Excerpted from Tobin, the Stonemasters, and Me by Rick Accomazzo (June 2024). Published by Stonemasters Books. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
Tobin, the Stonemasters, and Me tells the story of Tobin Sorenson, the boldest climber of the famous California Stonemasters. How a teenager from the suburban sprawl of southern California became, at 25 years old, the best all-around climber in the world is an improbable and heart-breaking chronicle of ambition, religion, and love.
By Rick Accomazzo
In 1937, Dick Long led a climb to the right of the Open Book. He and Glen Dawson named it the Mechanic’s Route. At 5.8, it was then one of the hardest climbs in the country, especially impressive because it was done in tennis shoes, trailing a nearly worthless manila rope.
Tobin and I knew none of this history one day when John Long, Tobin, and I were loafing at the base of the Open Book, enjoying the view toward the tiny town of Idyllwild. I had never done the Open Book because I had a secret goal: to become good enough to climb it without a rope on my first time up it. By this time, we all had several seasons in Yosemite under our belts and were experienced crack climbers.
When I told John and Tobin that I was going to third-class the Open Book, John said, “I’m in.”
Tobin looked up from where he sat: “Me too!”
The three of us proceeded to cruise up the stupendous corner, each encour- aging the others.
“Hoh man, this is cake.”
“Solid jams here!”
“Way casual.”
When we down-climbed the Friction Route, less than an hour later and were back at the base of the Open Book, the excitement was still palpable—I couldn’t sit down. To climb that big feature without a rope opened up new possibilities: what else could we run up? I scanned the South Face routes that we could see. I suggested we free solo Mechanic’s Route, which sported an easier rating at 5.8. How hard could it be? We had just climbed, without a rope, a route a full grade harder. I checked the guide where I read that the crux was face moves, and I realized that this would be less secure. But we were supremely confident in our face-climbing ability and would routinely do 5.11 faces, first try, without falling. John deferred, he had plans for a roped project, but Tobin grinned and said, “Let’s go.”
We strolled up the first 100 feet of easy climbing until the route steepened. Now the cracks that we had securely sunk our fingers into disappeared. The Chuck Wilts guidebook had described this part laconically:
“A crucial portion of the climb is reached when the crack narrows and solution depressions dot the steep, massive face on the right. The lead to the right, up, and back over the solution ledges is not difficult, but the exposure is great.”
I was ten feet ahead of Tobin when I reached the “solution ledges.” I studied the first one carefully. As the guidebook description implied, they were depressions formed by eons of water flowing over the granite. Consequently, there were no sharp edges to stand on—only a sloping, water-polished, thimble-sized flat space at the bottom of a shallow scoop in the rock. I had to smear the toe onto the smooth surface and trust that it would stick. I judged that there was enough friction and started up the pockets, hands on those same sloping holds that soon became the footholds. A ways up, I could see that the angle relented, but there was one more move, a high right step onto another of those alarming, sloping holds, this one smaller and of slightly steeper slope than the previous ones.
It was warm, but I felt a shiver of dread pass through me. I suppressed it the usual way: I got my feet in balance, then dipped my left hand into the chalk bag behind my back. This had the desired calming effect, so I did the same with my right hand. As I did so, my focus returned to the move to come. I transferred weight onto the hold, pressed up very, very slowly, employing hamstring and calf muscles. As I reached a good handhold, I exhaled for the first time in what seemed like minutes.
I got a little higher to a good foothold, and turned to watch Tobin. Looking down a couple of body lengths, I saw that he was at the crux, in the middle of the solution depressions. He put his right foot on the crux sloper, stepped up part way, but backed down. He paused to chalk up just like I had, stepped up again. No good. Stepped back down again.
Unbidden, my mind conjured a vision of Tobin slipping off and accelerating earthward. I shook my head to escape the horror. Tobin was never one to hesitate, especially on a 5.8. I had to do something, but what? He was close enough that I did not need to raise my voice.
"Relax man. It’s easy.”
This seemed to break the spell. Tobin exhaled, stepped up smoothly, and made the move.
We scrambled back down to the base and ran into John.
“So how was it?”
Tobin and I glanced at each other. I answered for both of us: "Pretty casual.”
Then we both started laughing.
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Feature Image: Tobin in Australia in 1979. Photo: Courtesy of the Tobin Sorenson Collection.