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Once a Year Climbing Bums

Red Rocks, Nevada


One trip a year is all we get now-a-days. One trip to reunite with our love of climbing and to spend time not doing crap we don't want to do. One trip a year for the three of us to be together. The life paths of myself, my best friend Dave, and my cousin Kel, have taken turns away from the time when we all lived in Reno, Nevada.

Months spent together on trails and rocks dwindled to weeks and then eventually, you guessed it, to one trip a year during the week between Christmas and New Year's when it is almost guaranteed that we would all be in town visiting our families. This year's destination was Red Rocks, Nevada - west of Las Vegas, and damn, was I looking forward to it.

Dave's late model pre-SUV Suburban rolled up in front of my house in the typical fashion of screeching to a halt. With his compact muscular swagger, Dave jumped out and strutted to the front door like a prize fighter. Dave's nickname is Safety Boy because of his cut-no-corners attitude toward rock climbing. With his 5'8" 170-pound frame there is nobody that I would want when the going gets tough - think Forrest Gump going back into the line of fire to hoist yet another fallen soldier over his shoulder to safety.

The screen door flew open and Dave let out his patented, "Where the hell is Kel?" I responded, "Lag-fest officially starts now." Kel wasn't that late, it's just that he had been in the past, a lot. Now it has developed into quite the running joke. "One thing is for sure, Dave, we will hear him coming a mile away."

Shortly after our ears perked up. Off in the distance was the sound of a classic Toyota pickup that had seen it all. The delay between when we heard him and when he actually reached us was like counting the seconds between the lightning strike and the thunder - less screech and more rumble and the expedition was officially assembled.

Kel is the polar opposite of Dave, replacing Dave's springy, muscular, compact steps with long, deliberate movements. Over 6 feet tall, and slender, Kel's nickname is The Albatross because of his abnormal wing span when it comes to rock climbing, and his mop of toe-head hair verging on albino.

Kel and I grew up together as best friends and brothers, and like Dave, I wouldn't want anyone else when the going gets tough but for entirely different reasons. Kel is gifted when it comes to gear and rigging up something to get you out of a jam. Combine this with a personality that teeters on anarchy, and you get interesting clashes when Kel wants to try something whacky and Dave's Safety Boy mentality urges him not to. Think giant white bird hovering over a sea cliff with a stick of dynamite in its mouth.

Las Vegas might be glamorous, but along I-95 there is a whole lot of stuff that isn't. In fact, the drive goes by like a decaying history of the old west as each turn in the highway presents another abandoned mining town semi-preserved by the dry desert - Hawthorne, Goldfield, Beatty - all sprawling metropolises of at least 50 people each. The question, "Why would anyone ever live out here," inevitably pops into your head as you speed across the land.

It was 4:30pm by the time we reached the highway. Led Zeppelin was blaring above the noise of open windows at 70 m.p.h - a late start, but anticipated, so I guess we left on time. Eight hours is common for tourists in motor homes to drive between Reno and Las Vegas. It didn't take us that long. We were urged on by our love of adventure and climbing. We needed this trip badly to distract our over-burdened minds from the monotony of school and winter. We were going to cram it all into three days and four nights - no matter what.

Around dinnertime my fast metabolism was urging Dave to pull over. Behold, the Tonopah Nugget appeared in timely fashion - casino, but not Caesar's Palace, more $2.99 steak and eggs gone wrong. Dave and I were wrapped up in some sort of metaphysical debate while Kel interjected his atheistic opinion between naps.

Full of grease, secondhand smoke, and amused by the waitress who looked like she had served one too many patty melts in her day, we sped under the perfectly clear starry night toward Las Vegas. There is something mystical about the desert that lends itself to great conversation. Dave and I were soon in some verbal tango as Kel drifted back to sleep.

After a couple of hours we forgot Kel was even in the car. This provided for a great surprise when out of the blue, he sprang up and said, "Pull over at Indian Springs. We're going to check out the witch temple." What? Something told me this would fit the general theme of the overall voyage. I shook my head amusedly and looked out at the cold, dark night.

Indian Springs consists of one trailer park, a handful of houses, some sort of air base, a truck-stop casino and one witch temple. At times like these it's pointless to ask any questions. Kel is full of randomness. How does he know there is a witch temple at Indian Springs?

An hour from the Las Vegas Strip, we pulled off the highway onto a creepy looking dirt road. Back from the pavement was a bonafide sign with the temple's hours and instructions to stay on the paths. Slightly freaked out, I dug through my pack and pulled out a head lamp. Back from the parking lot was a small white circular building with a fire pit in the middle and various statues adorning the ground around the pit. Kel informed us that this was a "good" witch temple. Dave and I were relieved.

Shivering from the cold by now I asked, "Where are the witches?"

Kel responded, "They must not be gathering tonight, but you should see this place in the winter or summer solstice. It's out of control."

If you drive to Las Vegas, plan your trip so that you purposely arrive after the sun has gone down. You start to see the glow from all the lights a hundred miles away, especially the Luxor with its giant beam drawing tourists like insects to a bug-zapper. When you finally crest the last hill, the sight of all that excess stranded in the desert is incredible.

I had booked a room off the Strip because I didn't want to pitch a tent late at night. It proved to be a valuable foresight. After midnight we rolled in to Terribles Hotel and Casino and put down our forty beans. Leary of the parking lot, we hauled our life savings up to the room. The three of us must have looked like quite a sight lugging multiple ropes, backpacks and racks of climbing gear through the casino floor.

It was late December, almost 60 degrees at 9:00 a.m., without a cloud in the sky as we approached our selected climbing spot in Red Rocks. We were glad to be outside. I let out a whoop in an attempt to expel the frustration of a rainy Northwest fall. Today was for sport climbing, tomorrow bouldering, and the next for a traditionally protected multi-pitch climb. We were sampling it all.

Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area is an amazing place. One minute we were passing hundreds of tract houses with gas stations and grocery stores mixed in, and the next minute we were cruising up Charleston Boulevard gawking at the multicolored rock formations rising out of the earth. These formations towered over us as we attempted to adjust from the hideous suburban sprawl to the beautiful mountain setting.

The park was a bargain, with the yearly pass for $20.00. Not only was it beautiful, but also easy to get lost in once off the road. A person can be so swept up by the unique rock formations and incredible beauty of the place that it is easy to wander along look-alike narrow canyons and boulders.

We put in a good day of climbing, especially after we tracked down the sun and warmed ourselves up. As the angle of that warmth-giving celestial body dipped closer to the horizon, we realized we needed a place to stay so all we could do was hope that the one and only campground near the park wasn't full.

Nervous about paying for another night at Terribles, we zoomed back down Charleston Boulevard to 13 Mile Campground. Aptly named, this campground is 13 miles up Charleston Boulevard and a mile or so from the entrance of the park. It has an international flavor. Dirt-ballers from around the world call it home for up to 14 days at a time, year round.

Due to the short winter days and the approaching New Year's Eve holiday, we were confined to stumble blindly in the dark to one of the many walk-in sites. Thankful to get a spot, we pitched the tent in a hurry as if we needed to stake out our territory to ward off some evil land-hungry force that was lurking about. After we had established residence, we looked about our surroundings. Lots and lots of people from British Columbia escaping the dreary Northwest winter were in attendance, as well as the ever present beam rising out of the Luxor never letting you forget that the world's playground is less than 20 miles away.

Hungry and cold we stopped at the first taco joint that came our way, filled up, and then swung around back to the nearest supermarket for some flammable pallets. Back in camp with our bellies filled and our hands warmed by the fire, we reflected for the first time.

What a crazy year it had been, filled with all kinds of emotions, especially missing these two blokes. We each chose different paths that made it difficult for us to sit around a campfire near a good chunk of rock. Moderation also played a role. We couldn't climb all the time unless we were willing to give up everything else.

I like to think of our choices as the stretch-it-out approach - justifying responsibilities by labeling them as a means to not getting totally burned out on the sport. The three of us knew there was a chance we would live the complete climbing life if pushed in the right direction. Especially Kel. I sensed he would one day load up the truck and never look back.

We spent the next day wandering in the desert looking for a group of boulders that never materialized. We didn't care. It was sunny, we had our shirts off, and my pasty white skin was weeping with joy at the prospect of getting some vitamin D. Eventually we stumbled upon one lone sandstone boulder perched on a large flat area of underlying sandstone just off the valley floor. After working on a few overhanging boulder problems, we sat back and basked in the sun.

Just as we thought things couldn't get better, a gorgeous blond walked up to us with her photographer, began shooting pictures for some upcoming calendar, taking full advantage of the stunning multicolored rock scenery. Miss June and her associate didn't mind our presence, we surely didn't mind theirs. We existed in harmony for the rest of the afternoon.

Dawn broke and revealed the lightest dusting of snow on the mountains surrounding us. I was surprised, but anything can happen in Vegas. We were set to attempt an 800-foot traditional climb on the west side of the park so we set off as early as possible due to the brief days of winter. Forty-five minutes into the approach, we realized we weren't going to be able to pinpoint the base of the climb with any accuracy. The description in the book was vague and the canyon was too long.

Safety Boy was uncertain and with good reason. We had to be off the wall by 4:30 p.m. or we would experience some seriously cold appendages. Kel was gung-ho and I didn't care. We started up keeping a keen eye on the angle of the sun. There were shadows at the foot of the wall, gaining on us at an alarming rate.

After one long pitch, Kel signaled us to follow. I struggled through bushes, overhangs, cactus. At the top of the pitch, was a superb 30-foot section of perfect sandstone crack. We sat on the belay ledge and contemplated our fate. The odds were against us. It was late, the sun would disappear in no time, and we had a long walk to the car. Above us looked like unclimbable terrain, at least within our ability levels. We decided to bail out.

Once the decision to retreat was made, we felt relieved - even Kel. I took a timer picture of the three of us above the desert - three smiling faces huddled on a rock platform high above the ground with the fading sun sinking over the mountains. On the way down we utilized everything from our last section of tubular webbing, to several small trees as anchors to get down to the desert floor. By the time we landed on earth, the sun had said its good-byes. Cold, tired, and hungry, we set off for the car and the sanctuary.

Life - everybody wants what they can't have. That night two fellow climbers set up tent next to us. They had come from Joshua Tree, another epic climbing destination to the south. Now they were at Red Rocks putting in another leg of their dirt-ball marathon around the country as seen from a climbers point of view - Yosemite, Smith Rock, Squamish, landmarks bigger than San Francisco or Seattle combined - in the eye of the climber. We desperately wanted to head south instead of north and home.

The feeling was in the air. In three short days of being together, our sense of adventure had been sparked. We needed more. It hit Kel the hardest. He began spitting out sentences that contained words like, "Greyhound, hitchhiking, meet you guys in Reno, etc." I wasn't so sure that I would be able to drag him back to Reno with us, and I sort of wanted him to take me in the opposite direction.

Finally we packed the car and took a left onto I-95 North. Kel was off to Colorado, Dave to New York, and I to Oregon. I sat back in my seat and watched the sagebrush roll by. The trip had everything - climbing, camaraderie, a photo shoot, the Luxor beam and a witch temple. We sped to Reno, abandoning our secret lives as climbing bums - for another year.

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