FOUR

The days of early rising were truly over. Since our egos had taken such a beating on the previous day, we agreed to head for some low grade single pitch climbs in Pine Creek Canyon's Brass Wall. Neither Tom nor Dave are morning people, and I was privy to a queer display of cursing and spitting when my groggy brother cracked and chipped his rear molar on a piece of that hideous, gummy licorice that us Dutch boys like so much. For the first time, it was truly sunny. In taking off my shirt, standing only in black spandex and climbing shoes, I fulfilled a part of my expectations for this southern locale. Heavy Spider Karma was as easy as one could expect, and it gave great photo opportunities. I have discovered now that if I want to take good pictures, I must choose to focus only on this. Both climbing and snapping will only lead to average pictures. Standing in the heat of the sun, I saw two hikers far below, sunning on a rocky outcrop. Dave had the pot radar on, and sensed that the hikers were hosting a mellow (why else would they be kicking back on a rock in the desert?). We headed down the slope for shade and the chance to score. As it turns out, the shade was a pleasant relief. With much time left in our day, we ventured out to Dark Shadows, a four pitch wunderoute. Pitch 1 was a great runout easy slab. Pitch 2 and 3 were fantastic corners, with hardness and solution holds in just the right places. Pitch 4 was a good finish, with a left leaning off-width crux. We rapped off without incident, except that Dave left some brand-spanking new cord at a station. Easy come, easy go. In my mind, this was the best route we did at Red Rocks. Our spirits were high, and the fact that we hadn't showered in four days hadn't quite festered into the fore of our thoughts. In fact, FOOD was the issue. VD had taken its toll, and we were all ready for some real food. In what turned out to be our only traffic incident, I was stopped by an anxious Park Ranger while leaving 13 Mile Campground. Allegedly, I was traveling "considerably above the speed limit," which was a posted 15 mph. After a warning and many apologies, I continued with the Ranger in tow. For reasons of both entertainment and avoidance of conflict, I followed the law to the letter, crawling along the long gentle road. Brakes were applied quite often to keep our mighty steed from bucking the law. The speed bumps presented a considerable challenge. My position on this contentious issue of speeding, or laws in general would be this: if you really expect people to pay attention to your law, make it something that is instinctual, sensible, and not too hard to follow. It is truly ridiculous to travel along a straightish desert road for miles at a jogging pace. The days of covered wagons are gone, and there is good reason for this: WE'D ALL BE DEAD BEFORE WE GOT THERE. The buffets in Las Vegas are of considerable repute, and we were determined to take advantage of the legendary "free buffets" that are tucked at the rear of casinos. The trick, as the legend goes, is to try to get to the food without being sucked into gambling. This, of course, is just not true. The buffets range in price (and quality!) from $8-$25, averaging at $14, and are quite easy to get to without gaming at all. Although the city has more free parking than all other cities in the world combined, we spent a considerable portion of time searching for parking. Eventually, as fuses ran short, we found the entrance to New York New York parking. MGM, just across a causeway, had a good buffet and we somehow made it through the line without passing out. The selection made me giddy, and we all loaded up a couple of times. I found, during our trips to different buffets in Vegas, that I am not easily satisfied when it comes to dessert. Eclairs and fortune cookies. That's where I stop. Back at camp, us boys knocked off early.

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FIVE

I was amazed at Dave's enthusiasm by this point. As a rule, Dave can handle vacations---camping in particular—in only the smallest of doses without a considerable degradation of spirit. Here, after two nights in a sleeping bag and tent, he was amusedly tossing around his packed bag and generally showing signs of content, until he sprained his thumb. Despite his pain, we continued with our plans to climb Tunnel Vision. The approach was par for the course, ringing in at around twice the allotted time. Dave and I discussed the issue of our guidebook author's stupid approach times: That this man can get to the base of the climbs in his recorded time is not really the deal. He's writing a guidebook, for crying out loud, meant to guide people through the area. He should acknowledge that most people are not triathlon athletes. If giving good guidance is not his interest, then it follows that he should not be busy writing guidebooks. For the first time, the guidebook was also somewhat confusing in it's route description. We ended up spending the first three pitches of our climb on some neighboring route that was of good quality and, luckily, an easy traverse away from our true route. We angled back into our intended path in time to experience the pitch that gives the climb it's name. From a gargantuan ledge, I walked deep into a chimney and headed 50 ft upwards into what was a tunnel, leading from one side of a mammoth pillar to the other. Unfortunately, the rest of the route was scant with detail or direction. Leading without any sort of goals or indication as to one's placement gives me an unsettled feeling. We did find a doubtful summit eventually, and worked our way down a complicated gully. At the very least, it was an interesting experience. At this time, we were quite ready for both a bath, and a break from climbing. Based on previous adventures, Dave and I knew of a nearby hot spring-fed bathhouse in Tecopa, CA. Along the way we stopped in Blue Diamond, NV, to shore up our supplies. The sheriff's office shares space with the convenience store, and we were just in time to hear the men 'o the law trading "black jokes". We took our Oscar Meyer wieners, and ran. Within two hours, we arrived in the sleepy town of Tecopa. My first experience with this free hot spring came in July 1997. I recalled a lonely adobe-style building with two painted cement pools of different temperatures. Outside was an expansive gravel parking lot, a BLM office, and several clumps of cottonwood trees around which one could camp. Naked old men, from both Nevada and California, hung out in small numbers, having conversations that one could expect to have in an out-of-the-way bathhouse. Nothing, then, could prepare me for the full-blown RV park that enshrouded the tiny building when we arrived. With an average of three feet between each rig, the lot was alive with various displays of christmas lights and festivity. Tom was quick to point out the wrongness of faux icicles in the desert. Quicker than you could say you smell like a buffalo we were naked and soaking in the healing springs of Tecopa. In one of those inevitable bathhouse conversations, that occur between naked people who don't know one another, we learned that winter is the high season for visitors, most of whom stay for a month before heading further south. In a sadder moment, it was revealed that the hot spring is likely in the last year of its liberty. Soon the BLM, or worse yet a private group, will lease the springs for profit. In any case, it was good to soak in those free, healing waters, and we all slept fitfully.

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SIX

Perhaps it was the trace of arsenic found in Tecopa's waters, but our lids were heavy on this morning. The time was ripe for breakfast in a diner, and we drove into nearby Shoshone to find The Crowbar Cafe. The timing and nature of this place makes it one of my fondest memories. It was a 50's style diner with a low wrap-around counter and stools. Postcards and other such sundries covered the walls, and each seat had a place setting. The joint was run by an older dutch lady who was perfect in a way that made her just like a familiar old auntie within moments. We were seated, and every person who arrived after us gave a customary hello to our new auntie. During a gust-busting meal of two eggs, ham, pancakes, and horrid coffee, I had the pleasure of conversing with a self proclaimed "desert rat." His highly entertaining tales ran from uranium mining in the 50's to the current state of professional basketball in Toronto. Having decided to make this a day of rest, we made a meandering route towards the infamous Hoover Dam. Our circuitous path was further complicated by a billboard that boasted of a Museum of Brothel Art. We drove the extra distance only to find Mabel's Whorehouse, and a largish, mostly empty room sporting a bar in one corner and an extensive collection of news clippings on the walls. A tall glass case by a fireplace had the corporal remains of what was allegedly an early whore from Mabel's. Two helpful cougars behind the bar told us that she was "fucked to death" and buried in the walls of the very building we were in. Somewhere along the way, our skeleton seemed to have lost her hands, since the arms ended shortly after the wrist. We thanked the helpful ladies and ran. Continuing towards HD, we passed along one of the notorious military testing areas that lie in the hills north of Las Vegas. We only saw a squadron of jet fighters flying in formation at the time, but on subsequent days in the canyon we could hear the almost sub-sonic thud of missiles and mortars pounding the desert floor. Having lived a life that has been untouched, in any direct way, by war, it is hard to imagine the routine of people who spend their time watching and waiting. Hoover Dam. I'm at a bit of a loss as to what approach to take here. While it was an interesting experience, I believe it was drowned in it's own reputation. I've known about the Hoover Dam since what was likely a grade school lesson concerning rivers. Maybe it was the Guinness Book of World Records. Anyhow, as we came around the last curve, and the dam came into sight I was overwhelmed by the size of it. "Shouldn't it be bigger?" Convinced that it was an optical illusion, we parked to go have a closer look. In the parking garage, a recorded message blared like a klaxon, repeating on ten second intervals: Welcome to Hoover Dam. We receive over a ka-zillion visitors every day. For security reasons we request that you leave your backpacks, camera cases, fanny packs, and similar items in your car. I was astounded that they itemized fanny packs. Has America come so far that fanny pack is a regular noun? We joined a tour that went through the dam and all its respective parts. I was surprised to learn that Hoover Dam was built primarily for regulation of water distribution, not the generation of power. The tour itself had that rushed character that makes you feel clumsy and a bit slow for not getting it right away. At every stop, we had just over a minute to look at some hella-huge piece of equipment in a hella-huge room while our tour operator barraged us with facts. Since I know a thing or two about hydro-electric generation of power, I couldn't figure out why the guy had so much to say. My tour would have been much more laid back. "See that pipe? Well, here's where the water comes in." Next room. "Remember the water folks? See those big drums? Well that's what the water turns. And that's where we get electricity from." When the tour ended, we finally headed out to stand on the wall of the dam itself. It only takes about 90 seconds to traverse the dam. Tom headed for the men's room so that he could claim to have dumped on the Hoover Dam. While we waited, I took a few pictures for potential use in a science classroom. Then we left; satisfied, but rather non-plussed. Upon returning to 13 Mile Campground, our hunger became too much to bear. We stopped at McDonald's to "fuel up". I tried to stomach my crispychickendeluxe, all the while watching a young girl run barefoot between the bathroom and the Playland™. At first I wondered if her parents knew, then I wondered if her parents cared. Finally, I deduced that she must in fact live in Playland™. As I drifted off later, in the comfort of camp, I dreamt about sleeping in a bed of vomit-covered plastic balls.

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