USA Trip 2024 - Bishop

I picked up Alec at 6am on a cold November morning. I was too excited to be tired. My bags were packed, Google Maps was loaded, and I had checked into our flight the night before on the woeful British Airways app. He threw his bag into the van and we set off.

The 160 miles to Heathrow was uneventful, as was the shuttle to the terminal. I’d never been to such a big airport before so I found it all quite exciting, though it wasn’t really all that different to somewhere like Manchester. We checked in and went through security at the standard quite-slow-but-not-concerningly-so pace that one expects at airports. Grabbed a meal deal from WHSmiths to satiate my hunger. Boarded with no issues. Unfortunately my seat was in the middle of the plane, far from any windows and wedged in like a sardine, but we were soon taking off for the 11.5 hour journey to Los Angeles.

The hours were slightly uncomfortable, but not unbearable - the in-flight entertainment was decent, the food was surprisingly nice. Coming in for landing with the downtown LA skyline peeking through the windows was quite the experience!

Los Angeles (Photo: Alec)

We ushered around the airport and got through immigration without any issues, though the quizzical guards needed to be explained what bouldering is, and then of course I was asked the classic “Have you seen Free Solo?”. Alec had to whip the guidebook out to show to his officer, which was quite amusing. Exiting LAX and hopping on the shuttle to the car hire office was trouble-free, though once there we had a few delays getting our car due to card issues, but all was resolved in the end. We nipped over to a friend’s house in Culver City, where we had crash pads delivered (fancy Organic ones!), and also one to borrow for our trip. Thanks Griff! Pads and bags stuffed into our Nissan Rogue, we hopped onto the congested 405 Northbound. Bishop bound.

Day 1 - The Acquainting (The Buttermilks)

After In-n-Out and an overnight stop in Palmdale, and we excitedly quested on through the desert towards the Eastern Sierra. The landscape accelerated from flat-ish with the odd hill, to a flat valley floor with huge mountains soaring up on either side. One quick breakfast and “gas” stop later, and we’ve passed through the town of Bishop, chugging along the Buttermilk Road, thirsty for big rocks. Around a few bends on the poorly graded track, we see them. The boulders. Big ones, small ones, absolutely MASSIVE ones, politely sat on the sandy hillside, patiently waiting to eat our skin and spit us off.

The track to the Buttermilks

Buttermilks main area, the two huge boulders on the right are the peabodies (Photos: Ross)

We were absolutely buzzing, even the 20 degree heat couldn’t stop us from throwing our pads together and dashing straight up for the rocks. First on the list, Robinson’s Rubber Tester. A grit-esque friction slab. Alec flashed it of course, in good style. I took a few more goes, being the front-wheel-drive pleb that I am, but eventually aligned enough brain cells to successfully smear on the crystals.

Next up, Cave Route. What a crap problem! Lowball, dabby, and polished to shite. At least it was in the shade, but I didn’t spend very long wriggling around beneath it. The holds on Pain Grain had just gone into the shade, and it looked quite fun - we threw the pads beneath it. The holds were shaded but of course we were baking in the sun! A couple goes unlocked the first few moves, until suddenly the holds disappear. I’m sure there’s meant to be a hidden sidepull or something? Frantically feeling around, nothing fell into grasp, so I aborted the attempt, clearly not used to being more than six feet off the deck yet.

Fueled by a Clif bar and a short break, we opted to drop the grade a little and get a bit of easy mileage in. The Roadside boulder provided just that, half a dozen or so friendly things on a small-ish egg boulder, with a tiny slab at the top for a little Buttermilk flavour. Nice.

Me, celebrating an ascent of the Roadside boulder (Photo: Alec)

Moose, who we met at the Roadside boulder (Photo: Ross)

Keen for more, we headed up and left to stumble upon…

The Buttermilk Stem. Phoar! A shapely egg boulder with a corner, and a couple of huecos to haul up to the top! Pads down, a high left foot and a pressed right palm initiate the sequence. The right foot is free, stretching optimistically over in search of balance, but the hip is not flexible enough to facilitate such things. Jump off, try again. Alec tried to bump his right hand further up, but was forcefully ejected, with the rock claiming a chunk of his palm as a fee. I hop on once more, convinced if I could throw my right foot on with enough chutzpah that it might overcome the stiff hip and stick to a nice crystalline hump… hoorah! I was right! I carefully teetered my body leftwards to the first hueco, and the hard bit was done. A cautious saunter up the remaining few metres ensued with a cheeky grin on my face. Alec soon followed, muttering something about me starting with my right hand too high.

We celebrated with a quick lap of Hero Roof, while squeezing past the circus of going-sideways enthusiasts magnetised by the Iron Man Traverse. Easy jugging on angular holds, it felt almost like something you’d find in North Wales, but with no sheep shit. Wanting to conserve some skin and energy, we finished up there and headed for the hostel.

Hero Roof takes the arcing right arete (Photo: Alec)

Ah, Hostel California. Such a lovely place. I rarely stay in hostels, my last one before this was 5 years earlier for one night, as I was soaked to the bone on a motorbike trip in the Highlands and I just couldn’t bear to be erecting a soggy tent. The week-ish that we stayed here was a wonderful experience - yes, okay, sharing a bedroom with 7 other people isn’t ideal, but the communal areas were fantastic and everyone we met was just lovely. I’d say most people were climbers, then a selection of other outdoorsy folk, and just the odd soul passing through on whatever journey they’re taking. We walked to a grocery store about a mile each way, and while lugging our spoils back we agreed that we’d simply drive next time. AMERICA! Texas BBQ was the choice of dinner that night, though I must admit the portion sizes were disappointing, given all the tales I’d heard of overflowing plates full of artery-clogging goodness. Nonetheless, I enjoyed it. Earplugs in, time for bed.

Day 2 - The Roasting (The Happies)

I found myself awake at 4am, slightly jetlagged. Of course, that was expected, given the 8 hour time difference. Rather than lie awake in the crowded dorm, I headed for the common room so I could mooch about until the day was ready to start. I grabbed myself a bowl of porridge and started flicking through the visibly-used guidebook on the coffee table, whetting my appetite for a fine day of rock-bothering.

Soon others began rolling in, mostly fellow jetlagged Europeans at first. Alec turned up and whipped up some breakfast (bacon pancakes if I recall correctly, the default breakfast of the trip), and despite it still being well before 8am, we were hopping into the car to head to the Tablelands.

We arrived at the car park and began gearing up for the approach. It was crispy cold, but calm. Gloves were a must for me, but the jacket would be overkill. A couple were just returning to their car after a last-ditch dawn raid on Standing Kill Order, but luck was not on their side. We offered our commiserations and begun the short stomp up the canyon.

The topo was confusing, and navigating the boulders was tricky at first. Unlike the Buttermilks, this place was a little jumbly, so to get to one side of a block you might have to wander around a few others, scramble over the top of something, or crawl under the depths of something else. We eventually arrived in the sunny little pit that housed some fine vert problems - Classique is the pick of the bunch, with some reasonable stretches between some reasonable holds, and it makes for a fine warm up. Adjacent, we find Sunburst Seahorse, considerably steeper but outstandingly juggy! That is, until you near the top, where it becomes a bit vertical, a bit thin, and a bit “where are the holds?!”-y. I might have used some holds a bit too far right, but I also didn’t piss this much carbon into the atmosphere to quibble about eliminates - we moved on up for further challenges.

Alec cruising up Classique (Photo: Ross)

Atari is a picturesque lump, high on the eastern rim of the canyon. Alec was dead keen to try it, and I figured I’d have a go as well. Unfortunately it only had 3/4 of an ideal landing; straight down or leftward falls would be safe, but falling a bit to the right would mean dropping 6 feet or so onto the next ledge. Not ideal. The compression between the two angular arêtes only got harder near the top, as it narrows, requiring some smearing and heel tricks. I wasn’t too fond of this, given that a slipping left heel could result in a trip down the ledge system, so I was overgripping and not committing to the higher moves. Alec was doing a bit better, but the sun began peering around the arête, swiftly making the conditions “a bit hot”, and the smooth arête became a slippery sweat fest. Not today, let’s head back to the canyon.

Alec working Atari with a fine backdrop (Photo: Alec)

The Hulk is impossible to miss. A steep face littered with holds, though no good ones in that crucial bit in the middle where you need them, and facing dead south, positioned thusly to burn those who cannot ascend it in a reasonable amount of time. It ain’t easy. Some pleasant juggy moves to start, then a nasty snatch into a flat right hand undercut - time for the crux. The typical sequence is to pinch like a bastard with the left hand, sink a right toehook and lay on a massive rollover to the boss with your right hand. Failure to stick it results in a back-slapping fall, much to the amusement of spectators (who soon succumb to the same fate).

Alec on The Hulk, about to be shut down by the puzzling crux (Photo: Ross)

After a few hours sizzling in the sun, we gave up hope. It was not to be. We were beaten. I can’t believe I got shut down on a V6, I thought the ‘S’ in USA stood for ‘soft’?! Typical boulderer excuses ensued, “it’s too hot”, “it’s just not my style”, “I can’t really pinch that because of these long term injuries I don’t really do anything about”. You know, that sort of thing. We ate our lunch and watched as others tried and mostly came to the same conclusion. Except this Canadian fella, Reid, he made it look a piece of piss.

Alec had moved northwards up the canyon to see what else was knocking about, so I joined him, expectations thoroughly depleted. There was a group under Serengeti, and I thought it looked quite good, all the pads were laid out and tested by this group, so figured why not give it a punt? At least the moves on this looked a bit more convention than the crux on The Hulk. Shoes on, chalk up, a quick enquiry about the start holds and away I went.

A big flake leads up to a steep wall, and sloping dishes lead the way up and right to the eponymous continent-shaped formation about 4 metres off the deck. I stretched out to the first dish to find it accomodating, but still angled in a way that demands not climbing like a tit. My left foot dug onto a high spike, and the right toe hooked at the top of the flake in fine opposition, allowing me to stylishly reach up and left to a positive crimp. After a quick breath and a readjustment on the dish, I eyed up the big flatty next to Africa on my right, and slapped to it with so much confidence you’d think that I had done it before. I was in. A slightly precarious sequence gains the jugs that line the edge of the feature, and then a steady tall wall leads to the summit.

I was quite pleased with this performance at the end of the day, especially having spent a few hours falling off The Hulk. We ambled back down to the car, and the hostel, for some grub and craic. Dark clouds were brooding over the Eastern Sierra.

Day 3 - The Epic (The Buttermilks)

The morning was a gorgeous one; pink hues set alight the mountains, freshly dumped snow being a primary reflector of the pretty colour palette. I had woken up slightly less early this morning, though still had some early solitude to quietly noodle on the communal guitars and eat porridge. Then everyone else woke up and we had more bacon pancakes.

Them there mountains are a bit snowier than yesterday (Photo: Ross)

This particular drive up to the boulders was spectacular, with the previous night’s snow capping the scenery just enough to increase the beauty, but not so much that it threatened the logistics of bouldering. A few yards down a bumpy lane was our parking spot, ready for the 20 minute or so approach to my isolated granite egg of choice - Solitaire.

The trail was not without risk! It started off with a little creek crossing, skating across some frozen logs and almost stacking it, followed by mooching up a gentle slope, away from the crowds. After a little while we were concerned that we might have missed the boulder, then in the distance I saw the unmistakeable line that is the classic frightener, Judge Not. I picked up the pace, excited to see the day’s goal on the back side of the boulder, and I was not disappointed.

Looking down onto Solitaire (Photo: Alec)

Two good crimp rails slice across the problem, showing the straightforward path to the lip, and thus the victory slab (on which there is a third, hidden crimp rail). It’s basically just three massive fuck-off bosh moves from rail, to rail, to lip, to rail. Not concerned with a flash, I started warming up on the holds and the moves, sussing which crystals I want to launch from, and which parts of the rails would be most accomodating to catch. Within 30 minutes or so I was warm, but still unable to do either of the two moves I can reach from the ground. The distance was made, but the contact strength wasn’t quite there, yet.

Trying to suss the second move (Photo: Alec)

I changed the left foot for the first move, using a slightly bigger edge in a worse position, where I figured I might be able to get a bit more drive to hit the hold with less desperation. I pulled on the first rail and lobbed to the second with every ounce of power, PAH! I had caught it! No time to waste, might as well crack on. Match, readjust to the best bit, left foot out, and a deep breath for massive lob number 2… GAH! Holy shit, I caught the lip. That’s the hardest bit done, innit? I’m in new territory now, so keep calm, adjust the grip until it feels good. I placed the left foot out on a cleverly pre-located nub, but I can’t quite keep my right foot on the rail because I’m a plank! Don’t panic, just commit to the third big lob to the hidden rail and it’ll all be fine… unless you fall slightly short, out of breath and in a heap on the pads. Bollocks!

I had a good rest, ate a Clif bar and tried once more. Missed the first move, likely due to nerves. No problem, plenty of time, chill out. Pulled on again, and hit the rail sweet as a nut. I didn’t even let out a grunt. Again, readjust, sort the feet, throw for the lip. Bosh. Again, silent. A deep breath followed, cognisant that this is where I whiffed it before, determined to try just that little bit harder. This time I hit the hidden rail confidently and securely - I was in! A precarious teeter onto and up the slab ensued without drama. I let out a whoop of celebration and admired the scenery for a moment.

Okay, time to come down.

There was a flake that I eyed up earlier, on the east face, above a leg-hungry chasm, which looked like a steady way to descend without getting too scared. Unfortunately, the flake was pure choss. Crumbly, hollow and wobbly. I’m not the lightest guy, and I often overgrip, so I was a bit concerned. I started carefully lowering down the upper flake, then smearing down a few feet of blankness to reach the lower flake. My feet were there, but there was nothing, either scrittly smears or jamming in the resonant flake. Fuck that! I had changed my mind. The flake in my hands started creaking as my body tensed, so naturally I thought, “thank fuck I’ve got insurance”. As luck would have it, the choss remained in place as I re-manteled onto the boulder.

I sat there and had a think for a minute. I had checked out the top of another problem, the northwest arête of the boulder. I could scuttle over to the finish jug, then descend that problem a bit and hop off, surely? Well, I’m sure it’s physically possible. I dawdled over across the slab, and stood on the jug, still a decent way off the deck - I would estimate my feet were a bit over 3 meters up, not trivial, not fatal. I couldn’t reach any of the holds below, unless I lowered myself down a ways with a reverse pistol squat, and even then, the holds were a bit sideways and didn’t inspire confidence. I wasn’t even sure I could squat back up if I changed my mind! I went back to the top for another few minutes of contemplation. Alec said if he has to go and find a rope he would never let me live it down. It would also be tricky to safely anchor it given the rounded eggy nature of the rock.

A little to the right of the death flake there is the northeast arête, comprised of solid rock. Using this, Alec proposed, I could descend some way, and then traverse over some rippled blankness to reach the reasonably solid bottom of the flake. Seeing the merit of his suggestion, I started heading down. Little positive foot holds kept me calm, and when they ran out there were good enough hands to take the reins. Then there was about 6 foot of fuck-all. I placed my right foot on the very end of the little rail that I was safely stood upon, and started stretching over left towards the flake. A small footchip was located and swiftly utilised. Deep breath. I could now begin shifting my upper body in the same direction, tickling the flake with my left hand, until I had enough grip to unload my right foot. I lowered it to a good smear, and then I was just downclimbing a solid-ish flake, with good-enough holds to stand on. Phew, it was done!

Let’s pack up and climb some more boulders - maybe ones with easier descents, I keenly suggested. Further up and along the hillside was a clean wall, a perfect sheet of rock with a handful of little holds heading straight up for some 5 meters. Green Hornet is the name. I’m not big on the vert stuff, and having had a bit of a wobble I was happy to crack open my Pepsi and take some pictures. Alec keenly laid out the pads and hopped on for the flash. About two thirds up is a tricky move, balancing up on a high left foot, which proved to be just a bit too subtle for the first try.

Alec on Green Hornet… (Photo: Ross)

…and off Green Hornet! (Photo: Ross)

The second try (possibly after a false start, if memory serves), was better. Passing the tricky move with ease, Alec was now a hand length from the lip, eyes wide, knuckles high. The next footholds seemed too far and high to rock onto, but Alec is good at this sort of thing, calmly popped his foot on and teetered up for the lip. What a block!

Thankful for the juggy lip (Photo: Ross)

We wandered down to the main Dale’s Camp area and climbed a couple nice easier bits, then looped back on ourselves, past Solitaire, in search of an off-piste classic we eyed on the way up, Xen. Named after a couple of in-situ xenoliths, this is a quirky groove, with some frictiony moves leading to huecos for a typically pleasant topout. With the pads down I pulled on, right hand pulling on the xen, left hand pressing on the shoulder of the groove, left foot standing hard on the smear. I slapped the left hand a bit higher in search of grip, and found a bit. Some shoddy footwork got me within a few inches of the hueco, but I was a bit too twisted to make a meaningful pop.

Trying to think sticky thoughts (Photo: Alec)

Alec calmly pulled on and rocked over on some nothingness, like a wizard, straight to the hueco. Gobsmacked, I tried the same sequence… and it just worked? How? A blessing from the omnipotent? Something about force vectors and friction coefficients? Some Dawesian theory about helicopters and landing pads? A complete fluke? Enough of that, time to pack up and find some dinner!

Day 4 - The Jumping (The Sads)

The fourth day started like any other. Wake up early, porridge, mooch, pancakes, drive. We had planned for tomorrow to be a rest day, so we were not aiming to be tactical with our skin and energy usage. Having been to the Buttermilks and Happies, the Sads was the next obvious venue to visit. A short steep stomp up from the parking ensued, and we navigated to the Molly Area without trouble. Warming up on The Great Dominions and Head Heritage proved to be effective, they were surprisingly cranky for the grade.

The obvious wall of Molly beckoned us over. The lower half littered with pockets, the top half clean as slate. Out left there is a large vertical edge, formed by an offset crack. The conventional sequence uses this, though it is a similar difficulty to yard for the lip from the highest pockets. We opted for the dyno method inititally, spending a lot of time experimenting with the massive choice of footholds, before finding ones that made the move click. Alec sussed it first, flying for the sharp top jug and holding it with a stylish swing. He warned me that catching it incorrectly would shred my skin, but I tried again with his method and caught it immediately. Fabulous. I did the move again, though this time with the necessary sitter moves to consider it a fully valid ascent.

Alec stretching for the high sidepull (Photo: Ross)

Next we might as well see what the fuss of the OG problem is about? From the same pockets, I reached up leftward for the big sidepull edge, exclaiming that I had used the wrong footholds and couldn’t set up for the next move, and hopped off. Pulling on again with slightly more forward planning, I had set up my left foot a bit higher, but with room for the right to cross through. Sidepull caught, right foot over, left foot even further over to a pathetic smear. I eyed up the top jug. It wasn’t that far, but it was a bit of a pop, and being betwixt such directional holds, if I missed I would certainly be ejected into a spin! A quick breath to focus, and I lunge for the jug. Kapow! How satifsying was that?

Alec tried for a bit more but found that my setup for the move didn’t suit him. After some time he found his own method, but was sweating off the holds and running low on energy. He claimed defeat, and after a brief sit we decided to solo China Doll. Solo is a weird word to use, but we didn’t move the pads over because the big flaky jugs looked very accomodating, and completely reversible if we encountered discomfort. These big flaky jugs form a proud skeletal feature on the rock, and are a joy to climb. Alec compared it to a VS microroute, without the fiddling of nuts or cams. After his descent, he quietly noticed that his skin was cool and dry, and being suitably rested, opted for another punt on Molly. I walked round the boulder to find him setting up for the last move, then expertly executing the lunge for the lip. He did it! We were chuffed with that. We then met a couple, one of whom’s father is a reasonably big name in Sheffield. I can’t remember, I think it was a Nigel?

Next up we wandered over to the Pow Pow pit. It was cool and crisp down there, with a gentle breeze. A group of people wandered over, not locals but regular visitors from Utah. We sessioned it together, piecing together the sequence using information from one of the gents who had climbed it years before. It’s a burly one; starting at a break, throwing to another, reaching back around a roof to find a pair of icy-slick sloped crimps, locking a heel, crossing to the other crimp, and somehow floating up to a crozzle sloper with an immense thumb catch. From here a crazy high foot or campus provided two options: Head up and left via droppable off-balance moves on little crimps, or bosh out right to squeeze up the apex of the prow.

I spent a little while sussing the lower heel and cross bit, but soon figured it out and moved onto the upper section. The up-left method is the norm, in fact it wasn’t even mentioned that going for the rightward squeeze was an option! I spent ages, loads of time and energy, trying to make it work, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t weight the high feet enough without pushing me off, and campusing twice just works in isolation but would be unthinkable from the start. I eyed up the arête up and right: “does anyone ever go up to that bit?”, I enquired.

“I’ve never seen anybody do that”, I was told. Might as well give it a go! I pulled on at slick sloped crimp 2 and the thumby sloper, did the initial compulsory campus to the decent crimp, then lunged out right to the grippy arête. I tick-tacked up to the lip with ease, dejected that I had invested so much into the other sequence with no return.

I rested for a while, determined to maximise my odds for the forthcoming attempts, but it was no use. I could no longer do the unwind to the thumby sloper. WTF? I only did it earlier, what’s changed? Have I become weaker? Had I failed to note crucial microbeta? Has the humidity increased? What was I doing with my left foot? I tried and tried again in isolation, chopping and changing, rolling over instead of under, eventually sticking it once more after planting a left foot in a pseudo-jam in the break, but it was too late. The tank was empty.

A member of the group was a French expat, who noticed my Colgate™ brush and sympathetically gave me one of his. I was insulted, what’s wrong with my little povvo brush? His brush is quite fancy, I must admit it is better than the old toothbrush, so I am rather pleased with my gift.

Alec had scuttled off elsewhere, I think to try The Fang, so we reconvened, shared tales of failure and frailty, and muttered about doing a quick easy classic to finish the day. A flick through the book yielded The Groove and The Arête, on the same fine-grained boulder up on the canyon’s east rim.

A lovely sheltered bay revealed the boulder, obvious slabby groove up the middle, obvious arête up the right. The lowering sun provided excellent warm lighting for the occasion, so I set the pad down and hopped on the former. The first foothold was large and pleasant, offering a safe place from which to contemplate the next moves. A right foot went a few inches up, then the left foot goes far up and away, smearing over a bulge. The hands become palms in the absence of holds, and I rocked up and left. Now a couple inches short of the lip, I knew another smeary step was necessary for victory. My right foot hovered around, occasionally lowering onto a patch of rock that looked right, but didn’t feel grippy. Eventually I figured none of them would feel right, and I just had to pick my favourite and stick with it - so stick with it I did. I shifted onto it tentatively, stretching up for the lip of victory with my left hand. What a fine problem that was. Alec quickly followed up, much more confidently than I.

Teetering up the final part of The Groove (Photo: Alec)

The Arête was next, with a slightly iffy landing but an obvious sequence: grab the arête, smear your feet and go up. Unfortunately despite the fine aesthetics, it climbed a bit poorly, more like a traversing shuffle than a delicate arête. Alec found himself more-or-less campusing it after his feet pinged off, so it was nice for me to be the one showcasing technical ability for a change.

Alec establishing on The Arete (Photo: Ross)

We packed our kit away, complimenting the groove and slagging off the arête, and discussed our plans for dinner and tomorrow. We were quite excited to give our bodies some time off.

Day 5 - The Resting (The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest and Hot Springs)

This was a nice day. My fingers and arms were most pleased. Alec was excited to go and spend a day not revolving around lumps of rock. I would have been more than happy to go and play on the rocks, but I knew it was best to rest.

The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest is in the White Mountains just east of Bishop, though accessed by a big U-shaped route that takes about an hour. A fine scenic hour it was, with relaxing tunes (Minecraft soundtrack) suitably complementing the views from the car window. The windy tarmac road leads to the visitor centre, at a gusty 10,000 feet.

Lola! (Photo: Ross)

We parked up and were immediately greeted by a tiny scruffy dog called Lola, who was absolutely crackers but totally adorable. We threw our big coats on, fussed the dog, and got moving. The classic loop hikes about 4.5 miles, wiggling around the hillside at a mostly constant elevation, filled with incredible vistas and brilliantly twisted trees - the oldest known non-clonal organisms in the world, apparently. There are older clonal trees knocking around, but who gives a shit about those guys? We’re here for the non-clonal pensioners, the oldest of whom is Methuselah at 4856 years, named after a Biblical patriarch who was also rather old.

One of many impeccble trees in the forest (Photo: Alec)

The exact location of Methuselah was a closely guarded secret, but a few years ago a picture was leaked and it has since been found, though it still not officially disclosed by the local tree police. We think we walked past it, as it’s a particularly gnarly unit, with bounties of branches twisting out in all directions. Long may it live on.

The walk was not too bad, though the occasional climb at 10,000 feet proved to be a bit harsh on my unacclimated lungs, and the distance left a blister on my middle toe thanks to my poorly adjusted shoes, but it was enough to fancy a nice relaxing evening activitiy…

TO THE HOT SPRINGS!

We debated which spring to visit, and with tales of some being ludicrously busy at times we decided to take a risk on the Crab Cooker. The name struck fear into my heart, as a man who has a weak tolerance for hot baths. It turned out to be absolutely fine, as there was a handy valve for controlling the input of hot water from the pipe which goes into the spring.

The westward view from the springs (Photo: Ross)

We rocked up at the spring, located in a vague hollow, where there were four others already enjoying the hot water and stunning backdrop. We introduced ourselves and got into our shorts, feeling the strong breeze on our bare skin. The sun was about to set, it was definitely cold, so let’s get in that water!

We hopped in and chatted shit with those for maybe an hour or so, revelling in the sunset and clear skies, trying to spot the stars and planets, generally having a rather pleasant time. We saw a couple of deer on a nearby ridge. I would absolutely recommend it.

A post-dusk panorama - the Moon shines bright in the west, Venus is a bright speck in the east
(Photo: Ross)

With a decent drive back and still having no dinner plans, we figured it was time to make a move. Stepping out of the hot water into the frosty wind was completely fucking awful, I can’t lie. Quickly drying off with the towel whipping in the wind was just torturous, and then wobbling, still slightly damp, back to car and cranking the heaters up to get our bones back up to temperature. Brrr!

Day 6 - The Skinning (The Buttermilks)

It was the harshest day of the trip, as far as weather goes. Cold, gusty, and overcast. Good conditions by all accounts, but a bit fierce. We parked up at the main Buttermilks area and hiked up to the Green Wall boulder, where we got moving on Green Wall Arête and Green Wall Essential, both relatively straightforward, though with quite slippy feet, punishing careless footwork. Alec’s goal was Green Wall Center, but I wanted to save my energy.

The footholds on that thing are tiny and slick, so precision and sticky rubber were the order of the day. Alec made reasonably quick work, for what is considered by most to be a bit of a sandbag. He’s good like that. He even ignored a useful hold at the top to extend the difficulty, though he claims it was unintentional.

I meandered on over to Soul Slinger, a steep rounded arête which starts on finger jugs, does a move to more finger jugs, then there’s not really much in way of holds until the victory hueco. A big rock onto a right foot gains a vague pinchy sidepull - I hadn’t done any thumb training, so this was quite hard and ate through my skin quite savagely. The left foot moves up onto a big flat foothold, and then immense tension is required to release the left hand, to move it to a choice of pathetic shit little holds. I didn’t really get much further than this. I gained the shittest of these holds a couple times, but it had been less than an hour and my thumb was hurting, and I was getting quite cold between attempts. I decided that it wasn’t worth the expense, as to be able to climb this I would surely have to use considerable amounts of time, skin and energy, which would make me miss out more climbing later on. I packed up and waddled over to the next boulder…

Peeling off Soul Slinger (Photo: Ross)

Bowling Pin. A sizeable lump of rock, still dwarfed by the peabodies a couple hundred yards away, though I wouldn’t want to stack it from the top. The obvious undercut jug indicates the beginning of the stand start. From here, many sequences are possible, I opted to stretch my left hand for a sloping crimp rail (sorry shorties), and throw my right heel onto a big rounded boss. Now in a stable position, I reached my right hand calmly over to a nice shallow pocket, placed a high left foot and tick-tacked up a few incut edges, before rocking up left to the arête.

Alright, hard bit done. I shuffled my feet further left onto a ledge, and tickled my right hand around the arête and up the face, searching for an edge to facilitate rocking onto the slab. Oh hey, there it is, that wasn’t so bad. Fully onto the ledge about 3.5 metres up, just a short gritty slab to go. I found a rail by my knees and delicately levitated onto it, using some non-holds with my hands to keep balance. There was a vague sloping runnel to my left, which was the only real choice from here. I popped my left foot onto it, found just enough friction on high slopers for my hands, and rocked up onto the shoulder of the boulder, ready for the easy walk to the summit! I found a bolted anchor at the peak, I guess someone had devised a frightener at some point, following the steep side of the arete, all 7 metres of it? Blimey.

Following the descent and a few fist bumps, others climbed the boulder as well. Alec of course, Ben an Arizonan residing in France, and an Israeli chap whose name I had forgotten. Sorry! Looking for something to try, I eyed up the acclaimed sit start. A thin crescent-shaped crimp marked the left hand, and for the right its little neighbour. The sequence was obvious: throw the right to a better edge, move the feet, throw the left into the jug that starts the stand. Unfortunately for me, the start holds were incredibly low to the ground, and the obvious footholds quite high up. I located some worse ones barely above the sandy ground, so I shovelled away a bit to make room for my heel. Yeah, I know, a bit dubious. The consensus is that on uphill faces of boulders, the ground builds up, while on downhill faces it erodes down. Nonetheless, this worked, and before I know it I’m repeating the stand once more without any trouble. I’d say the stand is the better problem!

Alec and Ben tried this, but having larger feet than me (EU 42, puny for a man of my stature), they would’ve needed to move more sand to avoid the dreaded heel dab. They concluded that they would not compromise their ethical purity for the sitter, and we moved on.

We marched up to Fly Boy Arête and stumbled upon a squad of people under Fly Boy Sit. We threw the pads down, and still warm I tried to flash the arête. Sit start on the obvious ledge thing, flick to a left undercut, right heel, and roll over to a decent crimp with the right hand. Flag the left foot, reach left over to a crimp around the arête, and rock up on the heel to a directional right hand crimp on the arête. The left foot moves onto the ledge near the right heel for balance, and then there’s a tricky throw for an edge on the face. Easier ground follows, another crimp, juggy flakes, topout. The rock is rough as anything, I’m glad it went first try!

As others were trying, it started snowing. Sort of. Graupel is the term, as I’ve now learned. It was quite atmospheric! Sure, it made it difficult to keep your shoes dry (as I found out on my few attempts on Fly Boy Sit), but I had already climbed some good rocks and wasn’t too fussed. I gave a cookie to a lad who climbed the sitter and he seemed quite pleased with himself.

Crimping hard, hoping that it would get easier (it wouldn’t) (Photo: Alec)

The graupel eased a little, and while content, I was psyched, I had “a real urge to properly rip on some holds”, so we marched over to the ultra-classic High Planes Drifter - spelled correctly here as Dale Bard intended. I threw the pads down and started drying my boots, moistened by graupel-melt, using a little rag.

I pulled on at the obvious edges, threw my left heel on and charged rightwards to the next crimp. I locked it in, and rolled the left hand over to a good incut. The right foot takes an edge, the heel comes off, and now I can reach out for another incut with the right. I placed the left foot on something I didn’t really believe in, and threw left for the vague rib, but simply slid off.

Okay, flash pressure gone, I can figure it out without stressing. I decided to keep the left foot low and try the rib again - it stuck nicely. Next is another left hand move, rolling over a long way to a flat sloping thing. I tried this from the same low foot but it was not suitable, I need something that I can toe-in a bit more.

I pulled on once more, hit the rib from the low foot, but struggled to suss a sequence that allowed me to replace the foot on the higher edge. I dropped off. I rested and tried again. This time, I caught the first and second move, but on the third move rightward I hit the hold a bit short and ripped a big bloody flapper on my pinky. The hail intensified. Bollocks!

In hindsight, perhaps it’s good that I didn’t stick it, wombling up a big slab in that weather might not really be the safest thing to do. This will be the top of my list if and when I return.

Day 7 - The Lanking (The Happies)

We returned. Alec wanted a rematch with Atari. I didn’t have any particular goals starting the day, was just going to see if anything takes my fancy. We marched up and Alec started warming up and refining his sequence. Those Canadians from earlier in the week showed up as well and they begun sessioning it with him.

Unfortunately no luck for Alec, I think cumulative fatigue was hitting him quite hard. We dropped back into the canyon and found our way to Mr. Witty, which Alec and some Canadians from the hostel had wanted to try (yes, there were a lot of Canadians). Averse to the vert, just next to it was Every Color You Are, which was steep and burly on mostly nice holds. A group was already on this, so I could steal some beta and paddage.

I started warming up, doing pullups and whatnot on a nearby wall. I soon felt ready to give it a punt, and quickly found myself at the end of the problem, at a bottomless crack, eyeing up the final hard moves to gain a big flake. I lunge for an okay crimp, and then try to match it. That was shit, drop the hand back down to the crack. Could I just span it out to the flake? Oh shit I’m numbing out. Should I throw for it? I’ll throw for it. So then I threw for the flake and missed, obviously.

Numbing out on the flash attempt (Photo: Alec)

I waited a little while for my hands to warm back up, then began figuring out the end. It turns out I could span to the flake quite easily in isolation, and eventually figured out a spooky heel hook to get higher on it, which then leads to the top. I tried once more, got to the move, and powered out. I could still feel my fingers, but they couldn’t close up on the holds. Arse! My lack of power endurance is showing! I tried a couple more times, but each attempt was futile; I simply didn’t have enough in the tank.

I wandered along the canyon rim to find something short and punchy, because I wanted hard moves, but not many of them. I found Biohazard, which is just one move off a sloping rib thing, up to a funny square lip thing. Great! Although it was a bit too hard for me that day, I enjoyed trying it, and nabbed a flash of Mr. Happy a few feet over, thanks to some beta from a Bay Area group.

Alec and his army of Canucks had moved to The French Connection, another vert offering that I was disinterested in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great looking rock, but it’s just not for me. Flicking through the guide, I saw that Not Another Brit in Bishop was only around the corner, so went and had a gander. There was another group on this, and they had a really cool crash pad with Pikachu on it, so I knew I had to join them.

I watched an attempt from someone about 30cm shorter than me, then shoed up and tried to copy it. That went about as expected. The second move is off a flat undercut, so I needed to find the best place for my feet to minimise bunching, but maximise reaching. The lower wall was heavily rippled, so I had a lot to choose and quickly found the ideal sequence.

Pull on, right into undercut, left foot over to low ripple, left hand out to sidepull. Right heel onto sloping bulge, right hand up to sidepull. Perfect compression. Next is to get the left hand up to a higher, better sidepull, but I couldn’t find anything to reduce the snatchiness of the move; shorties use a nifty toehook on the start holds, but I absolutely couldn’t do that. Maybe I could just skip the first sidepull, and reach directly to the good one off the undercut? Absolutely!

Lanky move number one… (Photo: Selynna Sun)

Now to figure out the rest. There’s a close crimp that most go to with their right hand, but again, I couldn’t seem to make that work without being too scrappy. Further right there is a big undercut jug that rarely gets used, maybe I could just use that? Again, absolutely! What a lanky dick I am.

Grinning, I pulled on. Undercut, foot, sidepull, lank to the next sidepull. Right heel, miss, try once more, stick. Right hand up, adjust the feet, heel again, right hand up again to the undercut. Sort the feet, eye up the top jug, and span to it with the left hand. At that point, my sequence was dubbed The Tallboy Special by spectators, who will forever remember this moment as the time a random British man came over and desecrated their project. I am a proud, proud man.

…lanky move number two! (Photo: Selynna Sun)

Day 8 - The Stomping (The Druid Stones)

The last day in Bishop. Having been to the main bouldering areas, this spot makes them seem comparably roadside. The approach starts with some 600m of flat-ish track to the trailhead (the parking here is limited to very capable vehicles), the trail cants up at a remarkable angle, gaining 400m of altitude via sharp switchbacks and a lot of huffing and puffing, for what I reckon was only about 1200m. I had to take a break for a sit and a Clif bar. At the end of this dire ascent, the trail flattens and in a couple hundred metres the grand jumble of stones appears to the east - the eponymous Druid standing tall and proud right up the middle.

The Druid itself has been climbed at about E6, which is an interesting bit of trivia, but it’s a bit too big for my taste.

The Druid Stones (Photo: Alec)

Alec was quite wrecked, so he brought along his blubber pad for chilling out and sunbathing on, so I had to build my own psyche after ruining my legs getting there. I threw the pads beneath Thunder, a classic overhanging face riddled with breaks and crags that are mostly big enough to fit fingers in.

I was pretty wrecked, so sat on my arse and took it all in for a while before pulling on. The downside is that I had totally cooled down by that point, so I whiffed the flash. D’oh! Muscles working, fingers firing a bit, and I was back on for a second go, lunging from break to break and laying on a fat slap for the sloping top. This, luckily, had some holds on it and scooped in such a way that made it easy to rock onto. Wicked!

Next up, the neighbour a few feet left, Kredulf. Reasonable moves on one-pad edges lead up to a dyno for a high flake near the lip. It took a couple goes to set up well for the dyno, but then I figured it out and was ready for the sloping mantel. The lip here bulges a bit rather than scooping, and it is a bit higher, which makes it feel a bit more exposed (especially with Alec snoozing a bit down the hillside). The flakes end and some vague ripples and runnels guide the way, but the sun is glaring directly into my eyeballs, I kept losing my bottle and couldn’t get my head into it. A couple goes from the start to the mantel were promising, but alas it was not to be. Let’s find something with a nicer topout!

I eyed up Skye Dance a few times. Looked from the bottom, from the side, from the other side, and from above. The topout looked okay. The headwall looked a bit yardy but not bad. The lower roof looked tricksome. Unobvious, but obviously physical. Being already tired, I didn’t think I had the beans for this unless I could flash it, so decided to leave it for a future trip. Arch Drude as well, but more for the paddage!

A short skirt around the edge of the plateau reveals the radical Wave boulder, unfortunately with nothing breaching the arcing face from which it is named. The adjacent face, however, has the goods. A clutch of steep crimp-laden lines up a steep face, the left one being Hook, Line and Sinker.

The obvious waist-high ledge signifies the start. A right heel and a rollover lead up to the top of a crimpy flake, and then some moderate moves on decent edges take you to the lip, where an easy topout can be found. I was pleased to flash this one, mostly because it meant I could conserve energy!

I shuffled the pads over right for a furtle on Suspenders and Red Light District, the former has apparently broken and is giga-crimpy, and the latter is just a bit ‘ard. That said, it feels doable, just not today. Another one on the list! To finish off I scooted downhill to the hueco-peppered Kojak boulder for some easy jugging. At this point, even the easy jug problems were hard!

The Kojak boulder (Photo: Alec)

Top up on fluids, pads on backs, time to make our way back.

The first few hundred meters along flattish terrain was fine. Quite nice, even. The legs were in a steady state of planting one foot in front of the other. Then the descent begins, and it was clear that I was broken. My calves, knees and ankles were threatening to buckle with each steep downward step. We passed a hiker heading up for an evening jaunt, and I debated mugging her for her hiking poles. I thought better of it, as she could certainly whoop my ass in my declining condition, especially with a weapon in each hand.

Eventually we reached the flat which, after an eternity of downhill, managed to feel uphill. Agony. The last metres felt like miles! Finally my sweaty arse got to the car, a few moments after Alec’s nonchalant and physically fit arse had beat me there.

The last night in the hostel had a somber tone. I didn’t really feel ready to leave, but alas, I had made an itinerary and booked the hotel in Las Vegas. I was looking forward to Death Valley and the smooth sandstone that lies beyond, but there is a certain je ne sais quoi about the hostel and the town that I just can’t put my finger on.

And so, the Bishop chapter of the trip ends. I somehow managed to chip my tooth in the shower (clearly washing my face with too much gusto) which made eating that evening’s KFC a bit of a weird experience. And of course, every subsequent shower for weeks was filled with the anxiety that I might do it again…