the challenges, but a transition to a different kind of exposure. The Catwalk traverse demanded roped protection in my mind, but my partner was against it. We compromised: I was belayed, but when it was his turn, he simply untied, letting the rope fall away. We navigated the downclimb and traverse on brittle, potato-chip flakes, with a terrifying 2,000-foot drop just inches away. The golden, squeaky rock offered little comfort.
We descended without further incident, though my partner completed the climb in his climbing shoes, having lost an approach shoe earlier in the day.
Bad bolts near the top of North Buttress. Photo: Van Leuven
Close-up of deteriorated and unsafe bolts found near the summit of the North Buttress rock climb. Photo emphasizes the age and condition of fixed gear on the route, image by Van Leuven.
The resounding takeaway from the North Buttress rock climb was the paramount importance of communication. Clear, reliable communication could have averted much of the anxiety and uncertainty we experienced that day.
Today, I rely on the Rocky Talkie 5 Watt Radio ($165 each). With its five-day battery life, 5-watt power for extended range (up to 2.8 miles in mountains), and rugged, waterproof, shatterproof design, it’s become indispensable for any multi-pitch rock climb. Designed to withstand harsh environments, this GMRS radio is built for serious adventures. It’s compatible with the lightweight Trango Quantum carabiner. While currently sold out, pre-orders are available, a testament to its popularity among climbers who understand that communication is not just convenient, it’s critical for safety and a more enjoyable rock climbing experience.
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