October 1st 2025

Content note: This post discusses a fatal climbing accident and its emotional impact. Reader discretion advised.

On October 1, I witnessed something I will never unsee.

I wasn’t searching for drama. I wasn’t chasing a story. I was simply there—doing what I love, sharing a place I deeply love and respect, watching climbers move across one of the most iconic walls on Earth.

When the fall happened, time distorted. The crowd didn’t see what I saw. Most people watching online didn’t fully understand what they were witnessing in that moment. But I did. And once you see something like that, it becomes part of you whether you want it to or not.

I had been watching climbers on El Capitan since Sunday evening, after the Yosemite Facelift trash pickup event. I spent several hours each evening with my spotting scope trained on different climbers, livestreaming the view to TikTok using my phone and a specialized mount attached to the scope.

On Sunday evening, I noticed a solo climber in the area of Sea of Dreams, about three-quarters of the way to the top. I didn’t know any of the climbers personally, so I gave each of them nicknames based on what I could see—the color of their clothing or gear. This solo climber was setting up a portaledge with an orange color, so I called him “Orange Tent Guy.”

Over the next few days, I livestreamed each morning before work and again after work until sunset, when my scope could no longer maintain focus. I routinely checked in on the climbers I’d been watching: Red Helmet Guy, Pink Shirt Crew, Orange Tent Guy, and others.

Hundreds of people were watching these streams for hours at a time. They were invested. They asked for updates. They tracked progress.

It became clear that Orange Tent Guy would summit while I was watching.

On Tuesday night, he camped just below the summit, tucked behind a large boulder that obscured him from view. The only indication he was there was visible gear and rope.

The following morning, everyone watching—and I—were anxious to see him reach the top.

He didn’t move during my morning stream. I told people I would start the stream again once he began climbing so we could all watch him summit together.

Around noon, I noticed movement and started the livestream. People joined quickly.

By around 1:00 p.m., Orange Tent Guy was essentially at the summit. He had climbed the final pitch, set his anchors, and only needed to haul his gear before walking over the crest.

He descended to release his gear. The haul bag swung out to his right. He climbed back up and began hoisting it—but it became stuck on the overhang. He appeared frustrated and tried to free it, but couldn’t.

As I write this, my heart is beating faster. My chest feels tight. Reliving this is very hard.

Unable to free the bag, he began to rappel.

I was watching through my phone screen, zoomed in at 80x through the scope. As he rappelled, I saw him start to speed up—and then he disappeared out of frame.

For a split second, my mind tried to protect me. I thought he must have been caught by his anchor and was hanging just below the frame.

I took my eyes off the screen and looked directly at the wall.

I saw a dark figure falling through the air.

I gasped and said out loud, “Oh my—”

Seconds later, I saw him hit the ground.

My heart sank. I leaned forward and covered my face. I could not believe what I had just seen.

Approximately 350 people were watching the livestream at that moment. Because the scope was fixed, everyone watching saw him fall off his rope—but I was the only person who saw him fall all the way to the ground.

From my reaction alone, I know everyone watching understood what had happened.

Someone walked past me on the road. I shouted, “Did you just see that?!”

They hadn’t. They had no idea.

I ran to Tom Evans, the El Cap Watcher, frantic and shouting, asking if he’d seen what happened. He hadn’t. Someone standing by him called 911.

I was the only person in the area who had seen the entire fall.

I returned to my van. The livestream now had 700–800 people watching. Comments were flying past faster than I could read. The audio was muted. I couldn’t speak. I paced. I waited.

Within two minutes, the first two NPS Rangers arrived. They came directly to me and asked what happened. I told them. They asked if I was sure.

I was certain.

One ranger—Search and Rescue—began preparing equipment to hike toward the impact area. The other, a Law Enforcement Investigator, asked if I had video. I did. She gave me her contact information and asked me to send it as soon as possible.

The livestream was still running. People were watching me speak with the ranger—on mute.

After the ranger walked away, I got into my van, unmuted the audio, pointed the camera at myself, tears in my eyes, and said, “I have no words.”

Then I ended the stream.

It was about 1:30 p.m.

I knelt in my van and cried.

The response outside was immediate and massive. NPS vehicles and personnel filled the area.

A ranger knocked on my van and asked if I was okay. She invited me to take a walk. We sat by the Merced River and talked for about fifteen minutes. It helped.

She asked about me. About Yosemite. About why this place matters to me. She encouraged me to go somewhere I love—away from El Cap—because what was coming next was not something I would want to see.

I stayed anyway. I thought I needed closure.

A helicopter arrived. SAR crews deployed. I watched as a stretcher basket was lifted from the base of El Cap, hanging from a long line.

When it passed directly overhead, I broke down.

I got into my van and drove away in shock.

I now followed the advise of the NPS Ranger and decided to hike to a favorite spot called Oh My Gosh Point. A viewpoint along the Yosemite Falls trail where I knew the view was good and that my phone would work to go live on TikTok and update people. Between Sunday evening and Wednesday, over 310,000 people had watched the livestreams. Many had spent hours there.

At the overlook, I went live and explained what had happened. I had to explain it twice. I turned off the chat while I spoke.

When I turned it back on, the screen filled with orange hearts and orange tent emojis. 🧡⛺️🧡⛺️

Half Dome glowed in the sunset.

At that point, I still didn’t know his name.

I hiked down in the dark, realizing I was walking the same trail he would have taken. That realization settled heavily in my chest.

In the hours and days—and then weeks—after October 1, I received a tremendous outpouring of support from people on TikTok. Messages, comments, direct notes from people who had been watching alongside me, or who had come later and learned what had happened. That support mattered. It helped more than I can easily explain.

But then, two days later, screen-recorded clips began to appear.

I was not the one who shared them. I never posted them. But it was my livestream that someone had recorded and then put back out into the world. Knowing that made me feel sick. It added another layer of weight and sadness to something that was already heavy enough.

Since then, I have attended Balin’s memorial and celebration of life. I have gotten to know members of his family and some of his friends. It is painfully clear how deeply loved he was, how special he was to so many people. Meeting them made everything feel more real—and somehow harder.

The pain of that day is something I relive daily. Some days are manageable. Other days, it comes back without warning.

On more recent trips to Yosemite, I’ve found myself watching climbers again—sometimes even livestreaming. Doing that has been incredibly difficult. On one trip, I witnessed several slips or falls. None were serious, but seeing them was distressing—not just for me, but for the people watching along with me.

Later on that same trip, I was watching sunset light on Half Dome when I became absolutely convinced I had just seen a base jumper impact the ground on the north side. I don’t believe I hallucinated it—but I do believe that October 1 profoundly shaped how my body and mind reacted in that moment. The feeling afterward was overwhelming. Thankfully, it was later confirmed to have been a false alarm.

On my most recent visit, I couldn’t get comfortable watching climbers at all. I felt anxious and fearful—for them, and for myself. Fearful that I might see something again. Fearful that I might once again be the person broadcasting something irreversible.

When I was watching Orange Tent Guy—Balin—climb, I was completely certain that nothing would happen. I believed, without hesitation, that any slip or mistake would be caught by ropes and anchors. That belief felt absolute.

Now I know differently.

I have seen what can happen.

Watching climbers is something I love. But it will never be the same as it was before that day.

I still love Yosemite. I still feel awe when I stand beneath El Capitan. But when I zoom in on a climber on the wall at 80x through my scope, everything comes rushing back. The images. The seconds. The knowledge of how quickly everything can change.

I don’t think I will be able to livestream climbers again anytime soon—if ever. Doing so brings me right back to Balin’s final moments, images I never wanted to carry, but now do.

I’m still here, still learning how to hold all of this, one day at a time.

Nightscape timelapse. The night before. Yosemite, September 30.