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Rob grinning down on El Cap

“…nothing but dogshit here, Mikey” –Rob Slater “You’re under arrest. Stop.” –Unknown ranger

El Capitan is horrendous. It’s hideous and heinous. It’s a horrifically terrifying cliff. Unsurprisingly, it’s also a rock climbing Mecca. Towering more than 3,000 feet from the valley floor in Yosemite National Park in central California, you can hike to its base, look up and barely be able to see the top. It’s a huge overhang, steeper than vertical. If you look really hard, you may be able to discern tiny spots clinging high above to the smooth granite walls. They’re aid climbers, fearless souls who use ropes and an array of small gadgetry to ascend the huge, glassy face that’s impossible to climb otherwise.

One summer day in June, 1982, Mike O’Donnell of Boulder, Colorado, looked up from his spot on a tiny ledge on an upper portion of Sea of Dreams, one of “El Cap’s” toughest routes. Mike could barely see his friend and climbing partner Rob Slater on the immense rock overhang above – though he could easily hear Rob’s nonstop monologue about Danny Thomas, Phil Donahue, Tony Curtis, pop culture and junior high girls on swim teams. However, when Rob occasionally looked down, Mike could clearly see a speck of white which he recognized as Rob’s maniacal grin.

Later on, on a particularly dicey section, Mike became uncharacteristically concerned because the rock – and the risk – was way beyond heinous. It was “weinous” as Rob would say – and way past any reasonable definition of “the edge.” But then Mike remembered that Rob’s “edge” was way further out than pretty much everyone.

“Throughout, Slater displayed astonishing cockiness in the face of death. He’d belooking down at a pinnacle 100 feet below that he’d impale himself on, and yell down, ‘This is nothing but dogshit here, Mikey,’” O’Donnell recalled, shaking his head at Rob’s uncanny ability to remain incredibly focused on the climb and maintain a razor-thin balance to stay on the rock.

The weinous route slowed them down more than they had planned and for the last three days, they had no food. On the final day, to lighten their load, they jettisoned all nonessential gear, including sleeping bags and coats. At the end, Rob was so weak he could manage only one swing of his hammer at each pin as he cleaned the hardware from the last pitch. They finally reached the top, triumphant because they were alive, successful and they were still friends. Pounded by a wind-driven rain, they huddled under their remaining haul bags to face a long, grim night.

Rob had one thing left to do. The wind and rain abated before dawn, leaving conditions perfect for Rob’s final “pitch” on Sea of Dreams. Rob strapped on a parachute rig a friend had stashed at the top for him then dove off the edge. In seconds, he hurtled past the rock on which he and “Mikey” had just spent a week and a half clawing their way up. In the silent blackness he pitched his pilot chute, deployed his main parachute and sailed towards El Cap Meadow below. During his final approach to landing, two headlights appeared. Rob swooped through their beams, hitting the ground 30 feet from… a National Park Service patrol car. He heard doors slam.

“You’re under arrest. Stop.”

But Rob didn’t stop. Instead, he ran off across the meadow, gathering his parachute as he went. Even in his weakened condition, burdened with a parachute, Rob easily outran the first of the two pursuing park rangers, who apparently suffered from Krispy Kreme Syndrome and who quickly gave up the chase. The other, more physically fit from hours spent polishing his badge, started gaining on Rob, who up to then had a clean police record, but now faced arrest and incarceration for trespassing, attempting to elude and resisting arrest.

The gig was almost up, but not quite. Rob dumped his rig and dove into the icy waters of the Merced River, hoping the current would carry him to freedom. The remaining ranger ran along the bank waving his pistol and screaming at Rob. Eventually, he too abandoned the pursuit, apparently concluding the situation didn’t warrant gunfire and all the extra paperwork.

Rob floated down the Merced about three miles before dragging himself out and running into the forest to hide. Two days later, he emerged from the woods and casually rode the bus back to camp, completing his escape.

Rob kept his freedom but lost about three grand in confiscated gear, an amount he laughed off as “worth every penny.” When he told me the tale, I wondered if the chase and dive into the river was more exciting for him than the parachute dive off the cliff. It certainly added to the story – but it also gave me at least a glimpse of part of my twin’s underlying motivation…