"Memorial Day "
I feel like Jack Kerouac - well, Jack minus the booze, drugs, sex, and jazz. But definitely one with the road. I am officially returned from a three-day rock climbing road trip to Northern Arizona.
I left SoCal Friday afternoon at 3 PM to beat the traffic to the I-10. All in all, it wasn't so bad since I had a FastTrack transponder. I shaved an hour off the trip by avoiding the freeway cholesterol clogging the 91 near Yorba Linda. I made it into Phoenix at 9 PM and met with my old college neighbor Scott Hockings. We spent the night reminiscing about our glory days of practical jokes, alcohol, past roommates, past women, past jobs, and a long dead and previously forgotten pet rat they nicknamed "Tantor" due to the size of his rather prominent rodent genitalia.
Saturday I drove up to my old college town of Flagstaff and tooled around the famous downtown district. Downtown Flag is one of my favorite places. Old sandstone buildings, narrow streets, rumbling trains, all in the shadow of Mt. Elden. I love Flagstaff. It's a truly western mountain town filled with travelers, students, artists, pop philosophers, new age gurus and ski bums. The streets are teeming with young and attractive, sandal-sporting, crunchy locals and not so locals. The women are flirtatious, idealistic and pretty and, unlike SoCal, always return a smile.
And there are lots and lots of rocks.
I tried unsuccessfully to connect with Matt, a climbing partner of my friend Todd Neville, and eventually drove out alone to Le Petit Verdon, a popular sport climbing crag in a limestone canyon only five miles from Flagstaff. Le Petit Verdon is where I did my third outdoor climb on a steep, limestone arete with a prominent roof called Mister Slate. The roof shut me down the first time two and a half years ago. I promptly flashed the route after hooking up with a Phoenix climber, Alex and his friends. They were packing up to leave for the day, so I wandered over to the only two other climbers in the canyon.
Paul was from Texas, and has been on a non-stop climbing road trip for three years. Athina, another traveler, was from Ohio and has been climbing with Paul for several months. Together we sent Micro Wave, an easy 11a, Body Language, an easy 5.12, and Shock Treatment, a longer but also easy 5.11. The ratings at The Pit (as the area is commonly called) are a little –OK– a lot soft, but the climbs are fun, deeply pocketed and clean.
We left at sunset, Paul off to some new adventure (or at least to find work to finance his next adventure), and Athina off to Spain. Me, I was off to the old Hotel DuBeau, a hostel in downtown Flag and my residence for weekend. I met all the usual interesting, international hostel-hoppers, and spent the next few hours at the Monte Vista, a famous Flagstaff hotel and lounge.
I finally did reach Matt. We agreed to meet at the local Harkins Theatre to see the new Star Wars movie and to finalize our climbing plans for Sunday. Exhausted from the rock and road, I fought with consciousness throughout the film, and retreated to a very welcome bed at the DuBeau to fall asleep to the nostalgic sounds of the regular passing trains.
Sunday Matt met me at Macy's European Coffee House, the Flagstaff vegetarian cafe and caffeine fix of choice. There I met Victor and (a different) Todd, two of Matt's climbing partners. We all piled into Matt's pickup and drove forty minutes west to Paradise Forks, a stunning, aspen filled, basalt canyon, deep in the northern Arizona ponderosa pine forest. A variety of green pools fill various corners of the canyon, and the routes, although relatively short can be breathtaking - in more ways than one.
Paradise Forks climbing is on thin to ultra-thin, symmetrical splitter cracks that line the walls of this red basalt canyon. The rock is smooth and hard, friction is impossible, and the ratings stiff and bold.
We started on the three Yogi's - three cracks rated 5.8. All of which made me earn the on sights. I quickly learned that I was going to get worked today, and my protection placements had better be sound.
I moved over to climb the Grievous Angel, a challenging 5.9, and the amazing Waterslip Down, a slightly overhung, 5.10 finger crack that begins five feet to the left of a ledge - and 60 feet off the ground. Waterslip worked me, and made me remember from the very first step off that ledge, that I was hanging my life off my finger tips, a few tiny cams, and whatever courage I could scavenge after stepping over the abyss.
Finally we jumped on a long 5.9, the Mayflower crack, in a different fork of the canyon and one of the finest crack climbs I have ever done.
But a note to all sporty climbers: A day in the forks, like a day at Josh, is a day in a different era of climbing. Ratings are earned, and boldness rewarded. Protection is thin. Bring your rack of Aliens and RPs, some stiff, narrow shoes, and stomach full of courage.
Sunday night we dined in San Felipe Cantina for tacos and Patron tequila - and some damn fine cover tunes from Limbs Akimbo.
Sunday night I finally connected with Todd Neville. As it turned out, he had hurt his back helping his parents move, so our plan for a Sedona spire summit was out of the question - subsequently opening my Monday to any number of outdoor possibilities. The Grand Canyon, Mt Humphreys, Jacks Canyon, Oak Creek Overlook, etc. etc. etc. (God I love Flagstaff).
I decided that Mt. Humphreys was in order since I had never hiked to it's summit before. Humphreys is the tallest peak in Arizona. At 12,600 feet it looms over northern Arizona. From its tundra-covered summit you can see most of the state - literally. You can see the walls of the Grand Canyon, the red rocks of Sedona, the eastern desert, and the Mogollon Rim. It's a 4.5 mile hike to the top - easy hiking at a moderate grade. I was at the peak in just about 3 hours and back at the car by 2:40.
One more trip to downtown for a dinner of a portobello mushroom sandwich and greek salad, a few more smiles from local girls, and Jimbo was back on the road. I was west bound on I-40 following the line of the original Route 66 - only at 90 MPH.
This was not necessarily the best choice on Memorial Day weekend. From Barstow to Victorville I found myself buried in a caravan of gear laden SUV's, and pick-up trucks, personal watercraft and ski boats in tow, all trying to get out of second gear.
With a fresh 1100 miles on the car and another eight hours of asphalt, I was home at around midnight. I washed off the reminders of Mt. Humphreys, left the gear in the car and fell into bed.
I woke up to a 5:30 AM phone call from my mother asking her only outdoorsy child about chigger bites. I doubt Kerouac ever had that problem. I guess my vacation was over.
