Thanksgiving in Joshua Tree

Once I was on the Mojave Desert road, I lost service.

It had been an hour since I left Eyal and Max at a pullout in Red Rock. We spent the early morning hours climbing, getting a few routes in before the winter storm inevitably descended onto the canyon. We pulled our ropes as the first flakes touched the sandstone.

Getting disconnected from Leah on my phone call was also inevitable. Earlier, I had passed signs warning of no gas stations for the next hundred or so miles. The road ahead was familiar, layered into memory from past drives. The scenery was both fascinating and monotonous.

My earliest memory was being alone on the road,

struggling to stay awake and swiftly cutting through the night with my headlights. I was behind schedule because of an impromptu detour into the desert, hoping to catch the sunset from behind a Joshua tree.

A more recent memory was with Leah.

The cloudless, afternoon sky had the sun drawing sharp, elongated shadows into the sand. I remember us struggling to put up the tent that night, working together to fight the wind sweeping fast across the desert. I questioned whether it would all blow away if at least one of us wasn’t inside.

This time, I was leaving Red Rock. It was by luck and advanced planning that I snagged a campsite for an entire week there. My luck only carried me so far: the storm building in my rearview would render the sandstone unsafe to climb, and I was hell-bent on climbing. Joshua Tree was the best option I had, and so I headed south.

Late in the afternoon, I arrived to Twentynine Palms on the northern edge of Joshua Tree and called Leah again. At this point I had hit a low and let my frustrations flow honestly and openly. I felt ungrounded and lost as I moved from one destination to another, chasing weather. I didn’t mind being alone, but the loneliness this time sat heavier than usual. Saying it aloud helped pull me out of the hole I dug myself into. I knew I had I made the right choice to come, but the uncertainty of what I’d be doing here bred more anxiety than excitement.

My first stop was to the local gear shop to pick up a guidebook on routes in the park. I told the shop owner I didn’t have a partner to climb with, and if I couldn’t find one online I’d take a recommendation on a boulder problem (ideally with a crack to practice jamming). He gave me a suggestion and I checked into an empty campsite, grateful for a hot shower. I settled into the back of my car for a deep sleep.

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In the morning, I saw snow in the forecast. I wasn’t in a rush today though. Joshua Tree’s monzonite granite rock didn’t lose its integrity when wet, unlike porous sandstone. I made my way over to the boulder recommended to me the day before. I was told there was a good chance I’d find other climbers there with crash pads working on Big Bob’s Big Wedge (v5).

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Sure enough, there were three climbers who welcomed me to huddle under the imposing roof, split by a crack slightly narrower than a fist, my favorite size. They invited me to have a go and didn’t need to ask twice. I was over the moon with the first hand jam, and euphoric again with the second move. I relaxed, allowing my body to sag and enjoy the horizontal sensation, hanging with the easy pressure of squeezing my hands and feet, torquing both just right. Crack climbing had become an obsession of mine but I didn’t practice beyond the never-changing routes at my local gym.

After about an hour, snow started to fall. This snow was thick and wet, and the group decided to break and head back. They invited me to sit in their camper van with them. I could’ve spent another few hours under that rock, but I politely accepted. While we sat, the conversation felt forced on my part and I suspected the group wasn’t sure how to tell me they had other plans. I was grateful for their company, but I had the feeling I should get going. I happily said goodbye and drove out of the park.

Not long after, I found myself in a gas station parking lot with a 6-inch sub on my lap. It was Thanksgiving Day, and after calling about ten restaurants, Subway was the only place open. On the other side of my windows, rain was pouring hard. I entertained myself with social media, and ultimately decided that the most fun thing to do would be to get another sandwich. I put on my jacket and ran inside to put in another order, only to find that Subway had closed early.

My boredom eventually led me to browse Mountain Project’s online forum. I noticed a post from a few minutes ago asking if anyone wanted to hang out at Joshua Tree Saloon. I was the first to arrive and met Kassia. We talked and I learned that she was a strong sport climber living on the road, making a full-time salary working ~6hrs a week pitching stem cell therapy to prospective clients in different cities. We got along great and before long, I noticed across the bar sat a familiar face. It was Will. He and I messaged each other earlier on Mountain Project, agreeing to climb together the following day.

I invited Will over to join us. As we chatted, a guy next to us turned around and said he couldn’t help but ask a question about stem cell therapy. This was Jack, and very quickly I picked up on how funny and friendly he was. I couldn’t figure out his story because of how often he’d go on tangents, always half-revealing another interesting side of his life. I couldn’t tell if he was dirt-bagging on vacation or if he had been transient for a while. His dinner was a bag of goldfish crackers and Budweiser. I did gather he had a CBD skin salve for climbers, and I think he had been pot-farming since he was 16 years old.

On my drive to the campsite, I called Leah again, telling her about how my day had played out, all the friends I made, and how excited I was to finally climb and get my feet off the ground tomorrow.

I had a great feeling about partnering up with Will.

He climbed at the same trad level I did, shared my risk tolerance, was also from NYC, and mirrored my stoke for getting on rock.

He was an engineer working remotely 3 days a week, just beginning to experiment with trying to do his job while being entirely on the road. His plan was to camp and climb for 4 days, and then get an Airbnb for the rest of the week while he telecommuted.

I regrettably didn’t capture any photos of our first day. I was focusing on trying to show Will that I was paying attention, proving I was a capable partner and also gauging whether my instincts were right about him. The first route I had chosen was Dilly Bar, a 5.6 that followed a chimney. He gave me the first lead and I racked up. The wall I chose for us was in the shade all day this time of the year. The temperature hovered just below freezing and the wind stabbed me to my core. My fingers were fully numb halfway up the route; I stopped for a few minutes on a ledge to return some feeling by pocketing them in my armpits. I looked down and saw Will shivering in his puffy. I wasn’t sure who had it worse: him standing still or me touching cold rock that could best be be described as climbing in a deep freezer.

I came to the crux of the route and noted that the jug (deep depression in the rock) above was filled with water and frozen solid, like a miniature ice rink. At this point, my fingers were useless and my arms felt like blunt instruments. I reminded myself to place gear and move on. When I topped out, the full force of the wind was realized and it almost sent me off my balance. At the very least I was in the sun now. When Will climbed up to me, we looked at each other and agreed finding a different wall was a great idea.

The next route was in the sun, but was miserable in a different way. Bat Crack (5.5) felt more like a 5.7. Will led the first pitch and I got the second. Although the climbing was fairly secure, the entire route was characterized by a lot of groveling and inelegant movement. The low-angle slot I was shimmying up scraped against my skin and clothes, even removing several pieces of gear off my harness somehow.

The gang regrouped at the Saloon and traded stories. Jack and Kassia, both strong climbers talked about how stunned they were to struggle and fail a v1 boulder problem. Joshua Tree’s reputation for stiff grading was felt by all.

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The following day, I arranged to climb with Annie, a local of the area. She was eager to show me some of the classics, so we started off on The Swift (5.7). Annie suggested I take the harder pitches of the climb, and I hid my nervousness well by moving gracefully over the rock. After we completed route, I walked into a cactus bush, sending about a hundred sharp “hairs” into my leg. Using some of Annie’s tape, I was able to get most of it out, but to I felt the odd prick here and there throughout the day.

We moved on to another part of the park, hoping to get to Mental Physics (5.7). This was one of more popular routes in the park, but involved a ~1hr hike and some simple route-finding to get to. Walking through the quiet wilderness was a lot of fun. Hopping over rocks and crawling under pinches between large boulders made me feel like a kid. When we arrived to the route, there were about three parties ahead of us. I was happy to wait since we had travelled all this way, but I could tell Annie hated the idea of waiting. She suggested we go to another route 20 minutes away. As soon as we were under the new route, we found a pair of climbers there, lost, looking for the same route we had come to climb.

In a last ditch effort to get a climb in, we hiked over to The Last Angry Arab (5.6). Annie gave me the lead. When I was about 15 feet off the ground, I decided the climbing wasn’t secure enough. The slab my feet rested on was actively peeling layers off. Rather than continue, I decided to downclimb and remove the protection I placed in the rock. When I was halfway down, my foot slipped and I fell. I landed in a perfectly seated position on the ground, amazed I didn’t hurt myself. It was an hour til sunset and we had a decent hike over boulders before we would return to the car, so it was a relief to walk away from the fall without an injury.

It was Kassia’s birthday

and she invited us all to join her for dinner. It would be our last time as a group. We goofed off by suggesting absurd responses for her to the guy she was texting with, each of us trying to come up with a more inane response.

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The next day, Will and I met up to climb with each other again. Although I had fun exploring with Annie yesterday, I didn’t want to hike far only to be met with a queue of climbers. I suggested we climb The Swift, the same route I had done yesterday with Annie. This time, I would follow the pitches I previously led.

While climbing, we made friendly conversation with the party nearby. They were on Dappled Mare (5.8). It was another classic, and just a level more difficult than what we were climbing. After asking them for beta on the route, we decided to go for it next.

Will and I had a blast on the route, ending just as the sun ducked behind the ridge.

I was grateful for the climb. It was the hardest route either of us had done and we both cooly climbed it safely and smoothly.

Will and I closed out the evening over some Thai food. We said goodbye and promised to keep in touch.

I stepped into my car and headed back into the Mojave Desert toward Red Rock, where the conditions were finally dry. I was just as alone on this drive as I was on the way in, but I carried with me the memories of new friends and shared stories, which made all the difference.

Making the most of COVID-19

It’s March 15th, and all signs point to the Coronavirus accelerating in its spread in the United States. A colleague told me that we’re just weeks behind East Asia and Europe, a fairly grim outlook. It’s going to get worse before it gets better. The immediate question I ask myself is what I’d do differently if I anticipated 4 more months of this. 6 more months? 8 months? What habits would I try to form in order to better weather the storm?

Rather than settle into a depressing slump of cabin fever, I considered this as an opportunity for growth. I did notice that my co-workers and friends seemed anxious and didn’t share my optimistic outlook. I thought it’d be worthwhile to break down my thoughts in writing to see if it could be helpful to others, and if not, at the very least to hold myself accountable by publicly sharing. My thoughts aren’t universally applicable of course. My life circumstances will be different than yours. Below are some ways I’m taking advantage of this new environment.

1. Sleep - Since I don’t need to commute into the office anymore, it’s easy to give myself an extra dose of sleep but also stay up later the night before. At first the extra time in bed seemed like a great win for my health, but it threw off my sleep schedule. When it was time for bed, I’d convince myself I could sleep in, justifying the extra hour or two burned unproductively online.

   • Instead of committing to going to sleep at a set time, I turn off all screens and notifications at a pre-determined time. Afterward, I’m free to do anything apart from my gadget for as long as I’d like. Oftentimes I’ll have a book in bed, and when it feels right, I call it a night.

   • The point here is to try and stick to your normal sleep cycle, but also slip in a good habit or two: disconnecting + catching up on reading.

2. Exercise - If you can’t go to a gym, you can still exercise. For centuries, Ancient Roman armies had phenomenal fitness without all the fancy equipment we pay for today. If they could figure it out, why couldn’t I? I had this obvious realization years ago when paying for an Equinox gym membership. I assumed that the bite of paying more would pressure me to exercise more. That assumption held true for a bit, but the sticker shock wears off. What I was missing was self-motivation.

   • The only gym membership I pay for today is a climbing gym membership, which I froze temporarily. It’s hard to replicate that at home, but that doesn’t mean I can’t train to emerge stronger than when I started. I won’t give specific fitness advice since that’s dependent on your goals, but here are some ways I’ve incorporated exercise easily:

     • Pushups and planks during meetings. When I’m on a video call, I’ll turn off my video for a minute and crank out a few of these.

     • Pullups and hang-boarding whenever I leave my room. Above the door frame, I already had a hangboard for climbing training. If I step out to go to the bathroom or get a snack, I’ll do some reps here.

     • Going outside and running. It’s getting warmer outside and thanks to Daylight Savings Time, the sun sets later. Just as I would if I was in the office, I put a hard stop on my calendar to shut off my laptop and enjoy some evening sun while I’ve got it.

     • Physical therapy. If you have a stubborn injury (e.g., a tweaked shoulder rotator cuff, a stiff IT band, sharp knee pain when running), find out the best way to attack it with some dedicated PT at home. Before reading a single email in the morning, put some time in and invest in your future self. Think of it as your “warm-up” to starting work.

   • The point here is to find small ways to do something, anything. The more momentum you lose in fitness, the harder it will be to bounce back.

3. Finances - I saw a joke recently: “Everyone’s telling me not to look at my 401k because of the market drop…I don’t even know how to look at my 401k.” It’s an unfortunate reality that most people aren’t financially literate. Access to information isn’t the issue anymore, with tons of YouTubers and bloggers breaking down complex problems in easy-to-understand language.

   • The first step is to know yourself. Keep a log of where your expenses are going, and then ask yourself whether it was worth it. Do that for at least a month. Whatever you do, avoid retail therapy.

   • The point here is that learning how to invest responsibly and developing good saving habits will never be a regret.

4. Cooking - Eating out these days seems irresponsible on several levels. In addition to potentially catching and spreading COVID-19 from any number of people at a restaurant, eating out is a huge expense. I’ve always stressed myself out when cooking, holding myself to a high standard that could never be met. I finally decided I’d cook without using written recipes. I relied on simple YouTube videos that I’d watch a few times, and then execute from memory. I screwed up a few times, but never resulting in anything so bad that it was inedible. I’m far more competent in a kitchen than I was a month ago, and my intuitive sense of how to put a meal together is improving with every meal.

   • The point here is that cooking is a lifelong skill that you’ll employ over and over again. You don’t get better without putting in the time and openly embracing that you’ll make mistakes.

5. Learning - In the same vein as cooking, there are so many resources for expanding your knowledge base available for free. Again, the first step is to start somewhere. If you’re eager to level up in your career, think about what skills you’re weak in. If you want to feed your curiosity, check out a new subject. If you want to improve your writing, like I do, set aside time to write!

   We’re extremely fortunate to have access to information. Imagine if COVID-19 happened 30 years ago before the Internet was available to the public. That would suck. Here’s a fraction of what you could do:

   • Online college courses at sites like edX or Khan Academy

   • Read a random Wikipedia article: https://www.wikiwand.com/random/en

   • Get an audiobook, listen while you clean your house. Check out Obama’s favorites from 2019.

   • Watch some general interest Youtube channels with fun animations. My favorites: Crash Course, Wendover Productions, Half as Interesting.

6. Connecting - If you’re on social media, that can be a great tool or it can be a waste of time. If you’re mindlessly scrolling your feed, it’s probably the latter. Just because you’re at home and missing out on your monthly boozy brunch, that doesn’t mean you can’t reach out and talk to friends. In fact, I’m willing to bet that the person you decide to reach out to will probably feel more connected to you for getting on a call with them because of how unusual it is to do that these days.

   • At my job, I’ve incorporated this by randomly asking a colleague if they’re available for a quick call. We spend about 15 minutes talking about some work, but mostly personal lives. These unscheduled chats serve as a substitute for the office hallway collisions. This simple gesture goes a long way in both re-balancing my mood with a little bit of socializing, making the other person feel like a human rather than a work-machine, and also building trust with a co-worker (an essential ingredient for me to be successful on a team).

7. Gratitude - It’s easy to look at the current situation and feel down about it all, but there’s a lot to be grateful for. If you aren’t sick and your family has still got their health, be mindful of that. I’m personally grateful that despite working in an industry that has been hit hard by the pandemic, my colleagues are supportive of each other and my work can be done remotely.

   • The point here is to take stock of what’s going well in your life. There’s always someone out there affected more severely by COVID-19 than you.

“A crisis is a terrible thing to waste” is one of my favorite quotes. There’s no better time to invest in yourself if you have the means to do it.

A random side note: I do have friends who aren't taking the pandemic seriously. I’m not sure why they think it's over-hyped. These are the same folks who wouldn't question the scientific community about climate change, but they for some reason think they know better on this subject. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Climbing in Red Rock with Eyal and Max

After exiting the Subway in Zion, I headed west back toward Las Vegas. All around me were mesas layered onto the horizon with the furthest having a purplish tint. The sun was low and the walls to the north were cast in an orange glow. A lot of this trip had been driving alone, which I didn’t mind. I savored moments like this: between the tail end of an adventure and at the cusp of a new one to look forward to.

I was on my way to Red Rock Canyon, where I had booked a campsite for nearly a week. I pored over the nearly 400-page Jerry Handren guidebook in the weeks leading up to this trip, studying approaches, memorizing the names of the walls, and making backup plans in case popular routes were taken. Going into this trip, I was looking forward to this section leveling me up as a trad climber. For the first two days, I’d have my friend Eyal sharing the campsite with me. He invited Max as well, who I hadn’t yet met but was apparently a bold and strong Gunks climber.

I arrived late to the campground and listened to Eyal and Max talk about the routes they had done. They were exhausted from an attempt at the uber-classic 700ft, 9-pitch route Levitation 29 (5.11b/c IV). Despite being the first to the entrance of the park at 6am, by the time they arrived to the base of the route, two parties were ahead of them and one was lining up behind them. Even though the route was below their limit, they weren’t able to complete it and bailed off halfway through.

Fortunately for me, they needed a rest day and were eager to get on easy climbs, routes that were more my speed.

Since we were a group of three, it made the most sense to do single-pitch sport routes. This would be the first climbing of the trip for me. When it was my turn to climb, I was a hot bundle of nerves desperately trying to move gracefully on what was essentially warm-up terrain. I overgripped and my heart rate peaked. I knew the guys could tell I was a sloppy mess based on their quiet “nice work, dude” and lack of eye contact when I lowered down after making it to the chains. At the second route, I shook off the awkwardness and focused my mind. Eyal wasn’t subtle about noticing this: “Good, you’re back!” That acknowledgement sealed it for me and made it official.

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While climbing, I heard a familiar voice below and realized it was my friend Cody who was guiding a few routes over.

I met Cody in Red Rock when as a client a few years ago and we’ve stayed in touch. If you’re interested in learning how to be more efficient and safe while roped in, check out his tips on IG @thecodybradford.

Eyal’s excitement was hard to describe. This was his last climbing trip in the US for a while.

Eyal and I met in the Gunks and I loved his attitude, friendliness, and boldness, although I also did see him take a non-critical ground fall when a piece of gear popped that day. The week after this photo was taken he would be heading back to Chile after completing course-work at Columbia University.

There are very few people I’ve met who shared my enthusiasm for climbing history, training, movement, and exploring the alpine. Eyal was one of them.

“I want you to send me all of the photos. Even the shitty ones! Especially the shitty photos.

Those are actually even better you know.”

When either Max or Eyal were climbing, I avoided belaying duty by taking photos of them.

While grocery shopping that evening, Eyal repeatedly kept asking me to send him the photos, which wasn’t possible until I returned home after my trip. He eagerly wanted to show his girlfriend, Cami, back in Chile the climbs he had done and what a good time he was having.

At the campground, it was still fairly windy, but we used our cars as a makeshift barrier. We were committed to making a fire and sitting around it that night. Both Max and Eyal were leaving the following day. Thanksgiving was around the corner and they had loved ones to be with. Eyal invited me to join him and his uncle’s family in Phoenix for the holiday, but warned me there would be “loud, happy Latinos” and I would need to keep up. There was snow in the forecast starting just before noon and they considered themselves lucky for the timing. Even though I had the campground for several more days, I decided to head south to Joshua Tree the following day, where the integrity of the granite rock wouldn’t be affected by precipitation. All those daydreams from studying the Red Rock climbing guidebook would amount to nothing, at least for now. I did feel proud of myself for adapting to a new plan though.

That night we talked about our families’ work-hard ethic that got us to a point where we can climb on rocks for fun. We talked about whether the next generation of climbers would lead the next leap forward in performance or if there’d be a plateau in ability. We talked about not understanding the hate that fueled some people to make judgments about others who looked or seemed different. We joked about how the cloudy night sky was ink-black except for the permanent, bright glow above Las Vegas a few miles to the east that resembled an alien invasion about to pierce through the clouds. I was too distracted to notice the fire starting to melt the edges of my shoes.

The following morning we decided to climb ahead of the storm.

Most of the routes on our wall were at or above my limit, but I gave them a try anyway. From where we stood, we could see the mountains and valleys far to the west slowly become obscured by clouds that carried a heavy dose of snow. We were climbing on a timer.

While climbing, we could see Yaak Crack (5.11c) with quickdraws hanging off the steep face out of the corners of our eyes. Max and Eyal were exhausted, but remarked at how cool it would be to try it someday. It was far above my pay grade so I didn’t even bother entertaining the idea. Just as we were slated to leave, Eyal decided to go for it: “It’s my last time climbing in the US! How can I not at least try?” It was a joy watching him work the route; I could tell he was fully locked in, focused, and was leaving nothing on the table. With a good fight, he made it to the top just as the first pellets of snow started to coat the ground.

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We pulled the ropes and headed back to the parking lot. It was my final goodbye to Eyal. He had been entertaining the idea of going completely off of social media and disconnecting, and I asked him how we’d ever find out if he was still alive or if he was ignoring us. “That’s a good point. Maybe I will check in once a year!”

It was still early in the day. The brunt of the snow storm was yet to come. I had a long drive south through the Mojave Desert ahead of me. I parted ways with the guys and before long I was on the road to Joshua Tree. Rain or snow, I was sure to climb there.

Not Canyoneering the Subway in Zion

When I first learned about canyoneering, it seemed like the perfect way to get away from the crowds and a more exciting way of experiencing the most popular trails in Zion. To me it was exactly like hiking, except at certain points I would use basic climbing gear to rappel anywhere between 10-100+ foot cliffs throughout the day. Experienced canyoneers would scoff at my reductionist view on their sport, but it made sense to me.

I did my homework in advance by memorizing the each leg of the trip, how much rope I would need for each rappel, and applied for a permit which I’d pick up the day before. I read countless trip reports and pored over YouTube videos, pausing them to take notes on any nuances in the trail.

The ranger assigning permits quizzed me on my knowledge and asked if I had been canyoneering before. I answered honestly, noting I had experience climbing and mountaineering, and was more than comfortable with rappels. He didn’t seem overly concerned with me being alone, but reminded me that no one else had applied for a permit. I was on my own. Before I left, he noted that there’d be an 18-foot swim in near-freezing water.

I picked up a drysuit rental from a local gear shop and tried to gather more intel about the trail. No one had been there in over a week since the rain had been so heavy. It was my first time wearing a drysuit and I tried to ignore the body odor from the previous renter. The drysuit came with a thick set of overalls that I was required to wear for protecting the suit from abrasions in the canyon. Besides making me look like a rodeo clown, it all weighed me down heavily. I started to feel less stoked about lugging my new suit around for miles.

That night, I sat in the back of my car cramming “just the essentials” into a pack. The essentials in this case included a 200ft climbing rope, harness, and other gear for descending. I reluctantly removed my camera to reduce more weight. When I lifted my pack, it felt like a lead ball. I unpacked and re-packed, trying to think of what else I could shave off. I went to bed feeling uneasy about my plan.

I woke up before sunrise, just before my alarm. Throughout the night I had dreams of the 18ft swim, and sinking like a stone with my heavy pack. Over and over, my mind played out the scenario of me entering that cold, still water and helplessly fighting to stay above the water as my backpack dragged me under. I took that as a sign that I should cancel my plan. Before sunrise the next morning, I went back to the gear shop and returned the equipment that I never used. I didn’t bother explaining why.

I still had the full day ahead of me, so I figured I’d try the normal hike bottom-up to Subway, ending just before the final technical section of the top-down canyoneering route.

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When I hit the trail, I was in my comfort zone. The forecast called for a late afternoon rain storm and I was early to show up. I followed the gurgling creek for miles, lost in my thoughts in the quiet wilderness without another person in sight for hours.

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There weren’t any signs to follow. The only instruction I knew of was to continue following the creek. After hours of pushing forward, just before I became suspicious I might have missed a turn, I saw a couple ahead. I came up to them and started to see the cavernous features of the Subway begin to reveal themselves around me. I entered the mouth of the tunnel and tried to walk as far in as I could carefully.

The floor of the tunnel was slick from the water smoothing out any rough edges. I needed to be careful with my steps.

The pools of green around me were deceptively over eight feet deep. It was too cold for a swim.

I could see clouds moving in, and I wanted to get out before the weather worsened. Once I was back on dry ground, I sprinted the several miles back to the trailhead, happily enjoying the solitude and comfort that came with being able to move swiftly.

I thought about how I avoided this trail initially, opting for a more technical and committing route that would guarantee my isolation. I listened to my instinct that morning by bailing, and still got exactly what I wanted. I hopped into my car just as the rain started and drove off to spend the next few days in Red Rock.

Not Climbing the Namaste Wall in Zion's Kolob Canyon

Update: I was finally able to climb the route the following year! Here’s some route info that you may find helpful. https://www.rajahamid.com/journal/2020/12/6/climbing-zions-namaste-wall

I was more excited about climbing on the Namaste Wall than for any other day of my trip. The photos I had seen showed a slightly overhanging wall with gorgeously carved huecos, some large enough to even crawl into. There were lots of routes within my ability and the legend Conrad Anker noted it was one of his favorite walls. I had my doubts about whether the rock would be dry enough for safely climbing, but I figured I at least owed it to myself to pay homage to such a special place by going out to take a look. Besides, I didn’t have a climbing partner and going there would be the only way to find someone.

I drove for almost an hour to the far side of Zion NP. As soon as I arrived to the parking lot, I saw a group of three guys who were getting ready to head out with gear. I was so ecstatic that I had to tell myself to try and play it cool when I pulled up to them. I asked if I could join and they agreed. I hooted and told em I’d catch up to them. I quickly parked my car and set up my pack and ran the 45 minute hike to the wall in 20 minutes.

When I arrived, the guys were sitting down eating a late breakfast. As we got to talking, I realized that this was the first time in a while I was speaking to anyone in person for any meaningful amount of time. My exchanges so far had all been with cashiers, waiters, and park rangers. I got along with the guys well, which was great because talking would be all that we’d do all morning. We concluded the rock just wasn’t dry enough to feel safe. These guys were on the road indefinitely, and had been climbing for months. They said they’d come back in a week. For a visitor like me though, it was different.

After hanging on some of the holds lower down and thinking about how incredible it would be to climb some day, we hauled our packs and returned to the parking lot. The guys were headed west to San Diego for some surfing. Climbing around here was going to be unreliable and they had spent the last two weeks tearing their hands in Indian Creek’s splitter cracks already. We parted ways and I left with a full heart. Connecting with my community made me feel less alone, even if it was just for a few hours and all we did was stare up at a wall together dreaming about the send.

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.