THIS WAS THE DIAMOND WATERFALL, WHERE LEGEND HAS IT THE PLUNGE POOL
E
ARLY THE NEXT MORNING, we
started to climb Weiassipu. Our plan
was to ascend the wall via whatever
seemed to be the best route, laying a
trail of ropes anchored to the moun-
tain along the way. When the entire
cliff was rigged, we’d strap Bruce into
one of the portaledges and haul him up behind
us. From the comfort of this hanging platform,
Bruce would look for new species on the verticalmacaws, and tiny iridescent hummingbirds
darted through the leaves, filling the air with
their warbles and whistles. For brief moments
the clouds would lift, letting the sun filter through
holes in the canopy, illuminating patches of the
steamy forest floor where luminous blue morpho
butterflies flitted in shafts of light.
On the second day of fighting our way to the
base of Weiassipu, we began to catch glimpses
of its towering north face through occasionalopenings in the forest. Soon we entered a maze
of jumbled, slippery boulders cloaked in a
spongy blanket of electric-green moss. Grad-
ually, the firm ground gave way to an elevated
lattice of deadfall that occasionally would break
out from under our feet like a trapdoor.
Late in the day I heard a loud oof behind me.
I looked back to see Alex hanging by his armpits.
One of his legs had broken through the rotten
trellis of dead wood and augered into a jagged
void between two rocks. After extricating him-
self, he pulled up his pant leg. His shin was cov-
ered in a paste of blood and muck. Fuco caught
my eye. He didn’t say anything, but I knew what
he was thinking: How in the world are we going
to get Bruce through this section?
When we finally walked out of the forest at
the base of Weiassipu just before sunset, it felt
like being reborn. The clouds had lifted, and
the wall glowed in the dusk. Across the valley,
we stared at the nine-mile-long east face of
Ro raima, where a dozen waterfalls, each as tall
as the Empire State Building, poured out of the
mountain like flowing ribbons of golden silk.
Franklin directed our attention to the most
spectacular cataract, which burst from a hole in
the side of the cliff about 200 feet below the rim.
This, he said, was the Diamond Waterfall, where
legend has it the plunge pool at its base sparkles
with diamonds the size of one’s fist. It’s a tale
that dates back to Sir Walter Raleigh, who wrote
that some of his Native guides promised to bring
him to a mountain that had “very large pieces
growing diamond-wise; whether it be crystal of
the mountain, Bristol diamond, or sapphire, I do
not yet know, but I hope the best.”walls that guard Weiassipu’s summit.
Progress was painstakingly slow, and by late
afternoon, Fuco and I found ourselves hud-
dling on a small ledge about 150 feet up the
wall. Above us, a mud-stained rope snaked up
and across a 25-foot horizontal section of rock—
known in climber parlance as a roof—to where
it was tied to Alex, who hung like a bat with his
left leg hooked over a spike of rock.
“What do you think?” he called down. “Should
I go for it?” The last section of the roof followed
a flake of rock that stuck out from the wall like
a diving board. There was no way to say for sure
how solid it was. Earlier that day I had taken the
first whack at this pitch, getting to where Alex
was now, before chickening out and handing
over the lead to Mr. Free Solo.
“Better to leave it for tomorrow,” yelled Fuco.
“It will be dark in a few minutes.”
Without saying anything else, Alex reached
out to the edge of the flake with his right hand,
cut his feet loose, and swung out over the void.
Then he proceeded to go hand over hand across
the flake, completely trusting that it would stay
attached to the mountain. After 15 feet or so, he
let go with one hand to chalk up his fingers.
Watching him dangle casually by one arm,
200 feet above the jungle, I was struck by the
uncanny resemblance he bore to a pebble toad
I’d seen clinging to Bruce’s finger a few days
prior. Seconds later, Alex reached for another
crack above his head, and the last thing I saw as
darkness enveloped the mountain was his legs
slithering over the lip.
That night, back down in our makeshift ham-
mock camp at the base of the wall, Alex, Fuco,66 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC