Hopelessly Off-trail in Zion

Although I managed to get a pleasant day of mountain biking yesterday despite past week’s rain, climbing was still out of the question. However, hiking was still feasible. I found a trail that looked long, exciting, and remote. I set off early in the day and messaged Leah where I’d be.

Within two minutes of starting the trail, I came across a still pool of water. I was at the start of a slot canyon that had collected rainwater from the past few days. Using my poles I found the depth to be greater than my chest height. I looked around. The canyon was too wide for me to shimmy across by stretching my body over the pool. I couldn’t see any way to pass so I turned around.

I felt let down but quickly realized that I wasn’t too far from the hike I bailed from a few days ago, Mountain of the Sun.

I still had the route information fresh in my mind and ran the first few miles. The trail was dry and the sky was clear. I quickly reached my high point from before.

I continued to follow the GPS track on my watch and recalled the route beta from before until I came to a large basin. I saw a couple hiking down carrying a rope. I chatted briefly with them and found out they were locals. We talked about what it was like living in the area. They were canyoneering and packed the ropes as a precaution for exploring new slot canyons. They pointed me toward the direction I should go. It didn’t seem intuitive to me, so I re-confirmed their advice. I took their word and started up the easy chimney climbing, pulling on a thick tree for leverage. Once I topped out from the chimney, I could see a long slab in front of me. It looked fairly easy so I started to hike up. Only a few times did I need to be precise with my footwork on sandstone edges and I was having fun with it.

After about 50 feet, the angle increased gradually and foot placements became more sparse. I couldn’t just head up in a straight line; I found myself looking around to find the path of least resistance up the slope. It almost felt like climbing. I did read that there was some 4th class movement on this trail, and I told myself I wouldn’t go up anything that I couldn’t down-climb. With that assurance, I kept moving up. Besides, the trail looked like it would flatten out within about 200 feet.

After some time, I began to feel stressed that I was making a mistake. My boots were hard, stiff-soled hiking boots that were nowhere near appropriate for the terrain I was on. The small edges I rested the tips of my boots on were coated in loose grains of sand. With a sigh of relief, I found a flat platform large enough for just one foot. I was now nearly 200 feet up and I knew looking down that a slip here would send me sliding down until I was tossed over the cliff edge and into the valley below. I hadn’t hydrated in the last hour and I was feeling hungry. There was water and snacks in my backpack, but I was too nervous about compromising the precariously balanced position I stood in. I pulled out my phone and checked where I was on my offline map. A second wave of stress swept over me when I realized I wasn’t even remotely close to being on route.

I pondered whether to hit the SOS on the rescue beacon I carried with me. I decided I would descend on my own. I knew the moves I had made and made sure that I could reverse each of them when I went up. However, for all the down-climbing practice I do, this was something different. For a short moment before I put my phone away, I had a bar of cell signal and used it to call Leah. I was only able to get one ring in before the connection was lost. I wasn’t sure what I would’ve said.

I crawled my way down the slope, focusing every muscle of my body to the small ripples in the rock. I thought about the consequence of each move before committing to it. I looked ahead to draw a line connecting the small ridges that would get me down safely. I wondered if that couple could see me in the distance. It was slow moving, but I made it down that 200ft slope in over a half hour. When I was back on the trail, I decided to just head back to the car; I had enough for today.

I made it back to my car and kicked myself for blindly taking the advice of a stranger at face value. There was still plenty of sunlight left, and I didn’t want my recent experience to define my day. I picked another remote, but easy, route and decided to carefully wander around with no agenda for a summit. The walk relaxed me and gave me the time I needed to unpack what had just happened.

As the sun fell lower into the sky, I found a viewpoint by the road. I stepped out of my car and sat, counting the layers of rock painting the cliff walls.

I was near the ever-popular Zion Canyon Overlook Trail. At sunset it’s nearly impossible to get a parking spot near the trailhead. I drove past and managed to get lucky. I had little time to make it before all the light of the day was gone, so I ran up the trail, politely waiting for opportunities to smoke past slower hikers. There were nearly a hundred people at the top, some wielding selfie sticks, boyfriends taking photos of their girlfriends doing yoga poses on rocks, and kids pouting about wanting to go home. I carefully scrambled over some rocks to get as far away from them as possible. A few easy climbing moves sheltered me from the crowds and let me focus on the valley quietly slipping away into darkness. I was grateful that I had the basic skills and confidence to get away, but I also realized it was the same confidence and skills that got me into trouble today.

Mountain Biking - St. George, Utah

My first exposure to mountain biking was a little over a year ago. Leah suggested I rent a bike and we explore some trails near her. What followed was one of the most frustrating, exhausting, and terrifying few hours of my life. Leah grew up on the sport, and even raced in college. Unfortunately, that didn’t make her a great teacher for someone like me. Things that were obvious to her, like shifting gears before going uphill, were foreign to me. At every steep drop in the trail, I’d panic, squeaking downhill with my fingers pumping the brakes, eventually losing my balance and tipping over. For the ascents, I wouldn’t have any momentum built up to smoothly make it over. What followed were several hours of me walking my bike up and down, shuffling to the side of the trail whenever a competent rider wanted to pass.

I felt pretty defeated that afternoon, but I knew there was more I could do. A few lessons later, I bought my own bike and we both made a trip out to Moab, the mountain biking mecca of the world. Despite only having been out on a trail fewer times than I could count on two hands, we committed to biking The Whole Enchilada, a 26+ mi trail with 7,000 vertical feet of downhill. Against the advice of online forums, we decided to go for it and had no regrets.

Since I was out West again, I figured I should rent a bike and explore Gooseberry Mesa, a similarly epic trail. I was sad that I’d have to go for it alone, but I knew Leah would be proud to hear I was making the effort. At the bike shop, the guys behind the counter more or less laughed at my car and told me there was no way I’d make it to the trailhead I had given how muddy it would be. Only one of them thought I’d be fine and could park early and bike the few miles to the trailhead from where the road became a mud path. It was on that thread of optimism that I hung onto.

I drove the dirt path to a point where it became obvious that pushing forward would be gambling my day on being towed in a remote area.

I stared at the long patch of mud separating me from the trailhead, which was miles away. I quickly made the decision to park my car on the side of the road and gear up.

Once I got on my bike, I felt confident in how the day would play out. I’d have several miles of muddy biking to start and finish, but it would be worth it. After almost a mile of biking downhill, my tires began to slow down. I realized that I couldn’t pedal much without resistance.

It was painfully obvious now that mountain biking wasn’t going to happen today. Not here. I turned the bike around and hiked the mile back, cursing at my luck.

When I finally got back to the car, my bike tires were caked in mud and I struggled to disassemble and wipe it down before I loaded it up into my car yet again. I made a mess nonetheless. I sat down and figured I would just return the bike and call it a day. I gave up on having any expectations for today.

A small SUV drove past, and I watched skeptically as it tried to maneuver through the mud that I decided wasn’t worth risking. Within a matter of seconds, the cars wheels were spinning in place and it was slowly moving sideways into a ditch. I watched from afar as I dismantled my bike. After 15 minutes, they hadn’t made any progress so I decided to take a look.

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The group of Russian friends in the car couldn’t speak much English, but it was obvious they could use my help in pushing the car. I was doubtful that we’d be successful, but after some effort we managed to get the car to slide along the slippery mud.

I drove back to the bike shop and the owner was there this time. I told him my story in a very matter-of-fact way. I didn’t need the additional ridicule from the staff for me foolishly trying to bike in the mud. Instead of accepting the bike, he said he felt bad and wanted to give me advice on a trail that I should check out nearby. He said the Church Rocks loop is actually better after a rain storm because of how sandy it is in dry conditions. I had nothing better to do with my day and the shop owner insisted that I’d have a good time so I went for it.

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Church Rocks was exactly the right trail I needed for turning my mood around. The entire time I was biking there I felt grateful for the advice of the shop owner. Instead of going into the day with a set agenda, I should’ve been open-minded to advice from a local expert. I had so much fun that I decided to do the loop twice in different directions, and eventually added an additional leg that would put me pretty far out. Everyone I met on the trail was exceptionally friendly and noted that this was the best they had seen the trail given the recent rain.

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I passed by a couple on horseback and asked if they could point me toward the dinosaur tracks. Apparently there was a point on the trail where dinosaur footprints were preserved in the rock. I spent a bit too long trying to unsuccessfully locate the prints. The sun was close to setting and my bike was due soon, so I booked it for a few miles back to the car.

It wasn’t the day I had planned but I was happy with how it all came together. I learned a lesson in being more open-minded and adapting rather than sticking to a plan when all signs point to it being less feasible in reality. I do still want to bike Gooseberry Mesa though. I think I’ll save that one for when Leah’s around and I’m tailing her trying to keep up.

Zion Desert Snow

I had assumed reclining the passenger seat wouldn’t be too far off from sleeping on a first-class flight. I had no idea what that was like, but I knew that I woke up from my lower body going numb throughout the night in the car. I stepped out to relieve myself and stretch, being mindful not to lock myself out. I already mentally played out the scenario several times. I wouldn’t survive for long at 2am on this dirt road wearing only my long underwear. I slipped back into my sleeping bag, which lost half of its warmth from my short absence. I lay down again, staring up into the white windshield, coated with a heavy dusting of snow, til I fell asleep until the my tingling legs woke me up again for the third time.

In the morning, I drove down the mountain road heading east, looking over the mesas collecting the morning sun. At this height, I had a clear view of Zion National Park. I thought about the abandoned hike up to Signal Peak, which I had my back to. I wasn’t prepared for the fresh winter conditions at that elevation from the night before. Still, I thought about what it would’ve been like: ascending higher and higher, seeing Zion in the slowly distance reveal more of itself from a rare angle with each step I’d kick into the snow.

A dream for another day.

On my drive to Zion I stopped by River Rock in La Verkin for breakfast. River Rock had a balcony overlooking the a canyon, bent into a horseshoe by the the Virgin River. It all seemed far enough from the tourist jam of Zion, but it was just a Tuesday morning. With my change in plans, I was several hours ahead of schedule, and my plan was to soak in the area.

Leah and I had been planning our great escape out West for some time. Taking some time to slow down, appreciate, and study the scene was a good use of time, even if it was my backup plan.

I took note of the homes that were dotting the hillside on my drive down. I wondered how many of the people who lived there were climbers, and whether any of them were projecting routes on weekends given how close the massive desert walls of Zion were. I wondered how many times they’d practice trail running up Signal Peak in various conditions. I drifted off into a fantasy land where big adventure trips would be simple weekend excursions, or even early morning workouts before clocking in for work.

The forecast called for on-and-off light rain, so when I checked into Zion’s Watchman Campground I wasted no time heading to the trailhead for Mountain of the Sun. Normally, when choosing a climb or trail, I would spend hours researching, poring over maps, photos, conditions, descriptions, and recent reports. I didn’t have the same luxury this time. I wasn’t supposed to be in Zion yet, so out of necessity I improvised over breakfast in La Verkin.

The hike would involve 3rd class scrambling in the backcountry, which didn’t concern me even in my stiff hiking boots. My main worry was the weather; Zion has a long legacy of fatal flash floods. I was drawn to the remoteness of the trail in addition to the exposure. The lack of any trail markers appealed to the part of me that wanted to “just figure it out” using terrain signals, not unlike what trad climbing provides.

I followed a creek that was coated in damp sand from recent rainfall. The route description indicated that I should go up a wide gully about a mile in, which looked fairly reasonable, but polished and slicked over.

I started up, making quick work of the bottom, finding small edges to stand on with my hard-soled hiking boots. Halfway up, I hesitated. I was standing on a wet, dime-sized groove and the next move above me was a high step up close to my chest. At this angle, I knew I could make the move, but I paused. I thought about what the movement would be like on the way back, especially if the rain started and I was bailing. I thought about the likelihood of the foot I’d be standing on slipping off, so I gripped harder onto crimpy edges with my fingertips. I considered alternatives to my left and right, none of which seemed any better. I even wished for someone else to be there to just confirm that I was going the right way, which I had no real reason to doubt. After about five minutes, I committed to the move. I had no problem getting up. I continued scrambling up, thinking about how much time I wasted.

The terrain flattened out eventually, and I moved more quickly to make up for the time. Although I moved fast, I did stop for minutes at a time to reflect on the scene. I was all alone in a basin of sandstone, trees, distant cliffs, and my own breath. Although I had been in the desert before, something about this experience felt wholly new.

I periodically turned around to take mental photos of where I made decisive turns. I kept an eye out for unusual trees and boulders, giving them names and stories to help remember them better for my way back. I didn’t forget to look up: the clouds overhead were moving faster and building up thicker. Just as I was settling into a rhythm about an hour in, I felt the first drops of rain hit my cheek. This time I didn’t hesitate. Within seconds I pulled out my rain shell and did an about-face, pulling back on my recent memory to identify the “thunderbolt tree” where I made a left and the colorful, striated “bacon boulder” which hid an easier descent on it’s other side. Eventually I made my way down to the gully. Even the sections that I easily walked up now felt a bit more committing on the descent. The polished gully I came up was now thinly coated with rain, so I resolved to butt-scoot my way to the bottom.

I made my way down to the creek just as the rain picked up. I was in safe ground now. I didn’t consider the hike a failure. My goal was to make the most of the day; I was alone in a remarkable place. That’s all I needed to tick off my list.

Down in the valley, the rain was falling more steadily. Less than an hour away was Kolob Canyon, located on the northwest side of the park. It was several thousand feet higher than where I stood, and I figured the weather would be a bit different.

When I pulled up to the overlook, the viewpoint sign was my only clue as to what was on the other side of the clouds obscuring the cliffs.

The Timber Creek trail was a short walk, only a half hour round trip, but I had hours until sunset. I walked slowly to stretch my time. My pants weren’t waterproof, so I improvised a skirt out of a large trash bag. There wasn’t anyone else on the trail to marvel at my ingenuity.

When I finally made it to the end of the trail, I saw nothing. That realization should have been obvious to me because of the weather, but for whatever reason, I felt betrayed by my plan. It had taken me an hour of slow movement to reach this point and I had built up expectations without realizing it. For better or worse, I had cell service and called Leah. I told her about how my day had gone, and my current feeling of being deflated. The forecast had been wet for the last few days, and it was going to continue being wet. In theory I could make backup plans, but in practice I was left feeling like I was making the most of a sub-par circumstance. Saying all that out loud made it clear to me that complaining wasn’t going to make me feel better. I needed to just appreciate being here.

Once I hung up, I decided that I was lucky to be on this trail instead of at my desk. I was lucky to be warm enough to enjoy this snow and rain for hours on end. I was grateful for my surroundings and for my health. I made it a point to spend the full next hour focusing on enjoying only the 100 or so feet around where I stood. Immediately, I saw the snow as a gift. This was a gift that not everyone had the means to experience, but I did. The forecast for the next few days wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t change that; all I could do was keep a warm and open mind to whatever came my way.

Valley of Fire State Park

I was greeted in Las Vegas with heavy rains. At the airport, there wasn’t much to hide under while I waited for the midnight rental car shuttle to arrive. The shuttle driver told me it rarely rains, and I just missed quite a dry spell. I gritted my teeth and tried to stay optimistic. I wasn’t going to so easily accept that my two weeks alone was off to an unlucky start. My plan was to climb as much as possible, but I’d have to wait til the porous desert rock was dry enough. Wet sandstone crumbles like chalk, too dangerous to play on.

Even though it was Las Vegas, I noticed the air was unusually fragrant. I had just learned about petrichor and wondered if that’s what i was experiencing because of the rain. As I drove to a cheap hotel on the edge of town, I kept the window open just enough to not sever my connection to that air just a little longer.

When I pushed through the hotel doors, I was smacked with a heavy wave of old cigarette smoke. I dragged my bags of gear over the dusty carpet, squinting my eyes to find signs for a check-in counter. A maze of virtual poker tables and bright, flashy slot machines separated me from my room key.

The machines didn’t care that it was 2am, nor that it was a Tuesday. Neither did the handful of people sunken into plush leather seats, hoping to get lucky with each pull of the lever.

Fire Wave Trail

The next morning when I pulled back the blinds in my room, it was only more of the same steady rainfall. I had planned to explore Valley of Fire State Park on my way to Zion. I heard it was a beautiful drive and it seemed well worth the detour, even in these conditions.

After loading up on supplies at a Walmart, I entered the park and caught a break in the rain. That gap was long enough for me to get to the end of the popular Fire Wave Trail and back.

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My timing couldn’t have been better. I shut the car door just as the first heavy drops of rain obscured the windshield. I checked my phone, still no service. I looked around at the paper map given by the park staff, taking guesses at where I’d be able to get a view of the sunset despite the storm clouds. I could see couples who I had passed on my way out, all rushing back to their cars, all soaked and kicking steps into the wet, sandy trail.

I wasn’t looking at my map for too long. An orange beam of light broke through the clouds from low in the sky, drawing us out of the parking lot a second time. That second wind of the storm was short-lived and we all enjoyed a quiet sunset.

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As I drove out, I thought my trip maybe wasn’t off to a bad start. I took advantage of the place I was in rather than sulking about the weather, and it worked out just fine. Unfortunately, my plan the next day of driving to camp at the base of Signal Peak in Utah (10,365ft /3159m) didn’t like it was going to pan out.

There was already snow at the summit of Signal Peak, which I knew before arriving and that excited me. I packed my crampons and winter layers, ready to brace myself for below freezing temps.

Over dinner, I checked the latest forecast which warned of a major winter storm that would hit that night.

Still, I figured I’d get to the base of the mountain, Oak Grove campground, and see how far I could hike in the morning. As I drove higher into the woods along the single-lane dirt road, I felt more confident, until just half a mile before the campground/trailhead.

The snow was falling thick now and coated what I could make of the ground with my headlights. I could see the parking lot would be just above this last hill, but the slip indicator began flashing on the dashboard. I was slowly losing control and decided to quit while I was ahead, opting to turn around and park on a dirt pullout I had passed on my way up.

I reclined the passenger seat and called it a bed for the night. I knew Signal Peak was out of the question for tomorrow. On a good day, I’d need a pre-dawn start and hustle to make it back in time for what else I had planned. With over two feet of fresh snow, I’d be lucky if I made it a mile without snowshoes. I went to bed thinking that a day out here is better than a day in the office. I checked my phone again to set an alarm, grateful that there wasn’t any service here either.

Joshua Tree - Climb Smart Festival

After hearing about the damage and vandalism in Joshua Tree NP during the government shutdown, I was interested in supporting the Friends of Joshua Tree Climb Smart Festival. Ben and I both signed up as soon as tickets were available. It’d be my first time seeing Joshua Tree with the eyes of a climber, so I was really excited to get on some routes. The four-day weekend for me started off with a 5-hour flight delay on a red-eye. Not long afterward, I spilled a bunch of water on my camera. Despite all that, I was grateful to be in Joshua Tree doing what I love most.

It was clear that there's a lifetime of adventure in Joshua Tree. We didn't even scratch the surface. Here’s a window into what those four days were like.

Chillin, but tired from our lack of sleep. Ben arrived at around midnight, and I landed six hours later. We drove the three hours immediately after to arrive to this point.

This was one of the guides running clinics. I disagreed with some of the things he said about dyneema being a pain, but didn't want to be a smart-ass so I kept quiet!

Ben and I bailed on the clinic and led some easy routes nearby. He later came over to us and kept insisting that we should free-solo the routes to experience a different state of mind. I passed on the suggestion, but I know what he's talkin about. Later noted that his IG bio read "Born nekid! Living free! Will die young!"

Fun fact about monzogranite (the rock that makes up most of J-tree). It's quite rough and abrasive. Expect to lose some skin. Popular routes that get climbed on smooth out, but apparently if you were to leave a route untouched for about a year, the sun and wind would end up making it rough again.

This was our second lap at a really fun route: Fote Hog. It was so good that we decided to do it twice (each of us getting a lead). I'd highly recommend trying a route again after finishing it. I had more fun on the second climb than I did on the first. It really gets you out of the 'tick list' mindset and instead focuses you on the joy of the movement.

Lots of Joshua Tree routes have walk-offs over mounds of rocks, which made me nervous. I was worried about getting lost since there's no clear 'trail'. We did get lost, but only for two mintues. I thought about how embarrassing it'd be to activate my rescue beacon only to realize we were 20 feet off trail.

We hung out at the summit for a bit, and I got just enough service for a call (only if I stood at the very top). I Facetime'd Leah so she could check out the scene too.

We weren't planning to do any bouldering, but while waiting for Joe to show up, we found some rocks to play on. I was hesitant to top out because we didn't have a crash pad, so I down-climbed by reversing my moves.

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We found two guys from San Diego (Justin and Austin) who were new to climbing but coming out often to try their hand at some J-tree bouldering.

So apparently this is a game. Looks bizarre but it was quite fun. Teams are pairs of two, and ideally you're comfortable touching each other (as you can see from the photo). The first person has to have at least one 'body part' behind the line and at most two body parts in front of it.

The second person 'climbs' over their partner to set a water bottle as far as possible. Afterward, they climb back to their starting position behind the line. At no point can the second partner make contact with the ground. Then, the first partner needs to 'reset' themselves behind the line without fallling.

It's an extremely exciting game to watch. Oftentimes, a team will completely collapse.

Ben and I looking back at the climb we just did to warm up. No matter what the grade, the first pitch of the day is always one that makes me nervous.

Relationship troubles

The right-most diagonal is a 5.3 climb that Ben and I warmed up on the day before. It starts about halfway up on the ledge after some easy scrambling.

From another route, I could see a couple was climbing it; the leader had just gotten to the top, built an anchor and yelled that he was off belay. His follower couldn't hear him well, so that back and forth went on for a few more exchanges. I focused back on the route I had ahead, and my partner Cody said he wanted to head back to the car and grab some climbing tape for his hands.
A half hour later, just before I'm about to start climbing, I hear some more yelling....

Guy: Are you climbing!?
Girl: No I'm on the ground!

The leader had extended himself out quite a ways and was hanging over the lip of the rock, probably to get better audio communication. I looked for his partner on the ledge that she was on earlier. I didn't see her. Then I noticed that she had completely walked off and was on the ground, yelling back up to him.

Guy: What do you mean you're on the ground!?
Girl: I'm on the ground!
Guy: Are you tied into the rope?
Girl: No, I'm on the ground!
Guy: Why are you on the ground? I'm hanging off the edge of a cliff!
Girl: Why are you hanging off the edge of a cliff!?
Guy: ...

Cody and I looked at each other and realized this couple was going to have an awkward ride home.
An hour later I looked over to the route and could see the leader halfway down, rappelling and cleaning gear, about 20 or more feet from the fall line of the rappel.

Joe doing his best impression of a Joshua Tree. He said his goal for this year was to hold a handstand for 10 seconds. This attempt lasted 6 seconds. I was impressed, but he insisted he's usually better.

Joe took us into the Chasm of Doom in Joshua Tree, a tight squeeze cave that cuts through the center of a huge pile of rocks. It was close to sunset when we started, but fortunately he knew the way through.

This was a traverse where we'd shimmy across, while holding our breath to become as 'small' as possible. Underneath our heels there were drops of about 20 feet, but it'd be impossible to fall through. You're more likely to get stuck in place. This wasn't even the smallest cavity that we pushed through. There was another spot called “The Birth Canal”

On the other end of that traverse we popped out onto a comfortable ledge, the kind of ledge where we'd be tethered into if we were climbing.

One of the many squeezes of the evening. Joe told us not to wear anything delicate (e.g., a puffy). I wore a slick windbreaker, which I think may have helped me 'slide' through some of the constrictions better.

This was one of the more impressive views, but only from afar. If you take a few steps forward, like Ben did, you'll be greeted with a parking lot. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

That rock will fall someday. Geologic time includes now. Hopefully it happens when no one's in the cave. Joe mentioned that some of the local guides try to 'hike' through the Chasm of Doom at night without headlamps, relying only on feel and memory.

Sometimes the timing works out perfectly, without prior planning. Any earlier and we would've missed the desert glow. Any later and we would've been caught in the dark (an idea for next time maybe!).

We met Joe at the climbing festival and he offered to drive Ben back to LAX on Sunday night, since he was headed that way. My flight was on Monday, so this meant I could stay an extra day.

Joe had been doing the clinics and after that was all done, he was eager to do some "real climbing" as he called it. We made ourselves a rope team of three and found a route.

The last hour of sunlight in Joshua Tree is my favorite. No one else is around and it seems unreal to have this playground all to yourself.

Ben climbing up Mike's Books. I took advantage of the fact that Joe was there: I asked him to belay so I could wander around and get a better look at the route.

I hadn't climbed with a stranger before, but on Monday I needed a partner and went to the local Facebook group.

Cody was also looking for a partner, and had been to Joshua Tree several times this year. In his post, he claimed to be a 5.9 trad leader.

We paired up and met Monday morning. I would later realize that he couldn't climb any of the 5.7 routes I led without falling several times. I could not at all figure out how he came to the conclusion that he was climbing at 5.9.

When we stepped out of Cody's car, I noticed he was in flip flops. I figured he knew what he was doing, but within five minutes, his flip flop ripped and he had to hike with a mix of climbing shoes and bare feet.

Before we left the car, I asked if he was going to take his helmet, which he left in the back seat. He said no, but I could use it if I wanted to. He later asked me why I climb with a helmet and if I've found it useful.

He didn't seem to know how to coil a rope properly, so he ended up carrying it like a baby, sprawled across his arms. Pair that with a to-go coffee cup that he held in his mouth, and a gallon water jug in his hands and I was starting to realize this dude was a bit of a mess.

To top it off, when we got to the bottom of the first route of the day, I asked him to flake out the rope. After doing so on a precariously placed boulder over a 30ft drop, he accidentally kicked the rope pile over into the gap below us. Fortunately, he was able to crawl down to get it [pictured].

My concerns over whether he could belay started when he didn't understand why I was checking the system before climbing. "I just go for it" he said. He couldn't understand why I asked him to tie into the end of the rope, but did it anyway. Later on in a different route, we noticed that he loaded his belay device incorrectly. This is why we do checks...

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Cody took the first photo of me while I was leading up Double Cross (5.7+). The first 20 feet are unprotected. Someone died a few years ago falling off from that unprotected section. I think he didn't have a helmet. I was able to find a clever way to clean and back clean the start (#4 on the big undercling and a #3 in the crack), but it sure did stress me out. Once I got into the crack it was smooth sailing.

I onsighted what was my hardest climbs to date by grade, but it was exactly my style: hand and fist jams. Usually there's a line to get on the route, but we had no wait because we were the only people willing to climb it at high noon with the sun shining directly on us. After coming to a nice rest and placing a piece, I thought it'd be fun to look back and take a photo at what I'd done so far.

When I look out on these rocks, I see playgrounds similar to what I played on as a kid. Endless routes and adventures in the crevices between these boulders.

All the tools needed for a sweet adventure. After returning the car, I laid out everything and tried to figure out the best way to pack my things for the flight. At the climbing festival, I won a pair of shoes, two hats, a shirt, a a backpack, and several other items so I was coming home with more than I started.

So glad I went to the Joshua Tree Climb Smart festival. It was my first climbing festival and my first time immersing myself in a climbing community. We have festivals out in the east coast but they all feel way too crowded. If you’re newer to climbing, you’d get a lot out of the clinics in a festival.