Sand in my palms, rubbing against the wetness of my shirt, I brushed myself off and attempted to shake my mind back into calmness.

I always believed that the world becomes more acute and clear when in the face of fear.  Fear is always a relative term.  Some people are afraid of flying. Some are afraid of falling.  At this moment, I was afraid of both.

“Lam! Get in the corner.”  Hopefully he heard me.

I braced my hand up against the microwave size chunk of stone, perched and ready to fly.  I had made the mistake of touching the hold on this block.  It shifted it loose.  And now the only thing between this 60 pound hunk of calcium carbonate and my partner’s head was my outstretched arm holding it in place.

The drainage leading to the north face of Notch Peak

Two days earlier we were busting down the old highways through the West Desert of Utah on our way out of the incoming rainstorm that was soaking the Salt Lake Valley.  It was Memorial Day Weekend and we were on the search for solitary confinement and to rid ourselves of the urban grind. We thought we would find no one in the House Range – a north to south mountain range located 3 hours south/southwest of the Utah Wasatch Front.  The main climbing objective was to do a route on the North Face of Notch Peak – a towering 2,200 foot limestone wall, as well as a few of the granite routes located in West Sawtooth Canyon.  As we turned down the last dirt road headed to the camp, the sun had descended, and we could see the flickering of campfires.

“Well … at least whoever is out here is of the same breed” – the wandering climber who thought they had the scoop on everyone else.

As we pulled up, we discovered it was primarily a group of friends of ours along with a few other climbers we would come to be quite familiar with. With Lam’s truck we were able to camp higher up the drainage as we could manage the section of road the clan of Subarus couldn’t.  We tried out the Black Diamond Mega-light Mid tent and were super psyched at the amount of interior space.  We laid our heads down, psyched for the early morning start and the immensity of the route before us.

I awoke to the sound of another party of climbers passing our tent and making their way up into the drainage headed to Notch Peak.  The skies were a dark grey, it had rained some that night, but the forecast was for clearer skies.  We threw back some water and cookies, and started up the trail.

The upper amphitheater on the approach to Notch Peak

2 miles in and 2,000 vertical feet gained along the trail – the rain began to set in.  The sky opened up, and the seemingly harmless drizzle became a downpour.  I wouldn’t be surprised if this region got less than a dozen storms all year – and yet we found ourselves hiding beneath a massive juniper, waiting.  We saw the party ahead of us, they had opted for a route on the lower tier “Western Hardman” – they sat huddled at the base of the route. 

We called it for the day.  Often, we are bested by the unpredictable powers of Mother Nature, and we must submit our resignation in the face of its unrelenting onslaught.  Besides, granite dries much quicker than the porous and seeping limestone.

Back at camp, we slept.  We let the soft rapping of rain on the tight tent whisk us back into our mid-morning slumber.  Awoken to the silence and the rising heat, I stepped out and ran my hand against the nearby boulders to find them quite dry.

We took the short hike into Sawtooth Canyon and simul-climbed an amazing 5.6 – 3 pitch classic – “Candyland”. This protruding and prominent dike runs for 250 feet across a dome of pink colored stone.  We launched up a few other bolted dike routes, a classic 5.9 and a deceptive 5.11+ with wicked layaways and lunges. The day was late, we cooked up some BLT’s, drank beer, and readied ourselves for another try at Notch Peak in the morning.

Classic 5.0 dike route in West Sawtooth Canyon

Again, I awoke to the sound of a party passing our tent, an hour earlier this time, before the sun had graced us with its presence.  We high tailed it up the trail, making better time than the morning prior.  We passed a party headed to the north face about half way up the trail, they seemed discouraged – we wanted to be cordial and stay behind them, but they were moving quite slowly and we wanted to be up on top by a decent hour.

Rapping down the via-ferrata portion of the approach, in the waning morning light

Near the end of the approach, the trail narrowed into a wash and a series of boulder hops, fixed rope lines, and a via-ferrata – essentially a rebar ladder – led to the traverse that dropped us at the base of the route.  We had gone from camp to the base in a seemingly brisk 1.5 hours.  The guidebook gives the expectation at 2.5 hours.  We were stoked.  We flipped a coin to see who would lead first.  Lamwise the Brave got the honors.

And then the nightmarish journey began.  Lam made fair work of the pitch but had to climb slower than usual due to chossy and loose rock.  The bolts are also quite spaced and it took effort to move through sections of climbing in order to safely move on.  As I followed the pitch, I ripped off a toaster size block of stone. I was concerned, but unwearied.  I made it to the belay, gave Lam solid props on the lead and we both knew what we were in for.

Lam on the first pitch of “Book of Saturdays” – north face of Notch Peak

I managed up the next crux pitch in poor style, but the rock quality, odd bolt placements, and sandy holds made this pitch quite more serious than it would have otherwise been.  I brought Lam up and he swung up the next pitch, quite easily, but, as before, wrought with piss rock and poor climbing.  Adventure limestone at its finest.

I made it to the belay, we swapped gear, and I took off on the sharp end.

The fourth pitch and first pitch of decent climbing

This next pitch inspired in me that not all of this climbing was going to be trash.  I delicately climbed the clean gear protected dihedral, it felt good to pull on sound-ish rock, and not have to expect such heinous looseness.  But I suppose I let my mind believe this too quickly.

At the terminus of the dihedral, more loose rock and choss.  I placed my feet precisely and chose my holds with much discretion.  I clipped on of the few bolts on this pitch, pulled up into a massive hold and reached up.

The loose block that subsequently shifted from its perch was massive in the relative sense.  The same shape and size of a microwave, sharp edged, and weighing close to 60 lbs – it was what I would refer to as a death block.  I pushed back at the stone, held it in place.  I yelled to Lam to hide in the corner at the belay.  I instinctually and as manageable as I could muster, let the block loose with a hard shove to my right.

It sailed for a moment.  Crashed into a ledge a few meters below me, exploded into two large pieces and went flying.  It ricocheted down the wall and vaporized as it hit the base.

I paused. Waiting for something.

Lam finally yelled and laughed “Woooooooo!”

I’d had it.  I down climbed a few meters to the bolt, placed a bail carabiner and told Lam to lower.

I reached the belay.

“It’s good to see your face!” Lam said.

“It’s good to see my face too.”

We both took a second to reconcile the moment.  He claimed one of the two pieces had come within a few feet of him on its gravity flight to oblivion.

I set up the rope to rap.  We made the hard choice of knowing when enough is enough.  There were new days to see and greater adventures to prospect.

At the base of the wall, we drank our water with a stiff fervor. As we headed down the “trail” we kept recalling the incident and our prosperity. We made it back to camp before noon.

After an event like that, it seems that the world becomes a bit more acute to the senses and the reality of each situation sits more heavy on the mind.  The sensibility in our actions, the choice to bail and climb another day  – as rational and correct as it was – sat with a bit of disdain in our heads.  It’s not an ego bash, but no one wants to effectively choose to fail.  But is it failure in the traditional sense? No. And here with hindsight, I find myself in the same reality.

Lam crushing the classic “Anti-Crack” 11c West Sawtooth Canyon, Utah

We climbed a mega classic line that afternoon with friends.  The rout – “Anti-Crack” 5.11 – is a phenomenal quarts dike, protruding out, the width of a handcrack and featured to the point of passage.  We all took laps; I whipped off of the increasingly warming holds and respectfully enjoyed the flight.  We drank our fill of cold beer and appreciated the small stuff. 

The sunset was quite cliché that night, setting out over the vast west desert, cascading gold and scarlet through the vacant spaces.

I slept calm and fair.

It seems that it often necessary for me to reproduce a sensation in order to finally cleanse myself of the emotion.  After the previous day’s challenge, we wanted to find ourselves on a clean slate.

The route we had simul-climbed earlier that weekend, “Candyland” seemed like a perfect retribution.  We decided it was easy enough and having now scoped it out, we could solo.  Our friend Derek joined us as we slowly, like ants on a log, climbed up the projection.  In the silence, only broken by the soft sound of our breaths and the whip of the wind, the tranquility of the environment overwhelmed.

Solo send train on “Candyland” 5.6 West Sawtooth Canyon

We said goodbye to our friends, we packed up, got back into the workhorse of Lam’s Tacoma and barreled down the dirt roads back to civilization. 

By the end of it all, we had increased our mental repertoire, found the limits of our rationality, and perpetuated our drive for the challenge.  I remembered somewhere along the trip, in a moment of distinct clarity, I had reminded myself of who I am – and who I would like to be.  Tomorrow -  I forever beckon its welcome.

Me taking the whip on “Anti-Crack”

The Roulette Dealer decided that my money was no longer needed in my wallet.  Or at least it seemed that way by the veracity of which he kept hitting Red while my bets sat lonely on Black.  If it weren’t for the bottomless Mimosas, the shittiest all-you-can-eat buffet imaginable, and the deprecating way the dealer kept taking my chips – I wouldn’t feel nearly as welcome.

Welcome to the desert. I’ll let myself in.

As all worthwhile trips appropriately start – with psych as a fuel and full strength beer for lubricant – we wandered our way in search of sunshine and warm stone.  I’ve decided now that these midwinter trips are the cure for “Gym Climbing Fever” – and as for all trips with seemingly dynamic objectives they prove to always be beneficial for the psych.

Moes Valley, UT – one of the prestigious bouldering destinations in the west, a crater like field of featured blocs, is an endless playground limited only by the durability of the skin on your fingertips.  Andrew Lam, Anthony Hedberg, Martine Nichols, Marley Nelson, Jade Martinsen, our puppy Luna and I comprised our clan to tackle some well-earned pebble wrestling.   After warming our limbs, removing our shirts (briefly) Hedberg, Lam, and Marley gave a good showing on Linder’s Roof – a classic V9 that followings a series of decent holds to a heinous cross.

Lam making the crux move on Linders Roof

Hedberg repeated Israil direct (V8) – with much ease.  Beyond being too strong for his own good, he has the beastliest shoulders of anyone I know.

We made our rounds, repeated some easier classics and joined a crew mobbing Dead Rabbit (V10).   This problem is amazing with small but positive holds through an overhanging face.  With decent beta spray, some kneebarring trickery, and vocal support, Lam made a good showing climbing all the moves but unable to link from start to end.

With the remaining tingling feeling in our hands, we switch gears and headed to Snow Canyon State Park.  Without a guidebook, my vague glance at a topo a few days earlier was all we had to go on as we searched for the classic route, Living on the Edge.  Located immediately off of the road that runs through the park, it wasn’t hard to find. The route trends on the edge of a large alcove following amazing patina plates and jugs.  Being so close to the road, we attracted a large crowd of sightseers who jeered us on and took photos.

At 5.10, this route has moved its way up the charts in my book to the status of ultra-classic.  We made quick work of the 3 pitches, laughed at the hollowness on some of the holds on the upper pitches, and rappelled.  Multi pitch sport climbing at its best and I highly recommend it.

Thanks to the generosity of Jade’s grandparents, we were put up in their vacation home in Mesquite, NV.  We cruised down through the Virgin River Gorge, and after a hefty meal of Mexican food, we threw down for a night of light “grand larceny”.  After a short hour of straight brutality by a humorless dealer with the first name “Lino” – we settled in back at the house and correctly decided another round of the “Martini Chugging Contest” WASN’T in order.

Warming up at the Cathedral

In the morning we slammed back homemade breakfast burritos, bloody marys, and racked our quickdraws.  We ventured out to Welcome Springs in search of the infamous Cathedral and desert limestone.  It’s in the moments on the dirt road heading out to a new area when the imagination burns and the diminutive sense of adventure and potential begin to manifest.  Followed by the moment when the beauty of the stone reveals itself and these emotions culminate.  Photos only share a fraction of the experience.  It’s the realness of being there, this portion that is left in the heart.

The Infamous Cathedral

We clambered up into the cave of stone, covered on all sides by paths of most-resistant and fixed draws.  We traced the lines with our fingers and imagined the strength expressed during each climbers effort to triumph on the routes.

We warmed up. Lam set his sights on flashing the project we came for, Spring Loaded, an inspiring 13a that climbs to the edge of the cave’s left flank.  He floated through the lower 12b section of the route, only stymied by a few in-obvious movements, and rested at the mid anchor.  He loaded up and got dynamic clipping the remaining 3 bolts to the upper anchor.  First 5.13!! Psyched!

Lam hucking it on his way to the anchor on Spring Loaded, 13a

As we drifted back on the freeway headed to Salt Lake, another amazing trip with great friends logging its way into my memory,  I could only bask in the stoke for the future. The mantra stands true: on wards and upwards into the great unknown, with good company close at hand, and new experiences to share.

Cold, parched, and aching. Processing the tempo of my raging headache, I could easily accept that I was in for an apocalyptic hangover.  This time – contrary to the ones past – this self-inflicted illness is not the effect of too much hard drinking, although whiskey was involved, but the combination of a festering cold, a defiant cough, and the two-thumbs-up-redbull-in-your-coffee kind of psyche we had been fueling off of.

The desert, as distinct and defined an environment, must be, by the loosest sense the most relaxing place on the planet for me.  Taken from the city, stripped of the wrong perspectives, and surrounded by opportunities born from the territory – the chances of escape are endless.

The red sand stains, not like wine on a bedsheet, but it find its way into the cracks, creases and crevices of everything foreign.  I awoke, eyes sealed lightly from the dry wind, I awoke to a blanket of red and chapped lips. And how the water tastes and feels!  When I was younger, I had read stories of alpinists and climbers far off on a perch too alien to imagine, with only a cup of tea clasped between their hands and feeling the life literally pull back into them.  Maybe it’s overdone, but the dehydration and insurmountable beating of my head was enough to be imaginative to the desperate.

Lam was clearly fairing much better than I. He looked fresh, as always, with a shit-eating stoked grin on his face. Could I blame him?

We had arrived in the desert outside Moab, UT – to tick the classics, visit places new, and get the blood pumping.  Amidst the federal government shutdown, we sought rowdiness and long desired adventure.

We were awoken by our friends, Andrew and Emma, and we decided to wander up Castleton Tower, a first for both Lam and Andrew.  Given our party size and level of skill, we decided on the North Chimney (5.8+, 4 pitches). After the relatively easy approach up the talus cone, we joined other climbers from far and wide, looking to get up the tower.  The sun was out, the wind was low, and the day was young.  Some strangers displayed attitudes, but we dismissed this, and were on route.

The first pitch, arguably the best 5.8 in Castle Valley, climbs dual hand/fist cracks to a bulgy crux.  The second pitch starts with a short offwidth to fun tower-chimney climbing past loose looking blocks. The 3^rd pitch finishes the chimney and involves an airy step over. The summit pitch climbs juggy features and slippery but positive calcite feet to the top.

We summited under an hour. Yet we spent the day atop the island in the sky.  As the first team up, we waited for our friends.  Unbeknownst to us, they were slow getting on route and climbed behind a party ahead who were making progress, slow but positive progress.

We met others as they summited.  There were Germans, Canadians, and many from close by.  All seem to be climbing the tower for the first time, and their wide smiles admitted it.  We talked shit with our new Canadian friends about French fries, gravy, syrup and socialism- we got off easy with some sharp jabs on US foreign policy. Yet they all seemed to rappel as quickly as they came.

We took a summit photo for everyone.  We listened to the stories told only in places where our reach extends ever so much closer to the sky. We waited; the sun scrolled its rays over the desert landscape, and before we were shrouded in darkness, we were greeted by our friends, and, yes, they were smiling too.

After a short battle with Mexican food in town, we drove the trucks out into the night, into the flanks of Canyonlands National Park.  Excusing ourselves to an impromptu campsite at the correct mile marker, we sat beneath the autumn sky, bathed in moonlight, and watched the stars spin round.

Even with the lunar light cascading shadows, it appeared as if the stars, the Milky Way, and darkness of the night were just within reach.  Maybe this is why we go up. Why we climb into the sky, as to see if we can reach out and touch the celestial bodies, to be part of the grander you, the better of us.

The following morning, after a bit of a later start, we wandered out into the desert.  Guided by a rough estimate derived from a vague search on Google Earth and some random forum posts online, we went looking for our next objective.  After about 2 miles we stumbled upon the Fruit Bowl – a highlining paradise.  The sandstone chasm cuts into the flat plateau landscape and drops away 100’s of feet to the canyon floor.  On either side of this naturally formed “bowl”, anchors have been bolted into the stone to allow the rigging of our highline kit.  After much redundant checking and tensioning, we walked.

Highlining is such a distinctly vitalizing sport. The moments seem to stand a little more still, and every movement is so much more reactionary, with the fear and consequences looming.

My first chance at the walk ended in a full length whipping fall on my leash. I thought the line was tensioned a little too much and was too stiff.  Lam went next.  He managed only slightly better, but caught the line with his hands.

The confidence in the rig was now much higher, and we were psyched.  Andrew tried next – took a few steps and swung – catching the line barely in his hands.

Emma hesitated, but no one blamed her.  She eventually made numerous attempts, each ending in a full length whipping fall – bold!

I leashed up again – took a few steps unto the line and corrected my balance. Out on the line, it seems that all senses become significantly acute.  The cold air drafting up from the chasm feels refreshing cool.  The line tension can be manipulated with only the slightest adjustment of body positioning.  My gaze is fixed – on the end of the line – on the objective.

Each step became independent from the last and the dynamic realization of each action became apparent.  As I stepped off the line, I let the air out of my lungs.

We spent the remainder of the day enjoying the solitude, a good bottle of wine, and a few crack climbs closer to town. Andrew and Emma left that night to be back at work in the morning, the slog of the weekend warrior. 

That night, Lam and I camped out near the trailhead of Millcreek Canyon. Millcreek, a sport climber’s paradise, sits inset in the foothills of the La Sal Mountain Range east of the town of Moab. For those that haven’t enjoyed this area – be warned -  it’s a bit runout at times, the climbing often sandbagged and finding it seems to be a crux in itself.

We spent the frigid morning climbing routes, Lam onsighting a few harder routes, and appreciating some of the best stone both of us have ever laid our hands on.  By mid-morning, the cold I have been fighting off for the week had set in.  Coughing fits led to brewed coffee and the decision to head somewhere with more exposure to the sun.

During the fall season, the town of Moab turns into a bustling hub of outdoor crushing.  With all the psych abound, comes the hordes of people.  It is often a struggle to find good camping while cruising from place to place.  After leaving the chilly slopes of the La Sals we settled for a day of light drinking and pebble wrestling at Big Bend Boulders.

We dabbled, sent, flailed, and shared libations with those who were around.  We spent that night drinking corn whiskey with some new friends while sandbagging them into trying Ancient Art. I love the people you meet in places like the desert. They share your sentiment, they have been places where you wish to go and their experiences only enrich the journey we find ourselves on.

The next day, the last day of our trip, we drank our coffee black.

Lamwise the Brave – the nickname I’ve given him for his fearless efforts and strength on the sharp end – was psyched. I had mentioned earlier in the week that we should try a route up on the Lighthouse tower, “Lonely Vigil, 5.10”, a tower classic that climbs a variety of pitches to a hoodoo summit.

We swung leads – in which we take turns leading – I started up the first 5.10 pitch, pulled through the slightly overhanging fist crack and swam my way through awesome handjams to the belay ledge.  Lam followed, cursed a bit at his small hand size, but cruised through.  Lam racked and started up the stellar third pitch with some great liebacking and some funky technical stemming.  He crushed the pitch, made it look easy to be honest.  I followed him up, finding different beta at times, but remarking the brilliant climbing as I made my way to the belay.  One more pitch led us to the base of the Hoodoo summit.  We hesitated and glanced at one another wondering how to surmount the overhanging boulder perched 500 feet high above the canyon floor with no anchor to be seen.  I tied in and made some moves to the summit block; I tagged the summit, turned around and laughed.  Lam smiled.

Back on the ground we threw our packs into the truck and sat on the tailgate.  I pulled out the bottle of whiskey – we both took a hardy pull.

My experiences seem to be ever more defined by the moments of spontaneity, commitment, and good company.  My expectations have only been limited by a lack of effort but with good friends there has never been a moment of disparage.  There never seems to be a lack in the energy of going forth and designing an adventure, as minor or as grand, into the places unknown with confidence and that ever present shit-eating-grin.

Explaining how for me, climbing and highlining is mental training. All you need is that first step.

Published for OR Magazine, the student run iPad Magazine at University of Oregon.

Climbers: Andrew Lam, Alex Quitiquit

Filmers: Erik Bender, Matt Leslie, Tommy Pittenger
Music: Typhoon – “CPR – Claws Pt. 2″ from the album Hunger and Thirst, produced by Tender Loving Empire

The western realm of this country is a vast playground. But we all knew that didn’t we? The conversation of how I could never live in a place like New York City came up again on this trip, and the State of Wyoming drives that nail even harder into my mind.

Not only is the road there a bit wandering and a bit solace, but it crosses some of the most wide open country I’ve experienced. This is the way the pioneers went as they crossed the nation in better prospects, heading northwest to Oregon, in promise of prosperity. The Northwest Passage through the Rockies, an anomaly among otherwise towering peaks.

At the foothills of the Wind River Range, a range that deserves to be explored in the near future, is the nestled crags of Wild Iris. A short shot from Lander, about 20 minutes, and a long way from anywhere else, it’s a bit of a scene, in a good way.

Camping mere minutes from the OK Corral Wall, with, what my girlfriend and buddy referred to as a “gaggle” of puppies, we were amidst the sparse evergreen glade that runs the length of the cliff and offers shade on an otherwise dry hillside. We wasted no time settling in and getting to the good part; the rock clambering!

Also, the beer. If not for climbing, any state touching Utah is defined as the bootlegging source for our malted barley beverages. We loaded up on some WPA (Wyoming Pale Ale) – Scotch Ale, some Dark deliciousness from a local brewery. All hail to the liquid courage!

At the OK Corral, the routes are short. Surprisingly so at first, but what they lack in height, they make up for in climbing. Going guidebook-less we led the pack of puppies to the wall and tried to be inspired by whatever we saw, and to say the least we were.

The stone, dolomite limestone, is everything conducive to climbing. Pockets, deep and positive, features for feet, and sporty movement is the soup of the day. Of course, we started the trip off with a no-star warm up. Even devoid of stars, the route climbed well – like an American Fork route minus the polish and people swarm.

And in true fashion the next route climbed was a gear protected hand crack. As much as my friends would love to bash me for it, you can’t just turn down an inspiring natural line. The route climbed well, 9+, wavy and slightly flared hands and fists to an existing anchor above another route. It was probably climbed before, but a First Second Ascent is fine by me.

More beer. Then some more climbing, pitches on pitches.

We decided to eat in Lander that night, we chose the Mexican restaurant. Pitchers of margarita, Mole enchiladas and chips. Can’t beat it for climbing fuel.

The next day we warmed up at the OK Corral and headed over to the Main Wall, a short jaunt from the main lot. We wanted to try Cowboy Poetry, the namesake route on the wall of the same title, two pitches, 11b to 12a. The first pitch was awesome, good pockets, some slopers, and great movement. Lamwise the brave sacked up and launched up the 5.12a, hucking and sticking the opening dyno moves and finished the short pitch in style. I followed, flailed a bit, but managed.

A friend of mine and fellow climber, Derek Newman, and his girlfriend Miranda Girandi, showed up and they joined us at the Zorro Wall, the first established wall at Wild Iris and bolstering some of the best climbing.

Zorro and its easier neighbor Gaucho, offered amazing steep pocket climbing with big moves and fluid movement. We were all enamored by the routes, and enjoyed them as the finishing romps of a good day.

The ability to climb as many routes as you want at Wild Iris is limited to the sustainability of your skin. I was losing my ability to touch anything, by the end of the day it felt as if my hands were dipped in lava. Lam felt the same.

That night we grilled eggplant over the fire, drank copious amounts of beer and shared stories and contemplated future trips. The trick to a good climbing trip is not the destination as so much as the people you are with. It seems you could make a trip out of Dogwood as long as you bring good friends, don’t take this shit seriously, and climb whatever inspires you.

The next day Lamwise and Derek put away a new classic 5.12 at the OK Corral, no excuses on my part but my skin didn’t allow the redpoint. We finished on some good routes and packed up camp amidst the darkening sky.

We capped the trip off with a stop in Atlantic City, not that one, but this little old mining town with a saloon that served up some amazing burgers, fries, and, yes, beer on tap. We were surprised the place wasn’t overrun by climbers, but maybe it will stay our little secret.

I think after climbing gear routes for so long, a trip to a renowned sport climbing destination was well earned?

After all, climbing is climbing, and choss is choss, gravity still designs this sport, but beer and good friends define it.