Sometime Nothing Can Be a Real Cool Hand Cool Hand Luke Wall Art

The Old Girl rides again! Red clay, blue skies. The 4Runner at Snow Canyon State Park in Southern Utah.

Alright, so I'm not very good at making dedicated posts on this damned blog affair. Information technology's usually a hurting in the ass, and I'm inherently lazy with this sort of thing. Oh well, here's a long overdue trip report from this spring.

Smith at Snowfall Creek, warmin' up on sandstone, which is a little bit like whiskey: scary shit for a while before y'all acquire to similar information technology.

Without boring the e'er-loving shit out of whoever is unfortunate enough to actually be reading this matter, here'due south the abbreviated version of the cease of my wintertime. Ice season, like all good things in life, had to terminate sometime. Run into ya next year, screaming barfies. Later an unbelievable wintertime of logging over fifty days swinging ice axes, the end of March saw the endmost of the Hyalite road, which meant 1 thing for me: Red Rocks, Nevada.

Zion National Park - Afterward Ben said that this was his fourth effort climbing here, I figured the odds were stacked in our favor for good atmospheric condition (No one gets stormed out 4 times in a row, right?). Wrong. Here comes the snow and the pelting.

Subsequently shedding a few tears while packing away the ice gear for the season (a HUGE cheers to all my friends and climbing partners in the Bozone who made this wintertime climbing season ane that I will retrieve for the balance of my life), it was time to man upwards and pack the truck for three straight weeks of desert Southwest rock climbing madness. I slammed the 4Runner into gear and drove upward and over the Divide to the quaint drinking boondocks of Missoula, MT to pick upwardly fellow dirtbag Ben Smith, who had made the wise decision to say screw it to catching up on shool lab assignments in favor of pulling hard in the desert sunshine.

This might be my favorite pic from the whole trip. This fashion argument turned the climbing world on its head. Or its merely plain creepy. Either fashion - parents, lock up your kids. Smith racking upward for Crabby Appleton (5.9+).

We drove all night in a vehicle that tops out somewhere around 60 mph on the highway, and finally crashed out in the desert scrub just north of St. George, Utah at the Prophesy wall. The plan was to warm up on some sport climbs and so nosotros could go in the sandstone groove before gunning some assistance lines an hr abroad in Zion. The warm up was great, but equally soon equally we got to the Park it started snowing on our asses, in spite of 3 different forecasts maxim nothing but sunshine.

Minutes after my get-go whipper on a cam, a few hundred feet off the deck (Dream of Wild Turkeys, 5.10a). Thank God for those traverse bolts at the finish...

We talked briefly with this bad ass trivial French dude and his hot blonde California girlfriend who had managed to ready the beginning 4 pitches of Moonlight Buttress just before the storm hit (plainly its non plenty for the French to invade our country and pull harder than nosotros practice, they also have to pillage our women). They were going to shiver it out in the common cold weather and permit the wall dry, but we weren't downwardly with snowfall or missing a climbing twenty-four hour period, so we bailed for Vegas.

Smith makin' it wait easy, business organisation as usual in the life of a bad-donkey. No large deal on Dream of Wild Turkeys.

We hitting Black Velvet Canyon in Red Rocks at midnight on the border of some serious current of air. After blazing the truck around a freshly rolled over SUV (which was pretty creepy - smashed out windows, dome light on, with nobody around) that was blocking the road, we poached the B.V. Coulee parking lot for the next three nights. The showtime day nosotros climbed a long line adjacent to Frogland called Bourbon Street (v.eight+) that instantly had me hooked on long multi-pitch rock routes.

Ladies and gentlemen, Brett Mollenhauer and Ben Smith. Men want to exist them, women only want 'em. I call back information technology's the matching grayness t-shirts. The imposing Rainbow Wall tin be seen in the groundwork betwixt them.

The next 24-hour interval was a trip highlight every bit we launched off on Dream of Wild Turkeys (5.ten-, m ft.) that pretty much blew me abroad. This was the nigh sheer wall I've ever been on with pitch after pitch of awesome 5.8 to v.10 climbing. After whipping on a cam for the first time ever, we finished the final pitch as the sun was setting. This usually isn't a big deal, until you realize that you are a couple of bozo's who left their headlamps in the truck. Yep, we were definitely Those Guys.

Me on the first pitch of the really fun Dark Shadows (5.8).

Most half mode down the wall, the concluding of the light was officially gone, and it was dark enough that we couldn't see the rap stations if they were more five to 10 feet in front end of our faces. This essentially meant that the only way down was a slow rappel, trying to pendulum from side to side looking for rap anchors. Imagine a bullheaded guy swinging in infinite on the end of a rope looking for tiny sets of bondage tacked onto a massive clamper of vertical stone, and that'due south nigh what the lower one-half of our descent was like.

Mollenhauer topping out on pitch three of Johnny Vegas (five.7), his first mult-pitch rock climb.

Fortunately for us, we somewhen finished our vertical-Easter-egg-chase-style search for anchors, and managed to hitting the deck at a speed that wasn't last velocity. Unfortunately for us, though, was that it then took nigh two hours for us to find our way out of the canyon in the dark. This included funky hand over mitt rope downwardly-climbing and even getting lost in the cactus scrub out on the flats. Long story brusque, it was 1 seriously kick ass day of desert climbing.

Me pretending I can climb 5.11 at the Panty Wall. What you can't see is the other two dirtbags at the bottom belaying/drinking cans of Olympia. Nosotros got used to nasty stares from other climbers pretty quick, and wouldn't hesitate to punish whatever stuck-upwards attitudes with soft rock hits from the eighty's as loud as the iPod speakers would play them. Climbers beware - don't fuck with dirty Montana bums.

We eventually left Black Velvet, and kept crankin' on sweet, long rock routes. After the first week, Brett Mollenhauer took over Ben Smith'southward spot on Team Dirtbag, and would stop the terminal two weeks of climbing on the trip. Both myself and Brett were essentially new to multi-pitch rock climbing, just simply after Ben left we rapidly institute our rhythm and kept knocking off some bad donkey long stone lines in the 5.vii -5.nine+ range, mixed with some sick sport climbing days in the Calico Hills area.

Mollenhauer on the sharp end, somewhere in the First Pullout area.

Smith killin' it on some tough 5.x/xi sport lines in the First Pullout surface area.

Brett and I took a quick trip upwards to Zion to practice some slot canyons. Nosotros were able to descend the Zion archetype The Subway, but were quickly stormed out of there the next solar day. Before that, though, we were able to climb The Pulpit, which is a gratuitous standing belfry in Zion's main canyon. This was hilarious considering the book nosotros had listed the climb as a 5.9. But after crossing the river and getting to the base of operations, it was looking pretty stout. However, I just chalked this upward to the Park's nasty reputation for terrifying climbing and sandbagged ratings. The start was an overhanging sandstone slab that was so smooth I couldn't fifty-fifty go off of the footing.

Yeah, that's really a U.S. Navy sailor compatible that I stole from the Charlie's Pub lost and establish box in Missoula ( The Pulpit, v.9 A0) . No, I accept no plans to give information technology back.

Feeling like a pussy, I speedily rigged up some slings to utilise equally aid ladders, and promptly began my first assistance climb. I was barely even ten feet off the ground before I immediately understood why aiding is completely terrifying. The bolts that I was hanging my nuts off had to be decades former, rusted all over, and hanging halfway out of the rock, with wierd homemade hangers that looked similar they were designed to lever bolts out of the wall. Slowly, I made my way up the initial overhanging start to the meridian one-half that I hoped was going to be significantly easier. It wasn't.

Mollenhauer modeling our "dry arrange/common cold water" gear when we did the Subway slot coulee hike. Our solution to the mandatory swims through 38 caste h2o involved putting equally much dry vesture as possible in a single small-scale drybag, and then pretending that we weren't really feeling the beginning stages of hypothermia. Yeah, nosotros're river professionals.

Mollenhauer in the classic Subway photograph-spot. Pictures don't do information technology justice.

I quickly realized that I wasn't going anywhere past gratis climbing except quickly downward. So I kept aiding upwardly the fissure, pulling on gear and clipping the occasional rusty bolt. I didn't accept nearly enough gear for the crack I was on, and then I had to keep bumping upwards the just three cams I had that were large enough. The weather was cold and windy, but I was so damned scared that I was sweating like I was at the fucking gym. Gripped and completely stoked I finally flopped onto the top of the tower grinning similar an idiot. Brett prussiked the line, and we lounged out in the evening light drinking a few Natty Lights. Nosotros opened the summit annals to bank check it out, and I started nifty up when I read the opening page: "The Pulpit, 5.9 A0, or five.12 Gratuitous." After that climb, anything that looked hard jokingly became a "Zion 5.9."

Looking back into the Subway. Parallel cracks in the rock even looked like tracks.

On a climbing trip similar this, the routes finish upwardly blending together in a mistiness of long days, tired bones, and limitless stoke. Brett and I lost count of how many times we drove the Red Rocks loop road, only one of my favorite things every day was getting back to the truck, usually in the evening or often later nighttime. Tired, smelly, and completely haggard from a long 24-hour interval of pulling on sandstone, we would crevice a beer and drive the loop road back to the campground. It was ever the perfect ending to what seemed similar countless perfect days.

Got yer tickets... to the Gun Show? Mollenhauer on the first pitch of Lotta Balls (five.viii).

Towards the cease, we were generally so tired every night that nosotros were eating straight out of cans of black beans that nosotros were too exhausted to heat upward (Nosotros decided to adopt the squad name "The Cobweb Bandits"). Muscles ached, and we were starting to lose layers of skin from our fingertips. Not that I was complaining - nosotros were running effectually like Dirtbag Kings, living the dream and feeding the rat.

Mollenhauer crankin' away on the 2d pitch of Lotta Assurance.

All in all, I couldn't have asked more from a showtime trip to Red Rocks. It'south a kick-donkey place, get downwards there if y'all haven't been. If your lucky, you lot might fifty-fifty get to meet a Rock vs. Stick fight (but that's some other story...). Vegas, Baby! Yeehaw!

Only two stars my ass. This is the best climb we did - 1000 anxiety and not a goddamned soul to share information technology with. Mollenhauer pullin' onto the concluding ledge earlier the headwall pitch of Frigid Air Buttress (five.9+).

Holy shit! Why did I bring my pack for the hardest trad crack I've tried and so far? Oh correct, I'm a dumb donkey... Sounds like its fourth dimension to head for the Excalibur and the first shower I had in Three Whole Weeks! Vegas, baby. Woohoo! (Final Pitch, Frigid Air Buttress, 5.9+).

Climbs washed this trip:

-Bourbon Street 710' 5.8+

-Dream of Wild Turkeys 1000' v.10a

-Dark Shadows 340' 5.8

-Crabby Appleton 550' v.ix+

-Johnny Vegas 480' v.vii

-Tunnel Vision 750' 5.seven+

-Lotta Assurance 480' 5.8+

-Black Magic 500' v.8

-The Pulpit (Zion) 1 pitch, 5.9 A0

-Frigid Air Buttress 940' 5.9+

-And a shit-ton of sport climbin'/beer drinkin'.

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Source: https://philwesseler.blogspot.com/

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