Night Shift

I can't help but think of ghosts, as I make more of the steps that make up the long stretch between rest stops on the very dark climbers trail up to El Cajon Mountain.

More than a few people have died on this rocky hill. Most were hikers. One rock climber on the face we are hiking to decided to climb without a rope. He fell and nearly took out roped climbers, perhaps turning them also into ghosts as he bounced foolishly into the shrubs at the base of the five-hundred-foot cliff. Most San Diegans don't know about the cliffs of El Cajon Mountain, but they do refer erroneously to the mountain as El Capitan

 I think about that ropeless climber as we hike.

 The summer air is still and hot at night. The full moon is not yet out, but the bugs are. Dogs on sentry duty at some of the houses far below know we are up here and yell at us: " Yark! Yark! " I don't mind that so much. Getting shot at is not so fun, and it happens. Near the bottom of the mountain is an old rock quarry that sits above the dam and reservoir. Climbers use the crumbling, overhanging rock face to practice the skills needed to sleep on the giant walls in Yosemite. It may or may not be the homeowners below the quarry that shots. Still, I personally have been sleeping on that wall, and bullets have impacted it not far from my hanging tent. Some locals don't like the rock climbers. Listening to the persistent alerting dog, I feel sympathy. El Cajon Mountain has a long history in San Diego of epics and tragedies. It features its most strenuous hike and spectacular modern rock climbing. It's highly crowded during the cool season, even on many weekdays, so we climb at night.

It is possible to climb the El Cajon Mountains infamous rock face during the summer months in daylight hours, but you must do so at the crack of dawn, as by afternoon, the rock will be hot to the touch and impossible to climb. During the day, the 2-hour hike up to the rock face is deserted during the summer months; the trail is steep, the rattlesnakes are plenty, and heat exhaustion has taken out more than a few experienced hikers. At night, the rock is still warm, but the temperatures are pleasant, and there are no other foolhardy people up there to share the popular routes that would otherwise see a line queued up waiting for their turn to climb. My friend is stopped on the trail ahead, so I turn off my headlight. In the bushes with no moon, it is pitch black. I am fairly sure I hear footsteps off the trail. I know the mountain lions are here. I turn on my flashlight and am relieved to see no glowing eyes as I shine it around me in a circle. I turn the light back off, wondering if the footsteps are in my imagination. I hear my friend Mike smoking in the dark as he waits for me. I think of ghosts again. There is a different way to get up to the rock face over by the park. If you go that way, you walk by the ruins of an old miners' Homestead, where some remains of the belongings of the person who lived there still lay, including an old rusted typewriter and a decrepit motorcycle that will never run again. Who were they? Could it be their ghost I hear walking on the trail behind me? I start walking along the path again. Mike is waiting for me. He has to do that more these days, as I have fourteen years of living ahead of him. I think about being a ghost someday. I'm in no hurry for that, even though rock climbing is a sport with a memorial section in the magazines honoring my peers who fall. I call the hike up to the rock face " The Golden Staircase " because the second half of the trail is as steep as a set of stairs, and the boulders along the trail are gold and brown in color. If you are trying to make good time, it's a 1.5-hour hike in daylight. At night, it's closer to three hours before we get to the start of the route named Meteor. The moon begins to rise as we rack the climbing gear and start climbing up. We think the Meteor gets its name because it is very steep and you climb straight up. One morning, I was driving along the 8 freeway heading east. I glanced over to the left where El Cajon mountain rises, and I saw that when the sun first rises, the stunning outside corner of the upper part of the climb catches the first morning light, and it lights up like the streak of a meteor in the sky. We see no meteors or shooting stars in the sky tonight as the moon rises, casting our shadows on the granite face. I am climbing up first, clipping the bolts and setting the rope through the anchors.

My right hand grips a thin edge the width of a pencil, and my left hand is feeling around above me, looking for the next move. I am reading g the rock with my fingers like a blind man reading  braille. I don't look up much, just enough to see my headlamp shine on the next safety bolt. I keep my attention on my feet, feeling gravity edge them off my stance one millimeter at a time. Each move higher as difficult as the last, some of the holds feel like I turn over a miniature hour glass, the tick-tocking of a timer clock, because I must move fast or tire and slip.

I know Mike can only see a bobbing headlight above him, nothing of my confidence or fear. Climbers talk to each other: " You got me Mike? " I ask, my voice echoes off the walls of the canyon. " I got you, " he says in the darkness one hundred feet below me now.

I pause at the shelf halfway up the first pitch and take pictures of the city lights below. I hum the Cat Stevens song " Moonshadow " as I finish the first pitch. Mike quickly follows up on the long first section, his headlight throwing conflicting shadows on the wall. We pause at the ledge before the upper corner and share a smoke break and the view. Far below now, the dogs are still barking. Mike starts up his section, and the moon is now so bright that we can almost turn off our headlamps, but we don't. Things feel more serious when we rock climb at night, and perhaps it is. We talk to each other more, both words of encouragement and caution. When he tops out on the false summit of Meteor, he pulls the rope up, and I follow as quickly as I can. Near the top of the face, there is a breeze. The air is no longer stale and now has the fresh feel of the coast. At the top of the climb is a perfectly flat shelf, just big enough for two or three people to sit on. We feel lucky to be here. The 125 freeway is far below and to the south, curving through the lights on its way to the hills that border Mexico. From up here, we can see it all and the darker space of the ocean beyond. To get off, we have to slide down our ropes past an overhang that has you hanging in space twenty feet from the wall and a hundred and fifty feet above the base. This part of climbing is the most dangerous, aside from the drive to get to the cliffs. One mistake would lead to a fast plunge into the darkness. I think again of the ghosts as I start down the trail. It's now 4 a.m., and only we and the dogs are awake. We are treated to the sight of Starlink as we near the car, like an interstellar freight train.