Storm King North Face Direct

“Dig deep!” I yelled to Todd as the first snow flurries began to fall. We were a hundred feet from the summit of Storm King (13,752′) … the peak was starting to live up to its name, and it was a long way down.

Storm King, North Face in the shade.

The day started at 02:20, ten minutes before our alarm. “You awake?” Todd whispered. I grunted a regretful affirmative. I don’t think I’ve ever slept until my alarm on the morning of a big route.

The day before, we had hiked in thirteen miles from the Vallecito trailhead. It was as casual an approach as you can get for that length. I had the misfortune of carrying a … wait for it … ninety-meter rope since I had just downsized my nylon quiver to move into a van. (It weighed less than my other cords!).

Laden down with the Beal Joker 9.1 90m, ultimate alpine pitchslayer

Along the way, we ran into the remains of the last person who attempted the North Face.

We were just discussing what would constitute a factor three fall. Apparently, this.

On a cheerier note, we ate our fill of wild raspberries and forded a refreshing, knee-deep creek. Smaller creeks and mud were abundant, so my shoes stayed wet for all thirteen miles (in warm temps, I prefer this. On the CT, I went out of my way to stomp in every puddle).

No thanks, I only eat USDA organic.
$#@!, etc.

We set up camp near a waterfall about a mile and half from the start of the route. There’s closer camping to be had, but our throbbing feet vetoed any attempts to push on farther. It’s a great spot, but be advised that the air stays wet even a hundred yards from the falls, so wet shoes don’t dry overnight.

About to set up camp.

While Todd set up camp, I finished the approach and stashed our cord and gear (cams with doubles of orange and red Metolius, nuts and a couple hexes). Spirits were high as we devoured some vague approximation of mesquite chicken-broccoli-rice, set our alarms for “the ass-crack of dawn” and hit the sack well before sunset.

Objects in lens may be further than they appear.

The next morning we mechanically shoveled oatmeal and dried fruit into our gas tanks, strapped on two liters of Tailwind-infused water and stumbled out of camp at 03:00.

Thanks to the reflective markings on the new BD Ultralights, we found our gear cache without too many routefinding woes. We embarked on the first three hundred feet up an “escalator” scree slope — one step forward, two steps back. The start of the climbing was guarded by some bullet-hard snow, into which we chopped steps with a rock.

After a hundred feet of fourth-class, we roped up and began the first pitch just as dawn broke. We enjoyed heartwarming morning sun for most of the route.

2 out of 2 alpinists described this as “not ugly.”

A couple 5.7 moves on wet rock made me glad indeed to have the rope along (maybe not all ninety freaking meters of it). By and large, we enjoyed bomber stone.

Questing upward, only 1400 feet to go.

At the start of the second pitch, I briefly eyed a splitter 5.9ish handcrack, but instead cut hard left and ran out about 150′ of 5.2 traversing or so. The route may have gone up a right-facing dihedral at this point, but it looked harder than 5.7, so whatever. We’re alpinists, not bloody rock climbers.

Todd follows P2.

The third pitch had some real-deal sustained 5.7 (if there is such a thing) that included stemming around a roof. It ended at a commodious ledge (which may or may not have become commode-odious thanks to the generous contribution of an anonymous alpinist).

I’ll give you two guesses, and the first doesn’t count.

P4 had a fun, unprotected move right off the ledge that made me consider requesting an alpine shoulder stand, but Ethics Prevailed. After that, it wandered up 170’ish to a huge ledge littered with talus. (There may have been an extra pitch somewhere in there … it’s all good, clean fun). At that point, the official route might involve moving the belay two hundred feet to the right to a gully of sorts. That sounded like too much work, so we went straight up the headwall, which looked like steep 5.8.

A hundred feet and all of my cams later, I revised my initial assessment. In approach shoes, the moves felt like 5.10c, so let’s be fair and give it a 5.9+. I tiptoed onto a Honnold ledge and belayed off a #8 nut and upward-pull-only #0.75. As soon as Todd cleaned my blue Metolius, I sent him a loop and bolstered the anchor, much to everyone’s relief.

The next pitch had some legit 5.10 moves right off the belay, and I plugged cams above my head like it was going out of style. A hundred feet later, I crawled into a gearless chimney and belayed Todd up on a fat-free meat anchor.

Somewhere earlier on “the” route.

On pitch 9 (?) the Beal Joker spread its wings and facilitated 280 feet of fast 5.6. Meanwhile, the clouds darkened, as did my disposition, and this allegedly “flower-strewn route” turned into a looming graveyard. A hundred feet from the ridge, I slammed in three little nuts and started hauling in rope.

The last pitch would’ve been much more fun had it not been framed by ugly cumulusses. Cumuli? Cumulatively, it was bad and we were hauling more ass than a midwestern homeschool family at a 4H festival.

We busted it to the summit as snowflakes began to fall. This was not the time to get the soundtrack to Frozen stuck in my head, but there ya go.
After a few quizzical moments of routefinding, found the correct ridge and descended with all deliberate speed.

These photos belie the severity of the impending weather. Fortunately, it was just snow.

As soon as we dropped a hundred feet from the summit, the snow blew past and the sun re-bestowed its benevolent gaze upon us. We greeted it with great fanfare and a rousing rendition of the Monarchy’s classic hit, “Sun.”

The descent was arduous but well-cairned, following the established Class 3 southwest ridge route to an everlasting boulderfield that dropped us to Lake Silex. From there, we glissaded a couple hundred feet, and then pounded more talus back to the meadows.

Express lane, vastly preferable to fluid talus.

Camp to camp: fourteen hours. The day before, we had entertained notions of knocking out a couple hours of hiking after completing the route to get a jump start on the trip home. This we dismissed as puerile foolishness, and collapsed victorious at our waterfall campsite. Despite the sudden onset of gravity, we managed to refill water and cook dinner (the same mesquite-jazz-odyssey, but this time infinitely tastier) before falling asleep at 7:30pm.

The next day, we headed home with light packs and even lighter hearts. While hiking, we talked about everything from theology to music theory to nonprofit startups — Todd is without a doubt the most well-rounded person I’ve ever tied in with — but true to form, whenever we passed another group of hikers we deftly changes the topic to hellacious runouts and bicep-curdling rope drag and cheek-clenching exposure. However, nobody took the bait or even asked about the industrial-length spool of pink rope that was playing accordion with our vertebrae.

Aww yuss.

In conclusion, this trip was a series of answered prayers … 1) we got up and down the mountain in a timely fashion, 2) there was no rain and 3) Todd saw his very first bull moose on the hike out, whose surprisingly amicable behavior sealed the deal that this was a Very Good Trip.

Fun Factor Summary:

Type 1 Fun (immediate gratification, enjoyable in the moment): the views on the approach, pitches 1-4, breakfast burritos

Type 2 Fun (not entirely enjoyable but easily whitewashed in retrospect by selective memory to be loads-o-fun): fording Vallecito, climbing the headwall

Type 3 Fun (not fun at all): the escalator scree, blundering about in the snow, the talus walkoff from Lake Silex down, putting on still-wet socks in the morning. 

Tabeguache Trail Thru-Hike-a-Bike

Or, “How I Learned to Hate Adobe Mud in 128 Miles”

Did you miss me?

3:30 AM. My alarm won’t go off for an hour, but I’m wide awake. Christmas morning syndrome. Soon I will be pedaling the Tabeguache Trail from Grand Junction to Montrose. My bike, Beatrice, leans against the window, heavy-laden with gear but light of heart.

Ahead of us: 142 miles of dirt and 14,800′ elevation gain across the Uncompaghre Plateau.

Jeremy and I hit the road at 05:00 and pedal a few miles on pavement. On my loaded singlespeed (30:20), I was cutting switchbacks in the road, but the climb went smoothly. (He lives on the backside of Lunch Loops so we skipped the proper start).

At sunrise, we hit Bangs Canyon and got first tracks on some primo downhill slickrock.

Little did we know this would be the last ride-a-bike for hours.

Eventually we bottomed out and started climbing. Wet conditions from the previous night’s surprise rain quickly turned the trail into adobe mud. We pushed on (literally), confident that the rising sun would dry the trails.

Jeremy loves hike-a-bike. No, seriously.

Time slowed and the world adopted a claymation filter. Thick, sticky mud clogged everything: fork, chain, (Jeremy’s) derailleur, our brains. We resorted to spanking the clodden tires with sticks every hundred feet… Try it sometime, it’s really therapeutic.

Whack-a-bike. We each carried our favorite sticks for frequent demudding.

Finally we reached the top of whatever and things dried out. We enjoyed a blazing doubletrack descent down to Whitewater. I punctured a sidewall but the sealant clogged it up quite nicely.

Best water on the Tab! Cattle trough.

We joked about carrying our bikes across 141 so they didn’t touch pavement but then decided we would just “let on” that we did (see also, Huckleberry Finn).

Next up was a long dirt road climb. 30:20 was sufficient, but I would’ve downshifted given the opportunity. We took a quick nap in the shade and then pressed on to meet Jeremy’s wife at the Dominguez-Escalante. She brought blessedly pure water, a new tire for me and cold zucchini egg casserole (baller!)

At this point, Jeremy headed home. Had I known what lay ahead, I may have joined him. Instead, I pointed my knobbies westward, cranked the Darkness, and rode off to my doom like a lamb to the slaughter.

Outrunning a thunderstorm felt pretty good… Mostly due to changing wind patterns and not my blazing speed.

The riding was good until Cactus Park, a veritable sand trap. I felt pretty goofy pushing flat terrain, but at least it was pretty.

They’ll soon be back, and in greater numbers…

Eventually I dropped down to Dominguez Campground, ate garlic mashed potatoes and summer sausage, and slept under a picnic table that I stretched my tarp over. A good thing too, because it rained a half inch.

Day one complete. Fifty miles in fourteen hours… As Jeremy said, a ten-year old Kenyan in homemade sandals could’ve outrun us. 

The next morning, after a dry night albeit cramped night, I scarfed down some oatmeal and rolled out at 06:00, ready to make up for lost time and pedal myself silly.

Duel with gravity: wheelbarrows at dawn.

Perhaps “roll out” is a bit optimistic of a verb. I pushed up the initial hill, then ran into showstopper clay mud. Unlike the mud outside GJ, this stuff was unwhackable. I eventually removed my front wheel, clipped it to my pack, and dragged my bike uphill for decades.

Some good came out of the experience. I discovered three new hike-a-bike techniques:
– “The Manual.” Remove front wheel, pull bike on a never-ending wheelie.
– “The CBL.” Remove front wheel, flip bike 180, push backwards from the handlebars. Experience backing a trailer is handy.
– “The Drag Queen.” Flip bike onto side, nonfunctional-drivetrain-up, and drag on sidewalls.

Hours later, I encountered a rancher in a truck. The driver assured me that it would dry out soon. It did… an hour of pushing later, it did. Relativity of travel time aside, it was a beautiful sight.

Riding at last.

At long last, I hit Divide Road. It took me six and a half hours to travel fifteen miles. During this time, I decided to forgo the fun(?) parts of the Tab and just ride gravel back to Montrose. I also decided “screw ethics” and accepted cold, pure water from an ATV rider. Oh, and a five-mile ride in a Polaris to expedite the Divide segment. Thank God for rednecks.

Divide Road – the long, green, gravel-strewn tunnel.

The rest of the day was a beautiful blur. Lots of pedaling, some pushing, handfuls of peanut M&M’s and dried papaya. Midday nap, repeat.

Overlooking the La Sals

I eventually hit a sign marking 39 miles to Montrose. I was low on water and getting bored with my snacks, never a good proposition for a hypoglycemic. It was then that I had a spiritual experience.

At Columbine Campground, I encountered two angels (and their mom and grandma). They gave me ice-cold water and a Holsum turkey+Swiss sandwich with sour cream and onion Pringles. If you guys are reading, thank you again for reviving me.

Trail magic.

Many miles later, I crested Divide Road and saw Montrose on the horizon. All downhill from here, baby. I blasted down the dirt at 30mph, dropping a couple thousand feet of elevation in the blink of an eye.

One of my climbing club kids (now a blessedly licensed driver) picked me up just outside of town and promptly escorted me to the Horsefly for a Bavarian bacon beer cheeseburger on a pretzel bun.

I fell asleep that night with visions of the Colorado Trail flitting through my mind. No adobe mud there. Maybe it’s time to go big *and* go home…

Colorado Trail

Afterword: As I ride the bus from Montrose to GJ to pick up my car, I recall that these experiences were almost exclusively Type 1 Fun, even the vicious, viscous mud. I had a great time in God’s own backcountry. Singlespeed was a winner; rigid would be even better. Water sources would be doable provided that you’re not stuck averaging 3mph for 12 out of 26 travel hours. I skipped what is supposedly the hardest section (the Roubideau, 21 miles of steep jeep trail through 15 major drainages) but it’ll still be when I come back for the Grand Loop.

Continue reading “Tabeguache Trail Thru-Hike-a-Bike”


It was my first day at Outdoor Retailer 2017 in Salt Lake, my first time at the show. It’s a big deal: over 20,000 people cram into an expo center that feels larger than Durango city limits. People literally shove products into your hands. And the talking … I haven’t lost my voice like that since being the vocalist of a metalcore band.

One of the products that immediately caught my eye was Rocktape Kinesiology Tape, a stretchy cloth tape intended for therapeutic purposes. Of course, I saw it an thought “tape gloves!” The guys hooked me up with a roll and I immediately made a tape glove for my right hand and wore it the rest of the day. This prompted some great conversations (including their competitors, who were puzzled by what kind of injury would require that tape technique).

Rocktape on LCC granite

Rocktape claims that it “microscopically lifts the skin away from the muscles and fascia, which decompresses the area and promotes blood flow.” Perhaps this would reduce the pump factor while climbing, but what I was most interested in was the durability of the tape due to its elasticity. Since stretchy girlpants always last me longer in offwidths than Carharrts, I figured the stretch factor might create a longer-lasting, slimmer tape glove.

This was definitely going to be an off-label application of the product. Talking to the reps at the Rocktape booth, none of them knew what taping up for crack climbing entailed. I showed them this photo and they immediately got it.

Re-used Eurotape on Russian Arete

The most promising elements of Rocktape for climbing were these:

  • Durability
  • Stickiness.
  • Slim fit for thin-hands jamming.
  • Comfort over long days. RT claims that you can wear it for up to five days, which could be nice for bivying on Astrodog this fall.After the show, Alex and I busted out to Little Cottonwood Canyon for some introvert recharging. We got rained out after two pitches of handjams, but my initial observations were mostly positive:
  • Durability remains to be seen over the next few days. The finger-notching that I use to secure normal strips of tape above my knuckles didn’t hold up well, so I’ll need to use a different method.
  • Rocktape is just as sticky as Eurotape on the skin contact, and it has a nice textured surface on the rock side.
  • The slim fit is a huge plus. Rocktape is slightly thinner than J&J or Eurotape. I used my normal glove method (notched strips down the index, middle and pinky, no thumb loop, wrist strap and a palm strap to prevent rolling).
  • The elasticity of the tape makes it quite comfortable. I wore it for twelve hours straight and hardly noticed it throughout the day.I’ll update as the week progresses, but for now, Rocktape looks quite promising for crack climbing use, especially for thin-hands jamming.
Alex the Tapeless Hardman likes his gobies fresh and juicy

Tailwind Nutrition Endurance Fuel

“Hydrate or die!” Camelbak admonished years ago. Curiously enough, rates of hyponatremia in endurance athletes skyrocketed in response. In their zeal for staying hydrated, runners and bikers were becoming as waterlogged as Edward Abbey’s description of Utah cowboys trying to get drunk on 3.2% beer.

As competitors waddled across the finish line — or collapsed midway from salt deficiency — wiser heads prevailed and realized that regarding hydration, quality was just as important as quantity. Replenishing the electrolytes that we sweat away is vital for preventing cramps and maintaining peak output for all-day activity.

Chuggin’ Tailwind like it’s whiskey on The Cruise.

I hate carrying lots of water on a multipitch route. Water weighs 2.2 pounds per liter, and I begrudge it every ounce. On a long route like Scenic Cruise in perfect temps, I barely get by with two liters. On top of that, I need to bring snacks laden with sugar and salt to forestall the dreaded forearm cramps. (There’s nothing worse than having your thumb lock in the crimping position and having to pry it open with your other hand).

I’ve tried many different electrolyte powders, with mixed results. Powerade and Gatorade make my stomach hurt after four hours. Cycling-specific products like HEED and Accelerade left a strange taste in my mouth. Coconut water was effective but expensive. For a while I home-brewed, mixing Kool-Aid or lemonade packets with potassium salt and sugar, or just adding salt and sugar to plain water. None of my recipes were tasty enough to drink all day.

Tailwind tastes even better above treeline.

Then one day, I stumbled across Tailwind in the local gear shop. They’re a local Durango company, so I bought a Mandarin Orange individual packet and gave it a try on a hot day climbing Comic Relief in the Black. I was immediately impressed with the subtle flavor, and it kept me going pretty well, even through the hot, disheartening exit slab pitches that I’ve done far too many times.

Since then, I’ve become a huge fan of Tailwind and use it exclusively for multipitch, backpacking, desert cragging and trail running. Here’s what I like most about it:

– Tastes good. I like all the non-caffeinated flavors, especially berry.
– Doesn’t mess with my gut, even during high-exertion trailrunning.
– Provides 100 calories per scoop. I usually load up three scoops per liter. Lately I’ve found that the caloric benefit of Tailwind wholly sufficient — I only bring snacks for “mental pro.” For what it’s worth, I’m hypoglycemic too, so nutrition is a safety concern for me.
– Good calorie to ounce ratio, especially considering you can reduce other snacks.
– At $0.70 per serving, it’s not prohibitively expensive.
– Supports the 81301 crew.

Desert dayz.

Most recently, I used Tailwind on Atlantis, a south-facing 1300′ 5.11- with some legitimate runouts. Due to scheduling constraints, we had to do climb it in early June with a high of 85 — big mistake. I drank two liters of Tailwind, without which I certainly would’ve found myself cramping or puking. I felt strong the entire day and onsighted my crux pitches. I highly recommend this product for any all-day endurance athletes, especially multipitch climbers.

(Disclaimer: I pay full retail for Tailwind and it’s worth every penny).

CNM: Kissing Couple Tower

Of all the desert towers Layton Kor put up, there’s only one that he ever repeated.

Long Dong Wall (get your mind out of the gutter; it’s a type of piton)

Between that fact and the name of the route, Jeremy and I knew we had to try it. Plus, the Colorado National Monument was in our backyard.

Long Dong Wall on Kissing Couple Tower starts with a steep, sandy finger crack with just enough footholds to keep the difficulty manageable. The pitch ends with a slabby traverse under a bolt that may have been .11a back when the edges were crisp, but nowadays is a bit harder. We gladly french-freed our way past the bolt to a belay alcove.

The second pitch features a stellar chimney whose width varies by how deeply you burrow inside. If it had gear, we didn’t notice: it’s too secure to fall out of.

Cruiser squeeze on P2

A third-class romp takes you to the base of the next pitch, a wide-hands and offwidth splitter. After some jamming, you encounter the coolest feature on the route: a knee-and-back chimney that is open on both sides. Killer exposure and no gear for thirty feet. This pitch ends in the “belfry,” an incredible viewpoint from within the heart of the tower.

Exposed chimney moves on P4. You can’t tell from this photo, but the chimney is open on climber’s right as well.

The fourth pitch requires some full-body stemming to reach a fixed pin. The first time I climbed the route, I couldn’t figure it out and had to stand on Jeremy’s shoulders to reach the holds. The second time,
I got it, but it’s a bit hairy and insecure with both feet on the wall behind you, and both hands in front.

The Belfry, getting psyched to spread-eagle it.

The pitch eases off after this, but then presents you with one last challenge: you must squeeze through a submarine-hatch of a hole. I’m 5’10 and 140 pounds, and it was doable, but I had to take off my helmet and drag all my gear on a sling. I have no idea how the giant Layton Kor managed to squeeze through there. Heck, he probably punched out the hole in the first place with his #4-Camalot-sized hands.

The hole.

The spacious summit affords great views of the rest of the Colorado National Monument, including the ultra-classic history lesson known as Otto’s Route. John Otto aided and fraided his way up the tower in 1912 in hobnail boots, drilling pipe holes and chopping steps — long before “ethics” were invented. The route now features an abundance of tricam placements and sloping feet with an old-school 5.8 roof pull that guards the summit.

Otto’s Route enshrouded by fog

The Colorado National Monument is a unique haven of excellent desert towers, all too often bypassed by Front Rangers hauling ass down I-70 to get to Moab.

Actually, it’s all choss. Keep driving.

The Guardian of the Monument says “Go climb Kor-Ingalls.”





Canyonlands: Standing Rock

“We climb it not because it’s there, but because it won’t be there much longer.”

-The Layton Kor

There are three definitions of “desert tower.” The first is dimensional: a tower is taller than it is wide. The second pertains to accessibility: the only way up a tower is to climb it. There is no walking up the backside of Castleton to set up a toprope.

The third and most important, however, is intrinsic. A desert tower looks like a desert tower. You know one when you see it.

Monument Basin

Standing Rock is a desert tower.

It’s 350’ tall, 50’ wide and has comparable Rock quality to “rye crisps sandwiched in kittylitter.” In my first attempt, I made it a hundred feet … past the car before the heavens unleashed and it started pouring, saturating the already-weak sandstone and rendering it unsafe to climb for two days.

While we were there, Josh and I figured we’d scope out the approach. Instead of a rattly day’s drive on the White Rim 4×4, we were looking for a “government trail” 4th-class scramble down the improbably steep Grandview Point Overlook.

Two hours later, we retired in disgrace. We were unable to find any non-technical descent, let alone something casual enough for a government employee to venture onto. We did find a gully where we could fix two ropes and rap, however, and resolved to return in better conditions. (Note: Josh later found the government trail. PM for beta.)

Scheduling conflicts prevented Josh from accompanying me on the second attempt, so I enlisted the aid of the inimitable, nonpareil desert dirtbag, Tyler Ofsprocket Marlow of Moab.

About to drop in from the White Rim.

We returned armed with static ropes for the way down and jumars for the way up, a double set of cams to #3, and a single #4 and #5 (latter wholly unnecessary). A quick rap and downscramble led to a 150’ chimney rap and an hour of pleasant hiking to attain the start of the traditional 4WD-accessed approach. From there, a short fixed rap and a gorgeous forty-five minute stroll through Monument Basin brought us to our objective for the day: the Regular Route, four pitches of steep, shaded climbing on dubious stone. There were only a handful of places on the entire route I would have been ok with whipping. Bring your ice head.

The first pitch began with excellent 5.9 fingers in a corner, then cut under a roof to a face crux over small gear. I used an equalized #0.1 and #0.2 on this pitch and each one thereafter. Tip: don’t stop til you get to the good anchor.

“Hey Tyler, how’s the rock?”

Tyler ventured onto a photogenic traverse on the second pitch, which supposedly led to a splitter hand crack. If those eighty feet were a handcrack, you can call me Pamela Pack. Granted, it took handsized gear, but most the climbing involved awkward bulges where you cut your feet and pull on jugs of questionable parentage.

Pitch three started at the scariest belay ledge of all time. It was a horror show of antique pins and star drives with no supplemental gear. Please bring two ropes so you don’t have to rap from this anchor like we did.

The crux move used to be rated 5.11c, but then a hold broke, much to the relief of all those looking for excuses to A0 the perfectly-placed modern bolt. Nevertheless, the possibility of a factor-two fall on the Bad Ledge plagued the moves required to gain the bolt. Some mandatory spicy climbing over marginal gear and a delicate mantel around an absurd “elephant ear” flake brought me to a ledge with a wizened old star drive, which I slung long and passed by to a ledge with acceptable bolts.

Reppin’ the brand.

The last pitch was ho-hum 5.8 with great exposure. We flopped onto the summit and were greeted by 30mph winds. Is it just me, or is the whole tower creaking? We didn’t stick around to get the Last Ascent and go sandstone surfing. Three single 70m raps had us kissing the solid ground and vowing never to return … that shitshow of an intermediate rap anchor core-shot our heads something fierce.

After celebratory libations of cold chicken noodle soup, we hiked an hour, jugged forty feet, hiked another hour, jugged a hundred and fifty feet, scrambled thirty minutes, jugged forty feet, and regained the car. Car-to-car in just over twelve hours.

Overall, it was an incredible summit that did not yield itself readily to our efforts. Like the best desert towers, Standing Rock must be earned.


Black Canyon: Atlantis

“Black hole: a region of space having a gravitational field so intense that no matter or radiation can escape.”

View from the campsite.

I can’t look away. Beauty, despair, elation, pain, peace and pure terror — I am overwhelmed like the rocky banks of the Gunnison River two thousand feet below. The sun succumbs to the horizon; darkness falls.

The Black Canyon of the Gunnison is my favorite place on earth.

The first time I set foot on the inner canyon, everything went wrong. My partner injured her knee downclimbing the Cruise Gulley, then I wasted precious October daylight on an unforgivable routefinding blunder. We were benighted on the easiest route in the canyon, and stumbled out by headlamp.

Since then, I’ve climbed in the Black twenty-six times. Every route brings a new level of appreciation for the place. I cherish my hours spent on the steep, splitter granite that erupts heavenward from the river.

Having recently climbed the classic 1700′ Layton Kor line, the Cruise, I set my sights on the next step: Atlantis (IV, 5.11-, 1600′). Whereas the Cruise is a jolly joyride of obvious, never-ending handcracks, Atlantis was reputed to deliver a more varied (and scaried) experience with face climbing and traverses. My longtime friend and best Black Canyon partner, Tim, was all too happy to oblige.

Top of P5 chimney slot.

The day began at 02:30 after a restless night. Is there any other kind when you’re dreaming of mandatory onsight terrain? The morning routine was seamless: shovel yogurt and granola and a half-liter of water down my gullet. Stuff gummy worms and Slim Jims in pockets. Tape up. Pinch off the first, feeble attempt at excretion, knowing full well that your bowels will revolt the moment you tie in for the first pitch. Struggle into a harness chock-full (ha) of heavy metal. Embark, stricken with bravado-masked anxiety and furtive hopes for a type-one day.

We stumbled down Prisoner of Your Hairdo Gully, thankful for the previous trip’s recon on Buzz Cut. A short fixed rap led to a ropestretcher rap off a tree (to avoid an exposed but easy traverse), then then a bushwhack to another short fixed rap. PoyH Gully met up with Grizzly Gully and dumped us at the river, 1:30 elapsed. The base of the route was easy to find after some easy-fifth scrambling.

The first pitch was a good, nondescript warmup, which Tim styled. The second had some suspect flakes, but was mostly good clean fun. I ended up further left than I should have and was uncertain about the topo, and belayed early. Tim finished up the pitch and brought us to the base of the first crux.

Excellent stone.

The route gets serious at this point. Tim plugged a piece off the belay, then launched into a completely unprotected fifty-foot 5.8 peg traverse. The topo promised a fixed pin, but there was none. The climbing was all there, but the consequences were dire. At the end of the traverse, he plugged in a few thank-the- maker pieces and continued into some excellent, balancy 5.11-, clipping one bolt and adequate gear along the way. Following the pitch wasn’t anywhere near as spicy, but still required care.

Pitch four had some great face climbing on good gear. It was dripping wet, however, and I had my only fall of the day onto a bomber #3.

This pitch was wet, even after a week of dry weather.

The next pitch would have been more fun without the rope drag. Tim got a workout pulling slack with one hand and climbing with the other.

Six entailed some routefinding shenanigans, seven elicited copious profanity due to even more rope drag.

On the eighth pitch, I had the pleasure of pulling a stellar 5.11- roof over a bolt. That pleasure soon dissipated as I belated realized I should have extended the sling. The rest of the pitch was
marginally protected .9-10a (running twenty feet over an equalized grey Metolius and #4 Stopper!). It felt far more serious due to drag. The pitch ended in a mercifully-shaded chimney.

Bike arm warmers are super handy and easily stuff into walkoff shoes.

A fun, rompy chimney led to an exposed chockstone belay below the next crux. As soon as I cut left under the roof and lost sight of my belayer, the climbing dialed up a notch — sustained, awkward 5.11- fingers and sweaty stemming.

By pitch eleven, we were feeling the effects of the heat. It would’ve been nice to have chalk on the thirty feet of unprotected 5.8 peg before the bolt.

Twelve was marked 5.10R. Despite harder moves, it didn’t seem as runout as the previous pitch. However, you’d come pretty close to decking if you blew it after the bolt — make sure the belayer has a good upward-pull piece.

Pitch thirteen dumped us onto a terrace after one awkward face move. From there, we had the choice of bushwhacking back up Prisoner, or climbing an extra three hundred feet of 5.10-11. We were really hoping to finish in vertical style on the rim, but there was no way we had the gas (or water) to do so. We may have won the pitched battle, but the June sun was wining the war.

After puzzling over our walkoff route (yes, you hike back up Prisoner), we thrashed through interminable scrub oak, jugged our first rap, slogged up the steep dirt of the gully, and finally crawled onto the glorious terra firma of the North Rim.

“I would trade half my rack for a muthafuggin’ ice cream cone right now.”

Cold chicken soup, chocolate milk and Gatorade awaited us. Car to car: sixteen hours, twenty minutes for 1300′ vert. (In contrast, we did Scenic two years prior in thirteen hours flat for 1700′). It wasn’t our most efficient day, but considering the severity and inobviousness of the route and the heat index, we were pretty happy.

Looking back, there were some serious objective hazards to the route. I wouldn’t hesitate to get back on Atlantis, but if I were leading P3, I’d ask the FA if I could replace the blown pin on the peg traverse. All in all, it was an incredible, thought-provoking route on excellent stone.

Next stop: Astrodog!


La Sportiva TX2 Approach Shoe

Part 2: Climbing Test

In Part 1, I was impressed with how well the TX2’s handled trail running and easy slabs. Also promising was their light and packable design — a great omen of their utility on routes with walkoffs. What remained to be seen was how good they were on steeper rock.

Despite their lack of leather, TX2’s pass the crag hound taste test.

It was obvious that the shoes would perform like champs on slab due their XSGrip rubber, so I concentrated on edging for their vertical test drive.

The first day we went to Cascade Canyon limestone between Durango and Silverton. The routes there are a mix of techy crimping and edging, and good ol’ fashioned overhanging jug hauls. In the spirit of proper gear testing, I led all the test routes.

I started on our usual 5.10b warmup that featured a couple moves of halfpad crimping over similarly thin feet, followed by a roof pull on good holds. The thin crux was a bit worrisome, but I was able to send it. The route felt more like .10d in approach shoes, but I was impressed at the performance to comfort ratio.

Then we hopped on a mega classic .11c arete, mostly a steep pumpfest with a hard lieback right off the deck. I found myself gripping harder to make up for not wearing downturned shoes, and fell off once above the crux. This route was obviously an overkill test, but it was fun to push something closer to my limit in the TX2’s. Still impressed.

Had to run another lap in Katanas to rectify the un-send in TX2’s.

Next, we dialed it back a notch on a steep, juggy 5.9. The shoes performed quite well. The TX2’s are nowhere near as stiff as proper climbing shoes, but their edging performance is miles ahead of my previous “approach” shoes (Montrail Mountain Masochists).

The next day, we visited an undisclosed location outside Montrose, CO that features vertical techy, ninety-foot basalt cliffs. This is where the shoes really shone. After a 5.7 warmup, I led two 5.9+ routes with thin cruxes. I hardly noticed a difference between the TX2’s and my cheap Cypher Prefix warmup shoes.

Next was a sustained, crimpy .10d. This route is not a gimme for me in rock shoes, and I was fairly pumped by the chains, but it was a good, clean send nevertheless.

Finally, I led a thin. 11a, which of course was easier than the previous .10d. Again, I was very pleased with the TX2’s edging performance, which allowed for a relatively casual redpoint.

Overall, the TX2’s have proven their worth on 5.10+ face climbing, stuff that I would probably shoe up for anyway. The rubber is quite sticky and edges well for being a comfortable trail runner.

In the next part of this review, I’ll take them on a real-world test to the Black and the Weminuche Wilderness.


Part 1: Initial Observations and Trailrunning Test (seggzy gotesox sold separately)


I’ve never seen the need for approach shoes. My trail runners (Montrail Mountain Masochists) have always served me well as regards weight, comfort and durability, especially on my 24-day CT thru-hike. I tend to shoe up for anything over 5.6 anyway, so I figured the extra climbability of dedicated approach shoes would be superfluous.

The TX2’s crossed my radar when my buddy wore a pair to approach Atlantis in the Black Canyon. I was especially intrigued by how thin they packed with the heel strap — easily half the bulk of my trail runners. The grippy sole seemed to serve him well on the exposed low-fifth scramble to the base of the route.

My main hesitation was how well the shoe would handle running. My trailrunners were due for replacement, and I wondered if the TX2s could cover for them. I had plans for a four-day fastpack of the Grenadiers that included some fifth-class slabbing where sticky rubber would be a plus (now postponed due to early-onset monsoon, grr). So when a good deal arose, I pulled the trigger. With my toe, just like Papa Hemingway.

This is part one of three, the trailrunning test. I’ll follow up regarding climbability after a day of wearing them on 5.10-11, and then again regarding durability after I put some backpacking mileage on them.

Initial Observations:

The shoes are light. Advertised at 9.8 oz compared to MMM’s 10.8, they feel comparable.

The fit is spot-on. I wear 43.0 in TC Pro’s and 10.0 in MMM’s. The toebox is comfortable but doesn’t allow extraneous movement.

Using the attached heel bungee cord, they stow away satisfactorily. The sidewalls of the shoe are a bit stiff still, but should soften up and compress better as they break in.

The “climb zone” edging platform is surprisingly stiff, as is the forefoot of the shoe. I expect the latter to soften up over time, but the edging capabilities of the toe look promising.

Field Test:

I took the TX2’s for a spin on our local chosspile 12,900, Engineer Mountain. The terrain is varied as it gains 2500′ over hardpack, snow, steep mud, fluid talus, 3rd/4th class and a wee bit of 5.2. I carried two liters of water and ran whenever possible. I took my Montrails on the exact same route the week before, so I had a good basis for comparison.

The shoes were stellar for running the flats and uphills, almost as good as the MMM’s. The downhills were less comfortable (aren’t they always?) … the impact was more noticeable, and my back started to hurt. Contrary to other reviewers, the shoes were not much more sensitive underfoot — I was able to pick the same downhill lines as usual. Also, the sidewall chafed at my ankle bone slightly on the downs.

They weren’t as good as the MMM’s in the mud. It seems like the circular lugs didn’t gain as much traction.

On fluid talus, the shoes performed as expected for their weight. I wouldn’t want to do any sustained scree surfing for fear of thrashing them.

For 3rd/4th/low5th, I was suitably impressed by the stickiness of the rubber and the stability of the toe edge. Even with some mud on the soles, they stuck like champs.


So far, I’m impressed. We’ll see what subsequent tests yield. My biggest complaint is that the stock insoles may be too flimsy for sustained downhill trail running (but then again, these aren’t marketed as trail runners). I’ll try it again with some thicker ones.

The biggest advantage I can see for these will be their low weight/bulk for walkoffs, and not needing to bring separate climbing shoes for easy alpine.

In the next week, I’ll push the TX2s to their limit on granite, limestone and sandstone face climbing and then report back with an update.

Armaid Rubbit


Background: I have been experiencing intermittent medial epicondylitis (golfer’s elbow) for the past year. At its worst, I resorted to paying a massage therapist $60 weekly for trigger point massage sessions. These helped alleviate the symptoms in the short term, but did not eradicate them. During that time, I was climbing four days a week in the vicinity of 5.10 trad.

At the time, I used a can of chili for self-massage. This proved helpful as ongoing maintenance in preventing tendonitis flareups, but only to a point. (Steep limestone sport climbing the day after Scenic Cruise … bad idea, return to therapist).

What ended up helping most was working antagonist muscles. Reverse wrist curls, eccentric assisted wrist curls, and rotating a hammer helped, as did several stretches . After a couple weeks of these exercises, flareups subsided, and I could climb without worrying about a relapse.

Nevertheless, I wanted to make sure my golfer’s elbow would never come back. To that end, I purchased the Armaid Rubbit, intending to utilize its thirty-day money-back guarantee if it didn’t prove any better than my trusty Hormel’s Spicy Chili.

Method: For thirty days and thirty nights, I used the Armaid daily: five minutes in the morning, five at night, and a ten-minute cool-down session after cragging. In addition, I brought the admittedly lewd-looking device to the crag and used it before and between routes, and as a conversation starter. As for technique, I used the green roller on both sides of my forearm, then on my bicep, then on my tricep. I’d also detach the roller arm and work quads, hams, and hip flexors (excellent for the latter). After each rubdown, I drank half a liter of water.

Initial Observations: The Armaid revealed and massaged away the tension in my forearms and upper arms in a way that the can hadn’t. I was able to work on golfer’s and tennis trouble spots very easily. I was surprised at how good it felt to work the upper arm. However, the Armaid fell short of the can in one regard: it wasn’t as easy to clamp down on a trigger point. Perhaps the sharp edge of the can was superior to the rounded green croissant.

Subsequent Observations: After two weeks, I noticed that I’d lost that lovin’ feeling to some degree — I was still feeling the burn, but disco fever had been downgraded by a few degrees. (Climbing was consistent throughout this testing period.) Perhaps my arms were not as tight to begin with? Regardless, the Armaid still produced good results, both before climbing (lightly) and after (aggressively). I felt like I recovered faster and started the next cragging day without as much of a “pump hangover” from the previous session, even on the third or fourth consecutive day.

Shortcomings: The Armaid was like a gateway drug, and by the end of the month I was wishing that the rotating green turd blossom had a higher density of foam. I felt like I really had to lock it down tight and squeeze with my fingers to get the compression that had come more easily beforehand. My buddy bought a classic Armaid, and the white plastic balls felt more effective than the Rubbit roller.

Also, importantly, I still feel like ye aulde Can provides a better stationary trigger point. (Also, the can isn’t going to get you pulled over while operating a motor vehicle.) However, the rolling abilities of the Armaid are far above and beyond the can.

Conclusion: The Armaid is not a magic bullet or overtraining insurance, but I’m glad to have it in the arsenal. It is worth the cost and expenditure of time to aid recovery and prevent injuries.