Mt. Hayden

We came to the Grand Canyon to climb Mt. Hayden.  Along with What’s My Line at Cochise Stronghold and Snake Dike in Yosemite, Mt. Hayden is one of the destination routes I had planned on climbing with Babe.  Looking out from its perch atop the Hermit Shale in the Big Ditch, Mt. Hayden has one of the premier summits in the world.

Mt. Hayden from Pt. Imperial

On the way here we stopped to watch the solar eclipse at the Vermillion Cliffs.  This was supposed to be the viewing epicenter in the US.  In truth, the eclipse was rather anti-climactic even from our stunning location.  We didn’t have the eye protection needed to view the sun directly, and it was still too bright because of the annular ring to visually determine when the full eclipse had taken place.  Although the light around us was incredible and kinda weird, the real experience came from feeling the cooling and heating that took place in a very short period of time as the moon came and went.  It also became much quieter, as any bird or insect life around us went silent.

But after four days of camping out on the North Rim we have yet to think about climbing.  Unlike the South Rim that typically swarms with tourists, the North Rim of the Canyon gets relatively little traffic and is much more laid back.  Both of us are as relaxed and more tuned into the earth than we have ever been in our lives.  Babe thinks it’s Thursday, I think it’s Saturday, and neither of us cares enough to find out who is right.  I have been spending my time trying to figure out what birds are flitting around our camp by using the remarkable Guide To Birds by David Sibley.  The book is a unique juxtaposition of art and science that captivates even a non-birder like me.  I am able to identify the American Goldfinch, Western Tanager and Fox Sparrow, in addition to the ubiquitous ravens and robins.  We see a wild buffalo and hundreds of ravens hunting moles or feeding on dead deer.  The N. Rim ratchets us all the way down to where our biggest decision of the day is whether or not we should drink whiskey for breakfast.

Roughing it

Angel's Window

Leaving our campsite

It has been extremely windy for several days, blowing steadily at 25 mph with frequent gusts to 40 mph.  Days are in the low 70’s, night’s right at freezing.  Excellent weather for hanging out and staring over the edge of the Canyon, but not ideal for climbing.  The forecast calls for the winds to take it up a notch or two, so we decide that it is time to climb Hayden the next day.

Chip Norton and I had reminisced about climbing in the Canyon a few days earlier over dinner at Stan’s house.  Seeing Chip has been one of the highlights of the trip; we climbed so many routes together in our formative climbing years.  Chip is as stoic as they get, so it was hard to grasp the depth of pain he still felt over the mental illness and suicide of his only child.  Hard to fathom any other pain so great.  Like most parents, if I only had one wish remaining it would be to die before my kids.  But Chip is living proof that life does go on, and it was fun to remember doing the first ascent of Buddha Temple in the Canyon together with LB.  As is the case with most Canyon climbs, the crux is the approach, and Chip reminds me of all the shenanigans we went through just to get to the climb: 28 hours of busting our asses. 

Reconnoitering the approach

Mt. Hayden is no different, even if it has the shortest approach in the Canyon.  Like most desert sandstone climbs it is characterized by loose friable rock, long runouts, poor protection and convoluted route finding.  Add to that a horrendous approach and you have the makings of an adventure.  I know we are in for a long day and make sure we get to bed early with full stomachs.  Tomorrow will entail some suffering.

We wake up at 5:30 the next morning, have a quick breakfast of yogurt, a muffin and banana and begin the odyssey to the climb by hopping over the railing at Pt. Imperial around 7:40 AM.  After picking our way down through a cliff band of rock we find ourselves in a very steep gully that has been denuded of life by a recent forest fire.  The gully is essentially ash and sand littered with unstable boulders.  Babe slides down most of if, about ½ mile, on her butt.  This concerns me of course, since I am a big fan of that butt.  I use my hiking poles to more or less ski down on the soles of my shoes, trying hard not to wreck one of my reconstructed knees or ankle.  We take turns going down so as not to crush each other if we dislodge one of the many large, loose rocks.  At the bottom, we find an old 100 ft. fixed rope that helps us go down an even steeper section hand over hand like Batman.  Both of us suffer rope burns on our hands, drawing blood and leaving blisters.

Now the real fun begins as we have to bushwhack a mile through one of the nastiest plants on the earth, New Mexico Locust.  It features inch long, needle sharp spears, that scratch, pierce and often imbed themselves into the flesh.  On this approach they grow into nearly impenetrable hedges, complicated further by numerous downed trees and new oak growth.  We quickly lose any semblance of a trail, and are scratched from neck to ankles fighting through this nastiness before we reach the Hermit Shale where the vegetation mostly disappears.  A bit more slogging uphill brings us to the base of the climb.

I was lucky to grow up climbing in N. Arizona surrounded by granite, basalt and sandstone cliffs.  There is an art to climbing on all three, different for each, but for the unitiated (i.e. Babe), climbing on sandstone can be a terrifying experience.  It requires you to move lightly over the rock as nothing is stable or completely reliable.  Desert spires create an aura akin to mountaineering, keeping you on full alert.  I stress to Babe that it is important to stay balanced, pull down, not out, on the holds and to try and keep at least three points of contact at all times.  Her first two handholds come off in her hands (“down, not out”). 

The route finding is a bit obscure and I am not sure if we are on the 5.8 or 5.9 route, probably both.  None of the moves are particularly difficult, but I find myself doing tricky bouldering moves 40-70 feet above my last (questionable) protection on unreliable rock.  Falling is simply not an option, and I manage to avoid breaking off a hold or knocking down a rock.  This is an acquired skill that comes back to me instantly, but one that will take Babe years to learn.

Near the top

The wind is picking up and by the time we reach the summit it is howling.  We don’t stay long despite the magnificent view and perfectly flat summit block as the shadows are already long in the canyon.  The wind makes the three full-length rappels off the top a bitch, as our ropes get blown into bushes and tied into knots.  Our 7mm second rope, in particular, likes to tie itself in knots at every opportunity.  The first two rappels require quite a bit of time to untangle or reroute the rope below while I’m on rappel, and we hold our breath when we pull the ropes for the next rappel.  Getting the ropes stuck here could be a mini-disaster.  On our way down we encounter a Bandito bolt hanger; nice!

Perfect Summit

Cruise control

Bad Bolt (Bandito hanger)

Now for the hard part: getting back to the car.  As proof that I am capable of learning, I actually brought headlamps with us for the return.  Fortunately, we are able to slog our way back across the thorny obstacle course easier than our original descent and we get to the bottom of the fixed rope before it is fully dark.  Babe is very tired but still game at this point.  That will change.  She is forced to crawl the final ½ mile uphill over the unstable slope on her hands, knees/feet.  About two-thirds of the way up the hill I hear her mutter to herself that she is, “ready for this to be over.”  It is pitch black when she asks me if this climb has reached the level of an “epic” yet.  Since we aren’t lost, there is little imminent chance of serious injury or death and no chance of spending the night in an unforced bivouac; I had to tell her “no.”  LB later referred to it as a mini-epic, but I know epics and this was simply a long, hard day.

It is 9:40 PM when we get back to our lonesome car waiting in the parking lot at Pt. Imperial.  Babe’s first move is to pop three ibuprofen; something I have never seen her do before.  When I ask her what hurts, she responds, “everything.”  We are filthy dirty, literally black from the sweat and ash, not to mention hungry and thirsty.  But our first priority is getting a shower so that we don’t have to crawl back into our tent this dirty.  Fortunately, we find that the doors to the showers at the N. Rim Visitor Center are still open even though the sign says they close at 10 PM.  There is hot water and no one around to give a shit, so we put in our 5 quarters and enjoy 7 minutes of bliss.  It just doesn’t get much better.

We get back to our campsite just before midnight.  We go to bed hungry and wake up hungrier.  On the way to camp we both experience the ultimate joy of climbing.  After a day like today, everything else seems easy.  For the first time this trip, my joy of climbing goes beyond the fun, aesthetic movement over rock, great views and camaraderie.  Mt. Hayden leaves us both spiritually uplifted and connected to the greater universe.  There are no words to describe it, but today’s adventure embodies the essence of why climbing is so consuming and alluring.  I am more in touch with myself and everything around me than when I woke up this morning, and the feelings of awareness and strength will last for several days.  The same is true for Babe.  She is a changed woman and I couldn’t be more impressed by or in love with her.  As a bonus, I can tell her in good faith that we won’t do anything this hard the rest of the trip.  But then, I am known to be optimistic.

We leave early the next morning headed for Moab.  There we will climb in Canyonlands and hike in Arches National Parks.  It is Memorial Day weekend and we pass a tribute in Monticello, Utah to the men and women, including my father, who have served this country during wars.  One of the things I had reinforced at my last job is that those serving in the military are predominantly a first-class bunch.  The idiocy characteristic of much of our foreign policy comes from the political sector, not the military.  I always felt that it was an honor helping to protect our warriors as we did at Massif.

The wind is now howling at 60 mph and the sky is so filled with dust that it looks like what we both imagine to be a nuclear winter.  Dark, surreal movement, eerie noises, foreboding, few signs of human activity.  My car loses a fog light when it gets pelted with stones picked up off the ground by the wind.  Compared to fighting in a war I have trivial concerns, like finding a hotel or campsite this weekend in an outdoor recreation destination like Moab.  But we have just climbed Mt. Hayden, and everything else is a piece of cake

Mt. Hayden from the Hermit Shale

Arizona

I spent my childhood through undergraduate school in the Pacific Northwest.  But Arizona is where I became a man and made the transition from jock to outdoorsman.  During the thirteen years I lived here starting at age 21, I spent every free moment climbing, kayaking, hiking, skiing or backpacking the state.  It is where I learned to fly off the aircraft carrier known as the Sedona airport.  It is impossible to know every nook and cranny of a state, but I did my best during the time I lived here to explore as much of it as possible.  That made it hell on my girlfriends and ex-wives who weren’t quite so enamored with the outdoors.  I am looking forward to showing Babe this state of so many contrasts, from the overpowering Border Patrol presence in Southern Arizona to the pristine alpine meadows of the north.  Arizona is a state with many faces, but rugged outdoor beauty radiates from all of them.  Historically among the worst governed states in the nation (now being no exception), it is a blend of cowboy macho, rightwing conservatism and unmitigated capitalism that is being challenged by a steady influx of Hispanics from its southern border.  This is the battleground of illegal immigration and there is no shortage of opinions on that subject here.

We are sitting with Stan Mish and his girlfriend Pam in their breakfast room watching a family of baby quail flitter back and forth across the front yard.  The view is spectacular, looking out across the Verde Valley into Sedona from Stan’s hillside perch in Rimrock, Arizona.  The adorable chicks comically swarm about under the watchful eye of both parents, attracting the attention of a chipmunk who fancies them as its next meal.  Like an impatient cat, the chipmunk stalks the chicks, its furtive movement s alerting the father quail to the impending danger.  Instantly, it chases the chipmunk away while the mother quail does her best to herd the chicks back together.  Disaster averted for now.  It reminds me of the time I watched a squirrel stalk, kill and eat a chipmunk while Stan and I were camped out at the Granite Mountain parking lot on one of our many climbing trips.  Yes folks, it is still survival of the fittest out there.

Stan & Pam

 Stan is as good a friend as I have on the earth.  We were together on many of my most memorable climbs and have cheated death on a number of occasions.  Unlike the rest of my old friends, Stan is still climbing hard as I learned the day before when he, Babe and I spent the day at a marvelous new sport climbing area outside of Pine, Arizona.  Stan and I both lead 5.10 routes with relative ease, even though I take my first fall of the trip; falling about 25 feet while on lead and ending up hanging in air from a bolt with no injuries worth noting.  I was surmounting the crux bulge on a dead vertical route when my foot slipped off a smear after my left handhold popped.  If you are going to take a lead fall, steep is good.  I get right back on the rock and finish the long, sustained pitch with a somewhat more attentive belayer.  The rock here is outstanding, the day perfect and Babe gets several hours of instruction from one of the best climbers ever to come out of Arizona. 

Note climbers on center ledge

Stan Leading

Babe failing on 5.10 roof

Stan and I also started down the path of our flying careers at the same time when we took ground school training from the legendary Ralph Scarch within sight of Stan’s house in Rimrock.  After a brief career in hangliders I focused on powered flight, while Stan became a record setting hanglider.  Among Stan’s many accomplishments is jumping off the rim of the Grand Canyon in a paraglider to join a river trip at Tanner campground (think about that the next time you are standing at the edge).  He remains the only person to have jumped off the rim; a Bandito exploit if there ever was one.

Flagstaff

Babe and I had spent most of the last week in Flagstaff, Arizona connecting with old friends after taking my ex-mother-in-law June to breakfast on Mother’s Day in Tucson.  June is a good woman who has raised six wonderful children including my ex-wife, and it is good to see her again after so many years.  Both Babe and I enjoy her company and that of her oldest daughter Mary later in the day.  It goes to show that a broken marriage doesn’t have to result in the loss of extended family.  Later that day we drove up to Flagstaff to reconnect with Glenn Rink, aka Little Buddy or LB, one of the original Banditos.  He and Babe hit it off almost immediately, the first of my many women to have done so.  LB is a keen observer of the opposite sex with little sympathy for female weakness and none for bullshit.  He is no longer climbing or kayaking, but has become a well known, southwestern botany expert.  We stay for most of a week at the house he built.  LB spends most of his time outdoors on trips or jobs, and his living quarters reflect that.  There is more dirt in LB’s living room than in most of the campgrounds where we stay.

LB and his lover

 A mini-drama unfolds while we are with him.  Bill Ott has been missing in the Grand Canyon for over 3 weeks.  He is a friend of LB’s and his truck is parked in LB’s yard.  Bill, the first man to hike the length of the Grand Canyon from the river, has been gone for over 40 days on a planned 21 day trip.  If anyone is still alive and well in that unforgiving environment, it is Bill, but there is much less potable water than expected in the Canyon this spring.  Bill is 65 and moving slower than he used to, so the debate rages as to whether he is dead or just having a grand old time looking for ancient Indian art.  The friend that dropped Bill off to start his hike finally called Search & Rescue (SAR) and the follies began.

Listening to LB deal with three days of incompetence and misinformation, however well intentioned it may be, I am reminded of my own encounters with Coconino County SAR.  Apparently, nothing has changed in the intervening 30 years.  There is not a centralized command structure managing facts and coordinating the activities of the numerous agencies involved in the search.  With a couple of notable exceptions, none of the searchers is competent in the outdoor skills required in this situation.  One of the agencies reports Bill is found alive which touches off a flurry of emails.  The report is false.  Listening in on all of this reinforces my long-held belief that SAR is the last group I want called if I need help.  They can probably rescue cats out of a tree, but I’m not betting on it.  Please call my friends first if I ever need help.

Decades earlier I was serving as a backcountry ski guide for young UCLA coeds that came to N. Arizona for a weekend of skiing with a tour group run by my friend Steve Glass.  My job was to service their every need and keep them out of trouble in the backcountry.  Steve managed to break his tailbone and knock himself out cold several miles from the road after he skied over a sharp-edged boulder hidden by the fresh powder snow.  I skied out for help in the late morning, leaving a couple of the coeds to tend to his misery.  SAR showed up about two hours after I got hold of them, arriving with a whirlwind of snowmobiles and a large Sno-Cat, not to mention all the pomp and an attitude of “we are in charge now.”  None of their machines could make it more than 50 feet off the road before bogging down in the deep snow.  None of the “rescue” personnel could cross-country ski, and they didn’t even have a toboggan at their disposal.  It was getting late, so I was forced to borrow a Stokes litter and ski back to retrieve Steve with help from one of the coeds who had just started skiing that weekend.  SAR loaned me a radio and stuck around, but Steve wanted no part of them when we got back to the cars hours later after dark.  On a separate occasion, my climbing partner’s fiancé had called SAR when we were about three hours overdue from a climb.  Although the climb included an epic descent in the dark, we needed rescuing like a hole in the head.  A heated conversation occurred when I informed SAR that we were in fact fine; that yes, people did walk out through the desert at night without lights; and sorry, but the person who called them should not have done so.

In addition to Stan and LB, Babe and I manage to spend quality time with Eve Ross-Marstellar and her husband Michael, George and Jane Bain, and Jay Lincoln.  Eve is an attorney for Gore and an ex-roommate.  One of the smartest people I know, we have been extremely close since the day she was introduced to me.  There isn’t much Eve doesn’t know about me and I became close to both her parents, meeting up with her mom and dad unexpectedly while refueling my airplane during a climbing reconnaissance trip to Baffin Island.  Her mom Vivian joins us for lunch, but unfortunately her dad Lenny passed years earlier after a life of exploration.

George introduced me to climbing and taught me river etiquette on many multi-day trips down southwestern rivers.  Some of my best days were spent backcountry skiing with George by the full moon stoned on acid.  I performed the wedding ceremony for his quirky brother James, a well-respected PhD who now runs a sophisticated biomedical research lab at Duke University.  George’s mom is sick and in the hospital, while his wife Jane is headed off to a graduation back east.  George and I first met Jane on the same river trip decades earlier, and I regret getting to spend so little time with the two of them.  George is as irreverent as almost anyone I know, and he helped shape who I am today.

Jay and I became ordained ministers together back in the early 80’s.  We had become fed up with all the born again Christian hoopla and decided we too needed an undeserved tax break, so we sent our $3.00 to Rolling Stone magazine and became card carrying ministers in the Universal Christian Life Church.  At the time we could have become saints for $20, but thought that a bit pretentious.  The Rev, as we liked to call ourselves, and I promptly formed the Salvation Is Near church; “Heaven’s just a SIN away.”  Our weekly church services, otherwise known as all-night parties, became legendary.  They included multi-day river trips with dozens of parishioners that lacked any pretense of the moral righteousness which defines the far right in this country.  The Rev’s wife Karen, a phenomenal woman, had died of cancer several years earlier and it was good to see that he now has a girlfriend that means as much to him as Babe does to me.  It is clear that all of these folks are friends for life.  My only regret is not having been around each other as we raised our children.

Salvation Is Near

While in Flagstaff, Babe and I make a couple of trips to the Oak Creek Canyon Overlook for some single pitch routes on stellar, columnar basalt.  This is where I sent my first climb, and it is still a place where aspiring hard guys come to train and get their egos bruised on crack climbs that seem much harder than their grade.  It is also where I would often go to solo before work near the end of my time working for Gore in Flagstaff: flowing like water up 5.10 cracks that had previously repelled my every attempt to climb them.  Although a slip meant probable death, the focus and pure movement of soloing became for me a transcendent bridge to higher consciousness. 

Unfortunately, half of the Overlook is now closed to climbers.  The Navajo’s have been granted a concession to sell jewelry on this site to the numerous tour buses that frequent the road.  Apparently, climbers are too much of a distraction for this commercial venture so many of the best climbs are now off limits.  Babe and I get trapped half way up a climb when someone calls over the edge that he is closing the gate for the night and locking my car inside.  I hustle to the top, move the car and come back to belay Babe up the climb.  This is one more piece of evidence that climbing access, along with wilderness access in general, is being threatened around the country.

We decide to take a day off from climbing and visit the aspen groves at Lockett Meadow and the Inner Basin in the San Francisco Peaks outside of Flagstaff.  This is a magical place and I am excited to show it to Babe.  We drive out of town to the Forest Service road that leads up to it only to find it closed.  Not only was the road closed, but the whole area was closed and it was not even legal to hike the five mile up into the inner basin.  A devastating forest fire in June 2010 provided the Forest Service all the rationale they needed to close off access to everyone.  The solution was obvious: it was time for Babe’s indoctrination into the secret world of the Banditos.

Bandito Babe

The hike into the inner basin was stunning.  With temperatures ranging in the 70’s and no clouds in sight, we made our way through the 3,000 foot elevation change and watch the forest go from Ponderosa pine to spruce, fir and aspen.  Burned areas gave way to untouched, old growth forest and back again; the forest fire weaving a whimsical path of destruction much like tornadoes in the heartland.  There are elk tracks everywhere and an occasional bear print as we climb up through 8,500 feet.  That we have the place all to ourselves is a gift, but one that points out the danger of closing off access to such alpine beauty.  Closing off access deprives the land of its constituency, and lays it open to commercial interests when there is no one left to defend it.

Lockett Meadow

Inner Basin

 We leave Flagstaff the next day, both of us knowing that we could live here, headed to watch the solar eclipse from its viewing epicenter further north and to climb Mt. Hayden in the Grand Canyon.  We will spend several days on the North Rim to access the climb and avoid the busloads of Japanese tourists on the South Rim.

Hurray, Hurray the 8th of May

Today is auspicious for two reasons.  First, my 82 and 81 year old parents leave for a two-week trip to Spain and Morocco to celebrate their 60^th wedding anniversary.  You can’t choose your parents, but if you could, I would choose mine.  Always supportive, never judgmental, there to help anyone in need.  I am in awe of their lifelong commitment and friendship with each other.  They have certainly weathered tough times along the way, but are still devoted to each other and happy. 

Second, as all WSU alumni know well, it is Outdoor Intercourse Day.  Babe and I don’t celebrate it!  Hard to believe, given the proclivities of the protagonists in this here blog.  We are back in our campground at Cochise Stronghold after just failing to climb What’s My Line, and don’t have the energy for much besides going to bed.

Enroute to Cochise Stronghold we stopped off at another one of my favorite places: Granite Mountain in Prescott, Arizona.  Travelling there through the desert from J-Tree I get passed by a new BMW.  It has been several months since I’ve been passed on the open road so I kick it up to 120 mph to keep pace.  In these cars that is nothing more than a moderate cruising speed as they have been designed and built for the autobahn.  More than once I have been travelling at those speeds in Germany and Switzerland only to get passed like I was standing still.  Nevertheless, it proves to be a little exciting as we catch some major air over a dip in the undulating road thanks to the large gear box on top of the car.  We end up shooting the shit with the guys in the BMW when we get stopped for road construction.  It is clear that the driver is a kindred spirit and we follow them for another few miles around 90 mph as neither of us are not interested in going airborne again at that speed.

Agave Cactus

Our primary reason for going to Prescott was to attend the memorial service of Bob Williams, Jon’s brother.  Bob was the Principal at the middle school in town, and the outpouring of love from the community was impressive.  He was also an outstanding musician, the father of three and a lifelong outdoorsman known for his philosophy, “we must agree to disagree, agreeably.”  Hundreds of people, including former students, teachers, musicians and friends were there to support the family.  Jon and his siblings had already lost their father and mother, so the death of their oldest brother took a heavy toll on all of them.  I have known the Williams for 35 years, and they are the type of family that is the bedrock of any society.  Like my own extended family, they are extremely close to each other and readily embrace new friends.  We were all Williams during the memorial service which was devoid of any religious overtones, but filled with music as one person and group after another got up to sing tribute. 

I meet up with fellow Bandito Dave (Roscoe) Hodson and his wife Dee at the service.  It has been decades since we last saw each other, but that doesn’t seem to matter at all.  Roscoe and Dee are the same people I knew before, and it is great to catch up.  They have raised two girls to my two boys.  Dave and I first climbed El Capitan together back in 1978.  Neither of us had any right being on that wall given our experience, but we persevered despite running out of water in the blistering heat.  The day before starting up the wall we watched three climbers fall to their death from our perch atop Middle Cathedral across the meadow from El Cap.  They were retreating from the Nose route when they dropped their haul bag and it over-stressed one of the two bolt anchors that happened to have a cracked hanger.  The three had clipped around, instead of through, a chain connecting the bolts.  So when one of the hangers broke they all just slid off the end and plummeted 1,000 feet to the ground.  Gruesome, and an intimidating reminder of what we were about to face.  Dave and I reminisce about getting back to the Valley floor after four days of being on the wall and running into the great Jim Bridwell (famous Yosemite big wall climber) who patted us on the back.  The picture below is from the top of that climb.

Top of El Cap - 1978

 Babe and I both left the memorial with a renewed commitment to the singular importance that family plays in the stability of society.  For my part, I am extremely lucky.  I am close to not only my immediate family, nephews and nieces; but also with my aunts, uncles, cousins and their children.  Babe, on the other hand, has a sister that she doesn’t speak with and a son that still won’t talk to her after her divorce.  To make matters worse; he prevents her from seeing her only grandchild.  Life is too short for all of that nonsense.

Granite Mountain

Granite Mountain was one of the places I learned to climb.  It is a spectacular granite cliff about 600 feet high and ½ mile long that is sacred to me and anyone who has had the privilege of climbing there.  The rock rivals that of Yosemite, but it requires a good hump to hike up to the climbing.  This keeps it from being popular with all but the locals and those in the know.  During one of my earliest leads up a multi-pitch trad route, Magnolia Thunder Pussy, my partner Chip Norton and I were passed by the famous Henry Barber who flew by without a rope up the 400 foot climb.  You can be sure that made quite an impression on me, immediately redefining what reasonable limits were and prompting my own soloing career (climbing technical routes without the benefit of a rope or protection).

Despite the fact that they are no longer an endangered species, Granite Mountain is now closed most of the year to “protect” the Peregrine falcons who nest there.  A well run scientific study on the subject clearly proved that you only need to protect the immediate area where the falcons are nesting.  The overzealous ranger that oversees this cliff has decided to close the whole cliff to climbing, however, despite the evidence to the contrary.  With her logic, you would close the cities of Phoenix and New York which have peregrines nesting in buildings downtown.  I read the signs at the entrance to the wilderness area and learn that peregrines were “first discovered at Granite Mountain in 1991.”  But I saw them nest there every year from 1975 to 1988.  All of us that were climbing there at the time simply stayed away from the 2-3 routes under their nests to avoid upsetting them.  That worked fine with no regulation.

Wishful Thinking

Babe and I hike the 2.5 miles up the trail with climbing gear and a rope in our packs.  We are determined to climb there anyway, despite the ban but mindful of the signs that warn climbers of a $5,000 fine and encourage hikers to report climbers with a toll free number.  The climber’s trail which constitutes the last half of the hike has seen little use, so I spend time chopping away branches and prickly pear cactus which impede the way.  Unfortunately, the cliff is in full view from miles around and we run into a number of hikers.  We decide it is not worth the risk to climb there, but is worth the time to work with the Access Fund to help restore climbing access to this natural treasure.  Having previously climbed virtually everything on the wall, I show Babe some of my favorite routes and where I once captured a coral snake (“red on yellow, dangerous fellow”).  I had put the beautiful creature in my water bottle with the intent of bringing it home as a pet when I learned from one of climbing partners that not even the zoos are successful at keeping this reclusive creature alive in captivity.  I let it go. 

It is killing me to walk up to one stellar route after another and not climb it.  Running my fingers over the rock it feels like I am getting pulled up the cliff.  This is too much to bear, so we go sit at base of the wall in an area known as the Front Porch that looks out for miles over the rugged landscape and watch the sun sink into the west before starting down.  It is a magical moment.

Looking out the Front Porch

Back to the present.  Cochise Stronghold is where Cochise, the famous Chiricahua Apache Indian chief, was born and hid out after raiding the Americans and Mexicans in the mid-1800’s.  It is located in the southeast corner of Arizona near the Mexican and New Mexico borders.  You don’t end up here by accident; it is off the beaten path.  One of the closest towns is Tombstone, Arizona (“The Town that Refuses to Die”, but should) where Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday had the famous shootout at the OK Corral.  This country is wild, remote and rarely visited.  It is among my favorite places in the world; a climbing Mecca of large granite domes with excellent rock.  Last night with a waning moon, the stars were unbelievable thanks to the lack of light pollution.  This is rugged country and we are mindful of snakes, scorpions, bears and mountain lions.  Once again we are without cell or internet coverage for days, making it is difficult to blog but we don’t miss it.

Off the beaten path

Cowboy's Glove, Cochise Stronghold

 I can count on my fingers the number of climbs I have backed off of in my life, and none of them were moderate ones like What’s My Line.  The route winds a few hundred feet up a steep, improbable face that is covered with large chickenheads (dinner plate like protrusions formed by the unequal erosion of rock) that starts with a wild pendulum on to the face.  It is a great route that I have done twice previously, once with my son Colin who was 12-years old at the time.  But Babe was off her game and we were moving slowly up the rock after hiking several miles up a steep wilderness trail, then wandering our way up a strenuous chimney and off-width approach to begin the climb.  Normally, I don’t even rope up for this “4^th class” section of the approach, but in fairness it actually requires technical climbing and I belay Babe up the 200 feet to the formal beginning of the climb.  With the pendulum now staring us in the face, instinct tells me that this is one of those times where discretion is the better part of valor, so we rappel off.  It proved to be a wise decision as we get back to our camp just before sunset.  Had we attempted the rest of the climb we would have been stumbling down a steep, primitive trail at night with no headlamps or moon.  Nevertheless, I have lots of experience with treacherous descents in the dark after committing climbs, including the infamous Abracadaver here in the Stronghold, and don’t like backing off.  It is clear that we need a rest day.  Mother Nature must agree as we wake up to rain and a day of thunderstorms.

Rest day my ass.  We didn’t bring rain gear so I find myself trapped in a tent for much of the day with a 52-year old nympho.  That may sound like fun to you young guys, but I am 4 months shy of 60 and need several hours to reload.  I feel like I’m bringing a one-shot derringer to a gunfight where the other guy is sporting a semi-automatic pistol with 18-round clips.  God didn’t bless women with the clitoris, the only body part in the animal kingdom designed exclusively for pleasure, to have it go underutilized.  So like most women, Babe loves sex.  Unlike most women, she is completely uninhibited about that fact.  As a result, she enjoys 10-50 orgasms a week thanks to her extremely attentive boyfriend.  She supplements that by masturbating way more often than you might think.  I am in trouble. 

After about two hours I am ready to take a break.  “Dear, would you like me to make you some hot chocolate?”  “Honey, would you like a massage?”  “Don’t you want to read your book?”

Wishful thinking.  My tongue and fingers still work so I am on duty whether I like it or not.  Several hours later I crawl out of the tent, exhausted.  13-2; I am clearly outmatched.  (Note: my chief editor reports the final count was 14-2, but who’s counting).

A well fed Babe

 Every morning starts around 5:30 with a cacophony of bird sounds.  Mourning doves coo all around us.  Mexican jays chase each other around our tent, their wings beating loudly as they zoom through and around the trees somehow avoiding death by branch.  Acorn woodpeckers are everywhere, pecking away and looking for a handout.  In our case they get to lick the water off my stove top.  They make me think about Dr. Dave Smith who figured out why woodpeckers don’t get concussions every time they whack a tree.  He is now developing a device to prevent concussions in humans. 

Acorn Woodpecker

 We are now in full vacation mode.  Camping seems like the perfect way to live, and we take pleasure in the simplest of conveniences like hot chocolate in the morning, a campfire at night and sipping whiskey (Crown Royal) in the tent before falling asleep.  It has been days since we’ve showered or changed clothes, but we barely even notice.

Camp Life

 We have seen no other climbers during our time here and I learned a good lesson at the Stronghold: most of the routes here require two strong climbers.  These climbs are serious undertakings in a wilderness setting.  As a relatively inexperienced climber, Babe hasn’t yet developed some of the skills I take for granted when climbing here with Stan or Jon: like moving quickly, cruising without a rope on steep, unprotected ground and having another seasoned perspective on route finding.  This is hard, wild country.

Trapper Dan

So we spend our last full day in the Stronghold hiking with our next door and only neighbor in the campground: Trapper Dan.  He is part unemployed truck driver, part trapper, fulltime outdoorsman, extremely liberal and looking for a rich woman to take care of him at his ripe old age of 55.  On that last count, love doesn’t seem to enter the equation; Dan expects to satisfy his carnal needs with supplemental hookups.  A great conversationalist, he is probably bright enough and glib enough to pull that off.  We hike with him eight miles from the East to West Stronghold.  Dan is like having a biological and historical travel guide; extremely knowledgeable and full of interesting facts.  He is here as an amateur" archeologist and shows us a number of sites with rock art that predates the Apaches.  Dan points out some bear tracks around a water tank, catches a snake and recounts the sex life of all the various lizards we encounter.  Apparently, all whip tail lizards are clones of the mother; there are no males in the species.  Imagine those parties.

Rock Art

Lizard Social Event

Beautiful Earless Lizard

Looking out across this vast, rugged wilderness it is not hard to imagine the life of an Apache warrior toying with the U.S. Calvary that is hopelessly trying to catch you.  We leave the Stronghold the next day, having climbed little but in love with its isolation and beauty.

Apache Country

Unemployment Sucks

 

Making of a Crack Whore

“Do you know what day it is”, Babe asks as we roll out of bed with the sun.

“No.”  

After six days of no cell or internet coverage here in Joshua Tree National Park we are starting to lose track of time; lost in the daily routine of eat, climb, sleep and fuck.  Not necessarily in that order.  This life of a dirtbag climber is a far cry from the corporate office where we would receive dozens of mostly unimportant emails a day from people that sat 15 feet away with no walls in between (I can’t hear you!).

Although Joshua trees exist throughout the desert southwest, there is nowhere else where you will see the concentration of these convoluted and misshapen trees like in the Park.  Named by the Mormons, they grow to over 40 feet in height with no two the same.  Set against a massive collection of granite boulders and cliffs, the Park is a paradise for climbers as well as LA residents hoping to escape the city’s madness.  Unexpectedly, we also encounter a number of foreign visitors to this desert paradise.

b

We have spent the several days teaching Babe to crack climb.  She has been joined in this rite of passage by Carl Nielson.  Carl is a young, recent college graduate and professional photographer from the Bay area who has been sport climbing (climbs with bolted protection already in place) and gym climbing several times a week for a little over a year.  At 6’ 5” he is very athletic and motivated.  He wandered into our campsite looking for a climbing partner and eager to learn the basics of trad climbing (providing your own protection while climbing) in the crack-rich environment of J-Tree.  Coincidentally, I had been looking for a Nikon D300 camera and he had one that he was willing to sell for a bargain if I would let him climb with us for a few days.  Uh, sure! 

Neither Babe nor Carl had much experience in the fine art of climbing steep cliffs devoid of footholds and handholds but littered with various size cracks running up the faces.  Crack climbing involves wedging your fingers, hands, toes, feet, elbows, butt or any other body part that might fit into an appropriate sized crack and then loading it with your weight so that it sticks.  There are a few things I do well in life, and crack climbing is one of them.  That comes from 35 years of practice and some heavy dues paying.  Whereas learning to crack climb is typically a painful (literally), frustrating and strenuous experience, once you acquire the skill set it can be effortless.  Yeah, hard cracks can still be a bitch to get up, but often times you are on cruise control and I frequently run it out 50 feet or more on moderate cracks before placing pro. 

The rock here is somewhat rough and flesh eating, so the first thing they learn is how to tape their hands with athletic tape for protection.  We then wander over to our first climb and spend several minutes demonstrating how to jam hands, fingers toes and feet into various size cracks.  A key to crack climbing is not moving a jam once it is set.  Easier said than done.

The routes at J-Tree are notoriously under-rated.  On one of our first climbs I find myself facing a 30-foot ground fall as I navigate tricky face holds to enter a crack system where I can place some decent pro.  There is nothing quite as focusing as lead climbing.  It is a pure reflection of life itself, seen with clearer focus and instant consequences.  Falling is often just not an option.  There are excellent technical climbers who can’t lead anything because they don’t have the head for it.  But I love it, and have always preferred it to the safety of a top rope that going second provides.  The pure focus and problem solving that leading demands transcend everything else in your life at that moment.  It is the most relaxing thing I know to do.  When I hear people talk about climbing being an adrenaline sport I laugh.  You won’t last long on lead with adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Don’t get me wrong; there have been many times when I was thankful to be climbing with another strong lead climber.  John Harlin, Stan Mish, LB, Jon Williams, Dave Hodson and Tim O’Neill have all bailed my ass out before on pitches where I was happy to turn over the sharp end of the rope.  For the next nine weeks, however, I am likely to lead every pitch.  That proves to be the case all six days of climbing at J-Tree.

Babe and Carl get a full dose of crack climbing, often struggling to get up cracks I don’t even bother to protect.  We tackle everything from cracks that will barely accept a finger to chimneys where you struggle up with your knee and hands against one wall while your feet and back are on the other.  

On our next to last day, Babe and I climb the longest route in the park: Right On.  It includes a nasty off-width (crack too big for your hands and too small to chimney) and horrid chimney to go along with some outstanding, fun pitches.  We had already climbed another multi-pitch route earlier in the day and I was intentionally pushing Babe to see how she handled the stress of being high on a wall after a full day of working hard.  She is going to need that resiliency in the coming weeks.  The wind is howling and the sun setting.  Babe is obviously at her limit but refuses to complain or back down.  The view from the summit is stunning as we look out over the park with incredible light playing off the many rock formations and Joshua trees.  Only a tiny percentage of people will ever experience a moment like this, and we are both thankful to be among them.

 Swifts (my favorite bird) zoom by like F-22’s, rocketing right past us with a WOOSH that sounds like they are breaking the sound barrier.  A pair of them decides to mate below us.  The female screams by at warp speed while the male maneuvers in behind and mounts her.  Hooked up, they tumble toward the earth like a maple seed trying to defy gravity.  At the last second they break apart and zoom off.  Really, does it get any better than that!  

Earlier in the week we had tackled a climb with a long, strenuous and hard to protect traverse out from under a roof.  It was an intimidating pitch and I worried about Babe’s ability to follow it so I put her in the middle and had Carl belay her from below while I did so from above.  It took a while, but she eventually joined me at the top.  It wasn’t the first time that Carl was surprised to see her get up a hard pitch.  Although her hands look like they have been put through a meat grinder, her climbing skills have improved by leaps and bounds during our week here after exposure to a wide variety of challenges.  She is gaining confidence and still having fun.  

It is our last day in the park.  Our campsite has been visited by a coyote, desert tortoise, rattlesnake, road runner, large garter snake, chipmunk and thieving squirrels.  Camping during the week we avoid the crowds and all night partying that takes place on the weekend.  Last night we wandered into the town of Joshua Tree for showers and to wash clothes.  There we see the strangest wildlife of all when we go to the only bar in town for dinner.  It turns out to be karaoke night.  Scary!  The 300 lb. transvestite at the table next to us gazes fondly at my Led Zeppelin t-shirt.  He is definitely not the weirdest person in the place.  Hunter S. Thompson had it right when he noted that, “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”  One thing is clear: if you are living in Joshua Tree you probably aren’t going to find anyplace else where you can so easily fit in.

We stop to climb one more pitch on our way out of the park, the classic White Lightning.  I place a stopper and cam to protect the first 25 feet and then run out the remaining 100 feet to the top.  Babe has trouble on the bottom crux and then uses a variety of her newfound jamming skills to wander up the rest of the route with efficiency.  If there are words to describe the joy of flowing up a vertical crack on perfect hand jams, I don’t know them.  What I do know is that of the many things that I love about climbing, pure fun is at the top of the list.