the nostalgia project: Darkness at Noon, USA (2018)

What is the nostalgia project?
What happened to 2012-2017?

The route

Smith Rock is a unique climbing area in Central Oregon, widely considered to be the birthplace of sport climbing in the US. The rock is a colourful volcanic tuff.

Darkness at Noon was established by Smith Rock pioneer, Alan Watts, in 1985. It was the hardest sport route in the US at the time (though Watts pushed grades several notches higher over the next couple of years). The route tackles a 35m vertical wall in the Dihedrals sector which tilts outwards a few degrees in its top third.

The first half of the route is technical on very small crimps and pockets, and is sometimes climbed as a route in its own right, finishing at the mid-height anchors of Heinous Cling. The steeper upper part of Darkness has better holds and tests endurance more than technique. According to the guidebook's first ascent notes, Watts actually climbed the lower and upper parts as independent climbs in March and May 1984 respectively, then linked them in March 1985.

Hallowed ground: the left-side of the Dihedrals sector at Smith.
Climber on Sunshine Dihedral. Notable routes working leftwards from there:
To Bolt or Not To Be, Last Waltz, Moondance, Wedding Day,
Heinous Cling, Darkness at Noon, Chain Reaction

Tighter, though foreshortened, view of Darkness, the faint chalk line just left of centre.

Heinous Cling is the heavily chalked line just right of centre.

The unmistakable (?) Chain Reaction is the left arete.

Though considered a sport route, the bolts are widely spaced. As cordless power drills were not available in the mid-1980s, and hand-drilling was very laborious, developers naturally tended to ration bolts. In the early days of sport climbing, there was also peer pressure to keep routes somewhat bold, as rappel-placed bolts were considered unethical by many at that time. However, even relative to other early Smith sport routes, Darkness is runout and it does not seems to be led as often as most of the other well-known Smith 5.13's.

The route's name comes from the wall's perfect east-facing orientation and laser-cut structure, such that it does go abruptly into shade mid-day. From the Smith visitor centre in the morning, two other well-chalked climb lines stand out on similarly-oriented faces to left and right of Darkness: the classic 5.12a, Dreamin', and the notorious 5.14a, To Bolt or Not to Be.

Afternoon shade on Dreamin', Darkness at Noon and To Bolt .. © smithrock.com

The context

As I have mentioned before in this blog, Smith Rock was all over climbing magazines in the mid-80s. Photographs showcased a cool climbing scene where the world's best climbers posed in their lycra tights on blank-looking routes. Even the colour of the rock was shockingly different; few of us in the UK had seen bright orange cliffs before. Two photographers in particular, Beth Wald and Heinz Zak, assembled portfolios of Smith shots that became ubiquitous. The authoritative Mountain magazine had Zak's photo of Alan Watts on Chain Reaction for the cover of issue 107 then Wald's photo of Craig Smith on Darkness for the cover of issue 117 (low quality scan below).  Both left a strong impression on me and defined what "hard climbing" looked like in my 20-something mind.

A collector's item: Mountain 117. Sadly mine is flood-damaged.
Craig Smith on the first crux of Darkness at Noon, photo Beth Wald

I visited Smith twice from the UK during the 1990s. Both times with Shoko, though more as a road-trip stopover than with serious climbing intent. On the first visit we camped for one night in the state park campground, which was - this seems extraordinary now - empty except for us. We pitched the tent right by the canyon rim and watched the sunrise light up Smith's weird formations the next morning. On the second visit we stayed in a hotel in Bend for a few nights. The climbing highlight was doing Superslab, a fun multi-pitch trad route. We wandered over to the north side of the park to view the extraordinary Monkey Face spire afterwards. Overall, though, Smith was much too far from the UK to imagine having a serious project there (though it has been done).

The Monkey Face spire at Smith

For a Squamish-based climber, Smith is a fairly reasonable destination for frequent visits. Though a long'ish drive (about 10 hours including the border crossing and a couple of breaks), it is the closest major area with reliable dry conditions in early-spring or late-fall. My first US climbing trip after moving to Canada was to Smith, with my local friend Todd in October 2016. I had just climbed Pushers at Horne Lake and was feeling optimistic about my climbing. I hoped to at least cover the ground on a classic 5.13 there. Churning in the Wake, a very popular route, was top of my list.

As often happens with visits to places you don't know well, expectations and reality were not well aligned. Churning looked quite hard and anyway almost always had a team in situ. During our week my best actual send was a flash of Heinous Cling Start, a classic 5.12a. However, as Todd did not get the flash, we went back to that corner of the Dihedrals sector two more times so he could redpoint.

An unintended consequence of being there was proximity to Darkness. I realised I could inspect the first half on top rope using the Heinous Cling anchors, and did so, discovering that I could just about do all the moves. The next day we had another Todd with us, a strong boulderer from Alaska, visiting Bend for work. A european climber asked me to belay him on Darkness while the Todds climbed together. This gave me an opportunity to top rope the whole route. I was surprised to find the upper moves to also be fairly reasonable, though I was nowhere close to linking them. In the diary I wrote "must project this route one day".

Alaskan Todd top-roping close to bolt #1 on Darkness

A year later Squamish Todd and I returned to Smith for another week. This time I focused entirely on Darkness, trying it on alternate days with a rest day on belay duty for Todd in between. From the diary:

"Day 1. Stick-clipped up Darkness then made a messy TR attempt, up to bolt 6."

"Day 2. Stick-clipped Darkness to bolt 4 then TR'd back up. Then led and TR'd the whole route with many hangs."

"Day 3. Having morale issues. Tried lead burns on Darkness. First try ground to a halt at bolt 3 at crux moves. Next try got past bolt 3 after modifying my beta with a higher right foot. Continued to bolt 6. Third try got all the way to bolt 9 but flamed out just above, very close to end of the hard climbing. Went to top after the single hang. Too worked to try again."

"Day 4. Conditions very unhelpful with intermittent rain and temperature barely above freezing. I stick-clipped to the top again and worked the moves from bolt 8 to the anchors. Then tried a lead burn in the rain but had to stop with numb fingers at bolt 2. Frustrating."

Two specific issues became mental barriers to redpoint the route. One was the necessity of stick-clipping the fixed draw on the first bolt. It is about seven metres off the ground, which is beyond the range of most clipping sticks. Fortunately the excellent Redpoint store in Terrebone, the small town near Smith, sells extra-long sticks, but even armed appropriately, it was quite a tedious battle to get the rope onto the draw at the start of each lead session. Also, I found the first move off the ground really hard, and would sometimes fall off it repeatedly, usually swinging into my belayer in a comic way. This makes good entertainment for the hordes who are usually hanging around that corner of Smith but is not good for personal psyche.

Once past the opening boulder problem, I had the moves reasonably dialled until the third bolt. However both the second and third clips are sufficiently spaced that it is hard to relax in that zone. A slip while pulling up rope for either clip could result in a fall almost to the deck. Between the third and fourth bolts is a distinct thin crux, which has both endurance and precision elements. Past that one gains good holds and an excellent rest, and can scurry off right to tick the Darkness Start. Apparently this is considered 5.12c in isolation. I found it very similar in character (for runouts and effort) to Rocket at Pet Wall in Squamish, which is considered a stiff 5.12d.

Still from video, me leading the first half of Darkness at Noon, 2017
The not-wholly-necessary "rose" move below bolt #2

Moving past bolt #2

Clipping bolt #3 (best not to fumble this one)

Setting up for the first crux, above bolt #3

The upper half of the route has two distinct sections split by a rest on a good jug with poor feet. Below the jug, past bolts #5 to #7,  is about 5.12b in isolation with one fluffable move negotiating some very small edges on vertical terrain. However the real redpoint crux is between the jug and the top, passing bolts #8 to #10 on a wall that overhangs about 5-10 degrees. The first few moves from the jug are positive on small edges, setting one up for a deadpoint to a thin horizontal pocket: the "mail slot". Apparently some people find it hard to hit the slot accurately but for me the main problem was managing the pump just beyond it, after making a strenuous clip of bolt #9. You need the residual power for a long throw to a jug rail, after which there is a glory road of jugs to the anchor. The throw is probably only V1 in isolation, but no joke after all the climbing below. My redpoint highpoint on day three was failure at the throw.

Another still from video, starting the upper half of Darkness, above bolt #5

Meanwhile Todd had finished off his project: the aesthetic arete, Latest Rage. On our last day, the weather was so poor that no-one else was in the state park; a very unusual event. It had rained hard in the night and the freezing level was so low that snow had settled just above the cliffs. Almost everything had wet streaks except Churning in the Wake. We managed to get a top-rope onto it and tried all the moves with reasonable success: "An OK way to finish a disappointing trip."

Squamish Todd latching the good hold on the last hard move of Latest Rage

Back in Squamish I obsessed over possible ways to get back to Smith as soon as possible. Todd typically only takes climbing holidays in the fall each year, so that felt too far away in time. Another friend, Travis, suggested he might be able to go in late April. That gradually coalesced into a firm plan.

One change of tactics that I insisted would be required was to book an Airbnb property rather than camp. I felt that staying in the campground was just too cold and morale-draining. In particular, temperatures drop abruptly after dark in Central Oregon's high desert, requiring early retreats to a tent. The state park campground's showers were not very reliable either. I find a reasonable degree of hygiene vital to climb "hard" as finger skin needs to stay in reasonable shape. Travis, a habitual dirtbag at that time (I believe parenthood has softened him since) agreed reluctantly to the Airbnb, after a brief financial negotiation, which was then modified again to include his buddy Ross, who would join us for some of the period.

I trained very specifically for Darkness over the winter. In particular I tried to get as strong as possible on mono and two finger pocket holds, as there are several on the lower part of Darkness. One complicating factor was that James and Leo were having a busy winter on snowboard and splitboard respectively. In the last few weeks before going to Smith, I spent four days on level 2  avalanche skills training courses with Leo, then three days with him in the Tantalus mountains, then a week later drove James into Washington state to spend three days at Stevens Pass for his first slopestyle competition (Capita's Minor Threat - he won the U10 category).

All of this was memorable in various ways but was time away from the hangboard. However, just before Travis and I set off south I had achieved the training benchmarks that I hoped were appropriate to for Darkness; notably unassisted mono hangs on my middle fingers on the Beastmaker 2000 shallow mono pockets and four sets of an endurance circuit of forty foot-on campus moves with a matching rest period between each set.

The ascent

Back in Oregon, the Airbnb, a quiet farmhouse on the far side of Terrebone from Smith, proved to be exactly what I hoped for. An unexpected bonus was a great western aspect out to the Cascade volcanoes. One in particular - the very symmetric Black Butte - was central to the view.

Base camp, April 2018, Ross and me © Travis

Black Butte from the Airbnb

Unfortunately, despite the excellent accomodation, I had terrible redpoint nerves. Over the next four days I climbed two on/ one off/ one on. The first two days were fairly hopeless: I even managed to fail at bolt #2 on one try. On the third day I did match my October 2017 highpoint, feeling pretty good until the bolt #9 clip, then succumbed to the pump at the throw. This was very frustrating as it felt like my training had been ineffective. The only faint hope was a beta improvement I discovered, using a good pocket at bolt #9 as a sidepull to eliminate one move above.

I had intended to climb on the fifth day but woke up in a very poor frame of mind and realised I needed a break from climbing. Travis very kindly let me use his Tacoma for the day. While he and Ross went east to Smith, I drove west. I had the loose idea of hiking Black Butte. It seemed to be mostly free of snow and had a corkscrew road around it leading to a trailhead not too far from the summit. This was a good decision. The hike was short enough for a rest day (about a 6km round-trip, 500m altitude gain) but stimulating enough to be cathartic. The big views up and down the Cascade chain from Mt Batchelor in the south to Mt Hood in the north were stunning, almost agoraphobically so. My thoughts did keep circling back to the Darkness struggle but I think my angst bubble was popped.

Mt Jefferson and Mt Hood from Black Butte summit

Fire lookout, Black Butte summit

The next day I returned to the Dihedrals. It was warmer than before. My first redpoint try was lame, falling at the first crux, but I forced myself to climb to the top and familiarise myself with the upper crux again. I rested 45 minutes and tried again. This time I tried a couple of nutrition tricks. First, I sucked down an espresso gel just before leaving the ground. The caffeine buzz worked nicely through the first half, helping me to summon up the right amount of power to crush the first crux. Second, I carried up 100cc of gatorade in a small plastic bottle to rehydrate at the main rest while stopping there for as long as possible. The upper wall flowed well and I found myself eyeballing the throw while still feeling reasonably fresh, and, of course, latched it. Then I relaxed, which was an error, as the very last few moves - maybe 5.9 in isolation - suddenly felt very hard. I made one locked-off reach a little too dynamically and for a moment felt my body start to barn-door away from the wall - but was able to reel it back in. Sent! Actually, almost not, as a miscommunication between us led to Travis taking me tight on the rope as I clipped the anchors!

We still had four more days remaining at Smith. Unfortunately I found it hard to summon much energy and spent most of the period watching Travis and Ross climb. One piece of unfinished Smith business that did seem like a priority was to stand on top of the Monkey. While Travis took a rest day, Ross and I climbed Astro Monkey (with the thin Moving in Stereo start), a multipitch free route up the tallest face of the spire. Much of this climb felt a little too thin or too burly for me in my "warming-down" state but I enjoyed leading the massively-exposed fourth pitch common with Monkey Space, a pioneering Smith free climb first led by one of my heroes, Bill Ramsay.

Tradding up Astro Monkey - me on the easy second pitch © Ross

Following pitch 3 © Ross

And standing on the Monkey's brow © Ross

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back on Darkness and doubt I ever will - even thinking about all those moves makes me feel tired. I did visit Smith again in the late fall of 2018 with Leo and his friend Nic, staying back at the campground (brrr!). But I was rehabbing a finger injury and did not redpoint above 5.11. An unexpected highlight was seeing Adam Ondra and his entourage, there to film Adam's historic onsight attempt on Just Do It. As to future visits: I hope.

black, needles, devil's tower, pigeon, chipmunk

Like 2017 and 2018, 2019 was another year in which mountaineering and trad adventures added some variety to my usual diet of obsessive sport climbing.

Duncan and I have been exchanging emails about a visit to the notorious Black Canyon for two decades (and actually went there, but got snowed out before we could climb, in 2004). We share this interest because we are both old enough to remember when the Black was one of the major climbing venues in the US, and was described breathlessly in the iconic 1970s book "Climb! The History Of Rock Climbing In Colorado". The Black has slid from mainstream to obscure cult status since then, as it ticks almost none of the boxes associated with modern climbing: consistent rock quality, obvious lines, fixed anchors, easy retreat. The combination of those last two absences is a major consideration at the Black as most routes start with an unpleasant long descent into the canyon, sometimes including committing rappels. Consensus wisdom is that the easiest way out is always to complete your intended route - whatever that takes.

We ended up spending about a week there in May 2019, but only climbed two routes: Maiden Voyage and the Scenic Cruise. However the latter was our main objective. Spring 2019 was unusually snowy in Colorado and conditions a little wetter and colder than we had anticipated. The national park service had not even officially opened the park when we arrived. Though we covered the ground on the Scenic Cruise, and (just) avoided bivouacking or climbing in the dark, the style of my ascent was poor and even Duncan pulled on a few pieces. In retrospect a longer stay and more warm-up routes would have been good idea, but that was not so obvious at the time. One major screw-up for me was wearing shoes that were too tight, despite much experimentation to try to have the perfect long-route shoe ready for the trip. I had significant foot pain from guidebook pitch 3 onward and made an additional bad error of not removing my shoes during a long hanging belay session in the middle of that pitch. Anyway, a very memorable day on what is probably the biggest consistently-steep wall that I have ever been on. I should really try to do it again in better style one day.

The Black Canyon from the South Chasm View railings

Looking straight down to the Gunnison river 600m below, South Chasm railings
The Scenic Cruise climbs the face below, approximately.

The Scenic Cruise climbs the wall in the centre of this photo from the Narrows view point 
Spot the climbers ....

... there.

The mandatory show-us-your-rack shot

Me on Scenic Cruise, guidebook pitch 3 © Duncan

Me on Scenic Cruise, guidebook pitch 5, about to hand over the lead © Duncan
5.10+, apparently

Me on Scenic Cruise, guidebook pitch 8 © Duncan

After the Black we drove back east then north to the South Dakota Needles, another old-school area not often included in modern climbers' road trips. We were only able spend one full day there. I strongly recommend visiting the Needles. Most people would want to dial back their grade expectations a long way as the climbing is serious: spaced bolts and cheesegrater faces. However the actual climbing on a plethora of knobs and crystals is great fun, the area is stunningly beautiful and most of the routes lead to actual summits. Though the geology and flora are very different, the area feels quite like the Czech sandstone with its similar "towns" of small towers.

The first route we did was also the highlight for me: the Cerberus route on the Tricouni Nail needle. Only 5.8 but some of the moves were quite delicate, as well as bold, and it is sobering to think of Royal Robbins establishing the route ground-up in junky shoes the year that I was born. Apparently you are supposed to simul-rappel this route, with one climber each side of the notched summit (there is no anchor). We modified this technique to make it slightly less scary. I lowered Duncan to the base where he stayed on the rope as ballast, threw the rest of the rope down the other side, did a worrying manoeuvre up and over the summit then rapped down.

The fabulous South Dakota Needles

Me on the summit of Tricouni Nail © Duncan

From the Needles we crossed into Wyoming toward the Devil's Tower, another "bucket list" objective. A storm blowing in midweek - with hailstones so large that they were noted in the TV news in Denver, our friend Andy reported - kept our visit to two climbing days. We went all the way to the summit on our first day via Soler; something few people do more than once as final pitches on the tower are typically chossy. Summiting felt like a  worthy tick but was not quite as spectacular as the views of the Tower from a distance might suggest. The west face, which hosts many classic routes like the stemming test, El Matador, was closed for nesting falcons. We had some aspirations there but Tower grading was feeling quite stiff after a couple of days so this may have saved us from embarrassment.

Devil's Tower from the approach drive

Devil's Tower, west face

Me on the DT summit © Duncan

In July I ticked off another very long term ambition: climbing in the Bugaboos. (I still possess a never-used Bugaboos guidebook which I bought in 1982 on my first visit to Canada.) As is standard practise, my partner Bob and I carried giant packs up to the Applebee campsite to establish a basecamp for a week. Due to Bob's time constraints and a dodgy weather forecast we did this late on a Sunday evening, arriving just before dark, then woke up early the next day to get a climb done ahead of a storm. This aerobic challenge shoehorned into 24 hours was gruelling for me.

We had initially intended to climb Snowpatch Spire via the backside Surfs Up route that first day but changed plans to summit the much easier but much more distant Pigeon Spire via its famous West Ridge.

Insanely large backpack at the Bugaboos trailhead

Classic Applebee campground scene

Pigeon Spire and the Vowell Glacier

This route is often described as "the world's best 5.4" and in normal conditions is a swift solo for many. For us, it was still in early season shape with extensive snow covering rock on its upper half. Combined with some weather urgency, this made for some mild excitement in rock shoes. Bob even backed off one lead which required a rather peculiar step across an ice dribble with poor gear. I found a better cam placement which made it more reasonable.



On the way back to camp we found ourselves descending from the Bugaboo Spire - Snowpatch col in the company of two disabled guys, one with one prosthetic and one with two. Neither were finding the soft afternoon snow easy to negotiate; apparently they had forgotten the hex key which let them put on their "crampon feet". I put two and two together and realised we were conversing with an american celebrity: the MIT professor, prosthetic pioneer and strong climber, Hugh Herr. They had just climbed up and over Bugaboo Spire with - until then - no fuss.

The rest of our week at Applebee was educational - we were stormbound in our tent for 36 hours, ran up the fun McTech Arete and circumnavigated Snowpatch Spire - but we did not tag any more peaks.

Last and (I suppose) least: at the beginning of September, for the second Labor Day long weekend in a row, James and I joined up with Luc and his son Kyle to camp and climb in the mountains. This time our base was the lovely Opal Pass area north of Pemberton, near several granite and volcanic mountains described in the Scrambles in Southwest BC guidebook. A long 4WD approach and overgrown trail seem to protect this zone from crowds; we only saw one other party.

On our first full day there we set off up Chipmunk Mountain to the north of the pass. Disappointingly for Kyle his hiking boots disintegrated halfway up. He and Luc returned to the campsite. James and I enjoyed finishing off the peak alone and sharing the route-finding through the final scree and choss slopes guarding the summit.

Chipmunk Mountain from Tenquille Mountain

James with our idyllic campsite at Opal Pass

Kyle's footwear malfunction on Chipmunk

James and I on top of Chipmunk

The next morning we woke up to see a black bear in the meadows near our tent; fortunately it departed the area quickly before we had to consider whether to be concerned. We all scrambled up Tenquille Mountain to the south of the pass then continued on to Goat Peak which overlooks the Pemberton valley. Descent, packing-up and hiking out were uneventful. Reversing our approach drive was not but that's another story (ask Luc!).

Kyle, Luc, James on the summit of Tenquille

Upper Pemberton Valley from Goat Peak

James with his cool new Osprey backpack and a freakishly-large mushroom on the hike out

the nostalgia project: Standing Rock, USA (2000)

The route

Standing Rock is a desert tower in South-West Utah, located in Monument Basin within the Island in the Sky area of the Canyonlands national park. More than any other in the US (except perhaps the restricted-to-climbers Totem Pole), Standing Rock exemplifies the classic desert tower shape: an implausibly-tall and slender 130m column.

The Regular Route was first climbed by the legendary team, Layton Kor and Huntley Ingalls, in the 1960s. It is de rigeur to repeat Layton's quote about Standing Rock in any account of climbing the tower: "We climb it not because it’s there, but because it won’t be there much longer.” Ironically it is still there, 50+ years later.

Standing Rock from Monument Basin rim

Standing Rock middle distance

Standing Rock - close-up

The context

In autumn 2000, Dan Donovan and I travelled to the US for a two week "holiday" attempting desert towers. Remarkably, nine were summited (full list below) and we managed cragging days in Eldorado Canyon, Maple Canyon and Indian Creek. Most of the credit belongs to Dan who was in excellent shape. In contrast, my trad skills were rusty and in the twelve months leading up to the trip had barely climbed at all (Leo was born in February 2000). We were lucky with conditions, experiencing mostly dry mild days. The word "desert" in desert towers suggests somewhere reliably arid but on a subsequent visit to the area in the same autumn season it was cold, windy and rained quite frequently.

We flew in and out of Denver, renting a vehicle at the airport. We lucked out by scoring an SUV - Ford Explorer - for a small supplement to the basic rate we had booked. In fact, having a vehicle with reasonable clearance proved essential for some of our objectives. We also discovered that it was roomy enough to sleep in the back and and took advantage of this on several nights.

Dan getting beta from Andy Donson in Boulder before we drove west

My diary notes from the trip describe Standing Rock as "probably the most exciting climb I have ever done". I am not sure if that is still true, but it was certainly the highlight of the trip, and the most committing of the towers we attempted. Even getting close to Standing Rock is an adventure. The Island in the Sky national park is a curious upside-down place, a large mesa surrounded by multiple tiers of eroded sandstone of different varieties delimited by the Green and Colorado rivers. The top layer is Wingate sandstone, forming fairly solid cliffs, in places eroded into towers like the Monster, Washer Woman or Moses. Below this is a terraced flat area of white rock - the White Rim - encircling the whole mesa. Below this again is a layer of the much chossier Cutler sandstone, which in one location is eroded into the Monument Basin, containing Standing Rock and other surreal features. Even the base of the Monument Basin is still well above the level of the nearby Colorado River, with yet another cliff tier in between.

In 2000 access to the White Rim required a mandatory ranger briefing at the Island in the Sky park office, and as far as I recall, some kind of permit application. Then we drove down to the White Rim trail and tortured the Explorer's suspension along fifty kilometres of stone-and-dirt track to our destination. Looking into the Basin from the rim that evening intimidated me. Standing Rock appeared dauntingly tall and slender and getting in and out of the basin clearly added to the challenge. I guess that anyone venturing that way now for the first time will come pre-armed with numerous trip reports from the web, but we just had a basic guidebook description. If we were to have an accident on the tower, getting any assistance appeared impossible. We had barely seen anyone else on the road. I was a new father with responsibilities; what the hell was I doing? I slept poorly that night.

Looking into Monument Basin
Standing Rock is not the prominent tower just left of centre - it is more distant and further left

Monument Basin rim rock weirdness

Camping in the Explorer near the White Rim trail

In the morning we made the discouraging discovery that we had left a light switched on in the car and drained the battery, raising the risk that we might be stuck in that remote spot for several days at least. However, about a mile away we could just see another group - mountain bikers with a support vehicle - starting to pack up their camp. After weighing our various unsatisfactory options, we decided to run in their direction in the hope of intercepting them before they left. Thankfully this worked and they had jump-leads. More of the day was then lost to idling the engine to recharge the battery.

Descending into the basin required a short steep rappel. We left the rope in place with stashed ascenders, stumbled down some talus then then set off across the silent basin toward our tower. The floor of Monument Basin is almost wholly cryptobiotic soil: a living though dormant crust of lichen, moss and bacteria structured like a tiny fractal version of the towers and cliff rim around us. The ranger had spoken sternly about not disturbing the crust, without which the basin would be a dust bowl. We did our best.

Cryptobiotic soil, Monument Basin

Dan chilling in Monument Basin

The ascent

At the base of the tower, we took a break for a while. Dan happily puttered off somewhere to explore. My anxiety had escalated into an irrational certainty that I was going to die, not least as I had committed to leading the unstable-looking 5.10 first pitch. While sure that Dan wasn't watching, I recorded a short video message to Leo on my new digital camera apologising for dying plus some other platitudes that I no longer recall. (That the camera would somehow make it back home from Utah in the event of my death seems a major assumption in hindsight.)

As often happens in rock climbing, once engaged in leading the opening pitch, up a corner system, I felt much better. The rock was more stable than it looked and protection acceptable. The style felt recognisably similar to choss I had negotiated in the UK. At the end of the pitch there is a cruxy and exposed traverse rightwards out of the corner to a belay stance. Very exciting but still fine.

Dan then romped up a long 5.10+ crack pitch above. I followed this OK though it was strenuous. Pitch three is weird, and judging from more recent trip reports, may have got weirder. Dan led again. I remember a hard crux move (5.11?) and a very hollow flake on a steep bulge. I believe I managed it free but won't swear to that. The diary is silent on this detail. I led again on the top pitch, which spirals around the tower some more, out of sight from the belayer. Though easy (5.8 or 5.9?), it was runout, lonely and exposed enough to be intensely memorable.

On the summit we found an ascent register. Satisfactorily, it appeared from the spaced ascent dates that the tower was still rarely climbed. Then we rappelled, tiptoed back through the cryptobiotic crust and re-ascended our fixed rope to the rim. Dan, at that time a qualified vertical access worker, howled with laughter at my incompetent technique, especially when I got significantly stuck trying to pass a bulge.

The next day I assumed we would rest. Dan instead pointed out the relative proximity of the Washer Woman, and insisted that we thrashed six pitches up that - the diary records that I led nothing - and back down its somewhat notorious "arch" rappel. Washer Woman shares a col with the self-descriptive Monster Tower. Inevitably Dan then suggested that we bagged that too; I rebelled and we retreated to Moab for showers and beer.

Subsequent ascents

I have not been back to Monument Basin.

The tower ticklist

• Fine Jade, The Rectory
• Kor/ Ingalls, Castleton Tower
• Stolen Chimney, Ancient Art
• The Cobra (RIP)
• West Crack, Owl Rock [Dan only: he soloed while I took photos]
• Regular Route, Standing Rock
• In Search of Suds, Washerwoman
• Primrose Dihedrals, Moses
• Learning to Crawl, Thumbelina

Me on the Cobra

Dan on Owl Rock