Entirely Off the Grid

Never again will I wear chacos to bushwhack through cactus-infested steppe. In southwestern Idaho, sage and grass grow thick for miles in a sprawling bowl nestled amongst rolling mountains. Short, stubby cacti huddle agains the ground, pink, orange and yellow blossoms burst wide open. Lupine, yarrow and a myrad of other windflowers brighten the land. Squat pines for the landscape, coalescing into forests as they move up hillsides. Aspen groves, lines by wild iris, wind between crags and along drainage lines.

From afar, the steppe appears to be scattered with pebbles. Up close we realize that the exposed granite, product of uplift and erosion, rise from the land into monoliths hundreds of feet high. Divots and tunnels and bowls cover every face, formed by billions of seasons of snow and thunder storms. Chartreuse, orange, black, brown, white and forest green lichen streak the rock in patchwork rainbows. 

I spend my first few days in the City of Rocks climbing mellow routes, taking time to refamiliarize myself with movement and gear placement. The granite is here is coarse, providing strong, trustworthy friction beneath my feet. 

As I climb I slip into that point of focus between myself and the rock's lines of weakness, problem-solving directions of pull and complementary geometry between cracks and constrictions and the gear I carry. I reestablish confidence and trust in myself and my ability to place the pieces that catch potential falls. 

Better judgement occasionally prevails over my desire to climb. When storms move in, they come with astonishing speed. Wind whips out of nowhere, howling around the rocks as rain pelts down from dense gray thunderheads; at 6,800' elevation, the air holds little moisture. At this point, we bail off the rock and spend the day's remainder soaking in hot springs in the nearby "town" of Almo (consisting of perhaps ten buildings, cell/3G service and a handful of cows). 

On the evening showers move through during sunset, the entire atmosphere is set ablaze as we gaze through fiery veils of water to the hills beyond. When we turn around, a massive double rainbow shines bright against the darkened sky. 

One day we hike up to a tall, slender formation called Jackson's Thumb and climb four pitches (rope changes) up 2.5 billion-year-old rock— some of the oldest exposed in North America. 

The second part of my stay is spent in AMAZING company. I split a campsite with a father and daughter who provide me with a bin in which to store my food (the rodents here are voracious) and inform me they've left me a "treat." I return to camp in the midday heat to find six of my beers on ice in a miniature cooler. 

With Larry and Lane travels Tsu, a 67-year-old Korean man with the body of a 20-year-old who's been climbing since he was 13. He lives in Joshua Tree and casually free solos (climbs without rope or protection) moderate routes on a daily basis. Tsu is one of the nicest, most humble and enthusiastic people I've come across. I hope I die as happy as I perceive him to be. 

As for climbing, I lead harder routes and flail up behind my partner around some beautiful roofs and long, insecure cracks. We hike out to Stripe Rock and climb the white dyke splitting the feature. Protection is sparse and insecure. We sling webbing around chicken heads (protruding pieces of rock) to break potential falls and belay off anchors that belong in a textbook under the "Don't Do This" heading. I learn A LOT. 

On my last day, we climb a narrow spire called the Incisor, pulling through a beautiful crack and slightly nervewracking traverse to super fun, airy and exposed climbing up an arête that leads to the rock's tiny summit. From here, I look down upon the entire City spread around me. 

I go to bed utterly bone-tired and completely satisfied.