USA Trip 2024 - Red Rocks

Day 9 - The Relocating (Death Valley)

I awoke in Bishop for the final time. There was still a bit of my food left in the kitchen, so I ate what I could and stuck the rest in the giveaway/free-for-all shelf, as I’d imagine there would be some interest in half a dozen XXL tortillas and a mostly-full tub of instant oats. I wouldn’t be needing them in Vegas!

Soon I was back in the dorm to get my kit, triple-checking that I had packed the essentials: passport, phone charger, plug adapter, pants, souvenir Eastside Sports beanie, etc. Everything looked to be in place, so we crammed it into the car and set off for the Mecca of overconsumption.

En route, of course, we had to do some touristing - it would be a direct 300 mile slog otherwise. We hopped on the 190 eastbound, and soon stumbled upon an obvious first stop, the Father Crowley Overlook. This looked over the Rainbow Canyon which not only had some fascinating geology, but is also a site where military training flights take place, not unlike the Mach Loop that we are familiar with in Wales. This is a bit less rainy, mind!

Father Crowley Memorial (Photo: Alec)

Onwards, we descended into the Panamint Valley, and promptly over Towne Pass to drop into Stovepipe Wells where it was suddenly pretty flipping hot! Soon, we passed Mesquite Sand Dunes which was fascinating to look at, and pulled into the visitor centre at Furnace Creek to buy the appropriate National Park pass, have a poke around the museum, and buy a fridge magnet. Yay, tourism!

Back in the car, we headed for Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America. What an awesome place. A massive flat expanse of salt, and 5 miles west are the lower slopes of the goliath Telescope Peak. We walked out into the Basin for a bit, but I couldn’t tell you how far. Maybe a bit less than a mile? It felt like an age, the car park was getting smaller, but the far side wasn’t getting any closer! A few pictures snapped and we headed back, keen to top up on fluids and think about lunch.

Power Stance in Badwater Basin (Photo: Alec)

On the way out we detoured on the Artists Drive, another wonderfully scenic road with plenty of points to stop off and gawk at the landscape (which we did). Barely a few miles later we pulled up at Zabriskie Point, which promised public toilets and an immense view over the basin some 300m below.

Textbook fluvial erosion (Photo: Alec)

In the car again, another half hour of mountains and flats, and the road surface suddenly changed. Ah, we had entered Nevada! A few more miles on the wheels, in the sparsely populated town of Pahrump, we stopped by Taco Bell for some more authentic American grub. It was cheap, edible, and (not to spoil things), it didn’t give me the shits either.

In the wagon one more time today, the last leg before the big city. Passing over the Mountain Springs Summit (a bizarre name for a pass), we were surrounded by limestone outcrops that were reminiscent of some Spanish sport paradise (I have never been to a Spanish sport paradise, so take that with many grains of salt), and I was getting excited for our first view of the city.

Unfortunately the nearby hills obscure any view of the skyline, so before we knew it we had entered suburbia. It was on the overpass getting onto the freeway that we got a proper view: high-rising casinos and resorts, all glistening in the sun, the ambience set by the occasional plane coming in to land at Harry Reid. A far cry from small town Bishop, where there was barely a building with more than two storeys!

We exited the freeway to find the appropriate cubic multistorey carpark for our hotel, parked up in said grey cube, and ambled on over to the pedestrian exit. I had almost forgotten that we’d booked into the gaudiest resort on the strip - Excalibur. If you’ve seen Shrek, then you basically know what this castle-cum-hotel looks like.

Just a completely normal hotel for normal people (Photo: Alec)

The ground floor is entirely dedicated to the casino, bright lights, lots of people, no clocks. The smell of tobacco is embedded in every inch of furniture, at which point I learned that indoor smoking was still allowed in many parts of the country. Yuck.

After checking in and freshening up in the room, Alec fancied a few rounds of blackjack, and I ordered the only drinks I would order from Excalibur: a small coke and a bottle of lager for Alec. It cost fucking EIGHTEEN dollars! I can’t remember for certain, but I don’t think I left a tip either. Most of my drink was ice cubes anyway, what a racket!

While I was having this brillant day relocating to a new area, my wife was also busy relocating - we were in the process of selling our house and this was the only suitable day that would get us in before Christmas. Typical! Let’s just say I owe her a few favours for pulling that off solo…

Day 10 - The Krafting (Kraft Boulders)

Our first day in Red Rocks was commenced by heading west out of the city for Dunkin’ Donuts, in which I bought some apple-cinnamon fritter thing which was quite delicious indeed, and more snacks for the ensuing day were acquired from the nearby service station. Yum!

Upon arrival at Kraft, the short walk-in leads to The Cube boulder, massively imposing, with tall lines soaring up all sides, the easiest of which is also the descent. While it is allegedly quite easy, it is also very much real climbing, so you’d want to keep your wits about you.

Sod that for now, let’s do some normal-height stuff. The Warm Up Boulder provides good landings and fine rock, so we hopped on Fluffer to get the fingers firing. Steady flashes all round, though it didn’t exactly feel piss for V2. A few feet over is Donkey Punch Right, which we thought would be a good progression. Wrong! It’s quite hard indeed. Fortunately it wasn’t reach that was giving us grief, but more just funny moves with holds that all sort of point the wrong way.

We spent a few minutes puzzling it, eventually finding what might be a feasible sequence, but decided we had sunk enough and fancied moving on to more classics…

And does it get more classic? Potato Chips is an infamous boulder, revered among all American climbers and even those further afield. Small crimps on a steep wall lead to the lip, quite outrageously small for the grade, I thought - yet the footholds are accomodating, and the crimps bite into the skin quite well, making them quite hard to fall off if one applies a little finesse. We both flashed this, cementing our places on the leaderboard of people who didn’t think it was a massive sandbag. What have Yanks ever done on grit?

A stone’s throw up the hill is another classic, though not quite as iconic it remains popular despite the weird name - Jones’n. Sit start on the right of a slightly overhanging rib, and blast out up and left on opposing sidepulls, tick tacking up until you can surmount the bulging topout. It was a bit harder than we expected, the holds are all decent, but again, the directions seemed a little weird, the friction appeared to be a little off.

The line left of Jones’n (Photo: Alec)

A few minutes of refining the sequence, rejigging the pads around the awkward stepped landing, and sussing the slightly spooky topout, and we were ready for redpoints. Uneventful, but still pleasantly enjoyable.

Feeling sufficiently warmed up, we carried on around the hillside in search of a specific classic I had known about for a few years. This is one that an American friend had tried to siege during a long trip, but couldn’t complete. Being the arrogant wanker I am, I thought I’d have a good crack at flashing it - Monkey Bar Direct.

I lined up the pads and gave the holds close inspection. The crux revolves around a pair of minging pockets, isolated in blankness, the next usable holds about a metre away. You lunge to them from a jug, lock a heel in and match. Then you lunge once more to a good finger edge, where easier terrain leads to the top. All seems quite straight forward.

I sat down, chalked up and took a deep breath. Hands on the jug, feet in place, I raised my arse off the floor ready to pull like a bastard. I coiled in and sprung out to the pocket with my right hand, grasping it a bit shallow. I moved my left heel into place near my left hand, and wedged it into place. The left hand came in for the match, and again, I caught it a bit shallow. I desperately tried to adjust my grip on both sides, but ran out of steam and plonked onto the deck.

Alright, pressure’s off, let’s figure this out. The right hand can be caught really nicely with a thumb, but this thumb occupies the space that the inbound left hand demands; it was possible to intricately piano the fingers into place, but I opted to just place the thumb elsewhere to keep it quick and straightforward. Next up was the big move to the finger edge. It was quite big indeed, but that wasn’t my issue. The left hand is just a bit shit! I couldn’t really get enough out of it to properly crank - a bit sloped, not much for a thumb, not really much choice for feet to improve the direction of force.

I think I just needed to be a bit stronger on that left hand. Fortunately, I had the excuse of neverending chronic injuries on that side, so it didn’t hurt much to let it go. It did, however, hurt to admit that Nick’s project is actually quite hard, and the experience of gunning for a flash and then never actually climbing it at all is always a humbling one.

Monkey Bars was a juggy consolation, starting left on big plates and dishes, before arcing rightwards to the same easy finish. I had a flash-or-trash punt on Monkey Bar Right as well, which went quite well, but alas, was not to be. I would have put money on doing it next go, but the rules of the game dictate that we must move on.

Move on, we did. Alec wandered off to try some other stuff, but I was lethargic. I sat down by Dog Leash Boy, chatting shit with some vandwellers (and their dog, Huck) who were trying that and the various nearby linkups. It was a pleasant way to spend an hour or so.

Soon, it started getting late, so I reconvened with Alec as he was sacking off Snake Eyes, and started heading back. The impeccably classic Angel Dyno caught my eye, and feeling recharged, I coaxed Alec into trying one more boulder before we left. The pads were down, the sun was low, the rock was high. Three pads was just enough for it, so I started throwing myself at it.

Thinking bouncy thoughts (Photo: Alec)

A couple easy low moves lead to a rail, then there are two distinct options: rock rightward to a puny sidepull and cross up into the big angled ledge, or lay on a fat leap to catch the ledge with a right hand gaston, holding a wide shouldery pose between the distant handholds. Obviously, I’m a lanky prick with an inability to use tiny holds, so I was quite partial to the dyno. After a few goes I had figured out my feet and was making some convincing slaps to the ledge, but not quite activating enough to stick to it. A group of Vegas locals emerged from the path to try it, bringing foam and (crucially) a bit of energy.

I whipped up the start and flailed my body up and right to the ledge, confidently grasping it and holding the swing. I was in! I placed my feet on and matched the ledge, pondering my next move. With the ledge facing a bit leftward, I was lulled into heading up and left for the appealling-looking lip. This turned out to be an error. It was flat, sloped, sandy, and completely featureless. Bollocks. I threw a heel up, thinking maybe that’ll give me the faith to rock it out - it did not. I reversed back, and opted to drop off.

The crowd were upset on my behalf, being emotive as Americans tend to be. Perhaps I was being a bit big-headed, but I just said, “If I can stick it once, I can stick it again”. There were subsequently two goes where I did, in fact, not stick it.

Then there was a third, where I did. This time I basked in the knowledge of going up and right like everyone else does, and practically campused up the jugs to get stood up on the ledge. What a dick, what a problem!

That evening we headed out to the strip for dinner, and went to the Shake Shack. A burger and a milkshake, does it get more American? More festivities at the hotel casino ensued. Although I was still not one to be participating in pissing money away, Alec was somehow on a streak and was up a hundred bucks or so, mighty impressive!

Day 11 - The Railing (Calico Basin)

Out west again in the morning, we stopped at a pancake place just next to yesterday’s Dunkin’, and it was a fine establishment. I had bacon and maple syrup, playing it safe and keeping it classic, though I couldn’t finish the six-pancake-deep full stack!

A light breakfast (Photo: Ross)

Sufficiently fueled, we headed up to Calico Basin, off the recommendation of yesterday’s acquaintences. We hiked up to Tickle Pickle, a photogenic line following flakes up a steep face. The rock quality was iffy, and the landing was a canted pain in the arse. It was enough to warm up on, though neither of us actually did more than a few moves in a row for fear of peeling off and bouncing down the slope into pointy rocks.

Further up the canyon we hiked, in search of The Dirty Rail and Picasso, the latter being situated gracefully on top of the former, more or less. Not feeling the desire to climb something that would be at home at The Dug Out, we layed the pads down under Picasso as the sun came round to greet us. It’s a fantastic line, though the holds that aren’t crumbly happen to be very slick and rounded, ideal circumstances for a boulder that is about to be in the sun for the rest of the day.

Trying to figure out Picasso (Photo: Alec)

We both pulled on and tried to make sense of it, but it was too tricky. Hard moves, and not obvious ones either. We didn’t stay long, I was definitely feeling the effects of cumulative fatigue after over a week of trying pretty hard on most days.

We stomped up a gully to find Snake Eye (not to be confused with the one in Kraft, though there might be some name conflict?), which promised nice slopers and good rock. While this was true, the landing left a bit to be desired. It was a bit rocky and loose, but importantly was angled downhill, so any uncontrolled fall could be pretty serious - attentive spotting necessary. Alec tried this for a little while, trying to unlock the cruxy sequence which turns the arête to gain the sloping leftward lip. Tired and shut down, we headed back down to think of our next plan…

The clean angled arête offers no holds (Photo: Alec)

Fortunately, a pair of climbers had turned up below The Dirty Rail, armed with a few pads, good beta and great banter. Great, let’s hang out here and try this with them!

The problem starts at the back of a cave, on the lower left end of the eponymous rail. Heels, toes, and more trickery (AKA big biceps) lead along the rail to its upper right terminus, where it meets a short vertical face and a choice of decent crimps to progress upwards. A few feet earlier there is a chance for a cruxier but less sustained exit, up the problem independantly known as Willy Nilly. As the rail narrows towards the end, squeezing fat fingers in becomes challenging, so I set my eyes on the aforementioned variant.

A confident flash go yielded a scrappy brawl that ended about three metres into the four metre long rail. Not bad, many efficiencies to be found, but it will be a battle against my fading power. More precise hand placements and conscious heel usage was the key for me, leaving me with enough in the tank to have a good go on the last hard moves, but it was just so tiring.

Eventually I figured out that I need my hands even further right, allowing space for a closer heel that locked in a bit better, meaning it could actually stay put after I blast out the roof to the lip. In isolation, it works, and in the absence of anything better I had to commit.

I started once more, whizzing through the early sections with pace and confidence. I soon found myself at the crux. With my heel close, I lunged out left for the flat edge in the roof. Catching it well, I sag back in, and lunge left once more to the edge on the lip. My heel stays on, and I wedge my right foot onto the rail to keep tension, then bring my right hand to the lip as well. Now all that remains is to keep my cool up the remaining easy moves and ignore the oncoming pump. Problem complete!

With a few hours left in the day, the others wanted to head back to Kraft to try The Bathtub, a Lynn Hill classic from the 80s. I was tired and happy to socialise, whereas Alec fancied his chances on the thin wall testpiece. They tried it for a while, piecing together radically differing sequences to capitalise on their own strengths. Alec stretched off an undercut to a tiny crescent hold and came in to match, before rocking up left where the difficulties continue. Unfortunately, he whiffed it and came crashing down onto the pads, where he twisted his ankle.

He had a few more goes to see how his body felt, but his fingers were waning. The ankle wasn’t severe, but I imagine it’s a knock to the confidence and wouldn’t help above a slightly iffy landing. As much as we all wanted him to do it, he chose to abandon it.

Now, I seem to have gotten into this pattern of trying hard in the morning, having a slow afternoon, then trying hard again on something in the evening. This time was no different, as I had eyed up the stout My Tan, a ferocious problem with a mean crux straight off the deck.

I prepped the holds and started trying. The right hand starts on a small incut edge, maybe 12mm or so. Mean stuff. The left hand is slightly more pleasant, though slopier and less usable. There is a choice of smeary footholds to launch you up to the next hold, a flat three-finger one-pad edge about a mile away. I pulled on with a left foot on a dinky smear, and dropped off. Obviously I need to warm back up. I repeated this a few times, then started to pull a bit, getting closer and closer to the hold until I was hitting it reliably, though not with much conviction.

It was a hard catch. A one move V7, more or less. The hold wasn’t too small, but the angle meant that any outward swing makes it difficult to latch. I started French-starting it to eliminate said swing: right hand on the little crimp, and jump! Within a couple of attempts I had caught it, and it was decent. I had a couple more goes to figure out my top sequence: a high right foot, rock up into more edges and then steady-looking breaks to the top. I dropped off and started trying it properly once more.

Another few attempts later, I hit it real sweet. My body swung out, but my fingers remained firmly stuck on the holds. I planted my right foot on the predetermined right foot, and tick-tacked my way up the wall to a slightly high topout. Class. Completely opposite style to The Dirty Rail from a few hours earlier!

Back into the city, we headed back to the strip for food. This time was what we now know as our favourite establishment from the trip, The Crack Shack. If you like chicken, these guys do it right. Tenders, burgers, whatever, it’s good. World-class fries as well, absolute magic. Fuck. This restaurant is the strongest force that might get me to come back to Las Vegas.

Day 12 - The Wrenching (Red Springs)

The final climbing day of the trip was upon us. Our bodies were certainly ready for a rest. Alec’s ankle was doing well enough to climb with a bit of care, which was appreciated. Our choice for today was Red Springs, based on another recommendation but this time we had also approved it from a read of the guidebook.

First, though, breakfast! This time we stopped at a small coffee house on the outskirts, in search of something a bit less American. I had a pain au chocolat, which after some confusing interaction with the staff is apparently called a “chocolate croissant”? Bollocks, is it! Croissants are crescent-shaped! It’s what croissant actually means! What an abomination. That said, it was a tasty abomination.

Bellies full, we marched into the crag, heading directly for the classic Monkey Wrench. What is it about this area naming things about monkeys and snakes? Anyway, we threw the pads down under it and got to work. I quickly pieced together a sequence which I have sinced learned nobody else does.

Conventionally, people bust out right and right again to gain a decent jug. Then they head straight up over the bulge to the array of dinky features which are all equally unhelpful. I, on the other hand, busted up and right to a crimp, and locked up and left to the bulge, a couple feet left of where most people do it. I lay my left hand on a beautiful micro sloper and bump my right up to a shallow dish above the lip. Next, I bump my left hand up to the top sloping edge of a quirky snowman-shaped hold, which apparently most people pinch the life out of. I then drop my right hand slightly and move my right foot up, then rock up right hand to a poor dink, then throw my right again to slam-dunk into the base of a good runnel.

Intense beta spray complete, all that remains is a gentle quest up a few metres of slab. Lovely. I am proud of my stupid eliminate beta, I feel that it is a way of climbing something very Britishly. That is, eliminating nearby holds that seem a bit too helpful. That said, the hard bit was still turning the bulge, so realistically the difficulty was not too affected.

Alec wandered off to find a peaceful ankle-friendly circuit, and I admired the lines on the other side of the boulder. Some of them looked decent, but I had completed my goal for the day and was just happy to relax a bit.

I wandered down a bit, and chatted with a Montanan lady. I can’t remember her name or barely anything that we talked about, but I do remember that the topics were broad and interesting, but in a fashion that was a little mundane, but captivating and warming. Typical crag small talk, I suppose, but it feels different out here so far from home. The only specific detail I remember is that she wished us well on our house move, for which I thanked her, of course.

She was trying Bare Knuckles, a fiesty little number, blasting out of a low roof on small crimps. Think Potato Chips, but way steeper. Just next to it I climbed Bugs Bunny and Slot to Slab to enjoy a some steady movement, anticipating that I might fancy a go on more hard moves.

She showed me the holds and I ran the calculations in my head to determine if I had the beans. I pulled on and cranked up left to crimp number one, barely keeping my feet planted. I threw up right to catch a good break, and then I was up the easy arête to finish. Fair play, that was quite hard. I’m certain she did that problem after I left, as she had managed the individual moves, it was looking like a goer.

I headed back to the car and waited for Alec. We had agreed a set time to be back at the car, and he was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t have any phone signal, nor did my contract give me any minutes or data in the US anyway. My assumption was that he had spannered his ankle worse and needed a hand getting back. Just as I was getting ready to stash my pads under the car and get hiking, he emerged from the brush and I breathed a sigh of relief.

That evening, we headed out onto the strip again for dinner. The crews were setting up the streets for the Formula One, set to take place in a few days time. It was fascinating to look at, the well graded tarmac, the crash barriers, the pedestrian bridges surrounded with opaque material to prevent any freeloaders from getting a view of the race.

Las Vegas (Photo: Alec)

We wandered about 2 miles up the strip, failing to spot any promising dinner spots. It was all casinos and consumption. We walked back on the other side of the road, hoping to find something else, but against all odds we ended up back at The Crack Shack. We didn’t complain. I cannot overstate how good this place was. When you consider that we only had four evenings in Vegas, spending two of them at the same restaurant means it’s damn good. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not fine dining, but it’s quality grub.

Day 13 - The Returning (Calico Ghost Town and LAX)

The last day was upon us. A day of general travel faffery. The most appropriate breakfast for our final day was, of course, pancakes. We checked out of the hotel and went to a Babystacks on the south end of town, where I had a stack with the “Banana Cream Pie” toppings, which was devilishly delicious, if a bit sickly. I learned from my earlier mistake and ordered the half-stack, with only three pancakes rather than six.

Full of sugar, we zipped into the car and made our way back to LA. Almost perfectly between Las Vegas and Los Angeles is the Calico Ghost Town, a former mining town which was abandoned in the late 1800s after the value of silver had declined too far for business to be feasible.

It’s a fascinating place, and while it is a bit gift-shoppy, we had a lovely time.

Calico’s restaurant (Photo: Alec)

After a corndog and fries for lunch, we continued westward towards LA, to return Griff’s pads (plus beers as payment), the hire car, and get started with the airport faffery. The faff was quite minimal, all things considered. The pads that we bought out there were oversized but fell under the category of “sports equipment”, meaning that despite the size there was no extra charge. Nice one BA!

Calico Corn Dog (Photo: Ross)

The airport itself was busy, as expected on a Friday evening, meaning that my KFC order was a bit delayed. For a little while I was concerned I might have to ditch it to get to the gate, but it arrived and I scoffed it down in time for boarding.

The call came, we boarded the A380 in our respective groups. Luckily this time I was blessed with an aisle seat, so I could stretch my legs a bit more - imperative for a decent night’s sleep! I was seated next to a very chatty South African lady called Lisa, who was on her way to see some friends in Kent, and hoped for minimal delays in transport to get there the following evening for a party. An just next to her, in the window, was a nice lad from Chelsea (his name escaped me!) who is grafting in LA to work his way up in some big record label. We chatted for a bit as we flew northeastwards, talking about our lives, our work, our plans, our families, et cetera. A surprising experience given that most travellers just want to quietly watch something on their phone, and keep themselves to themselves.

Before long, the lights went low, and it was time to pull my souvenir Eastside Sports beanie over my eyes and catch a few hours of sleep.

Day 14 - Still Returning… (England)

I awoke somewhere over Greenland. It was pretty dark, though there was a vague dawn on the horizon. I think I had slept for maybe five hours, with one or two interruptions. Not bad for a first red-eye flight! I quietly played some games and enjoyed orange juice provided by the cabin crew. Most other travellers were still asleep for perhaps another two hours, but I was a bit too awake to go back to sleep. More games and juice, and looking at the in-flight map thing to see whereabouts we were over the North Atlantic.

Soon people were waking up and heading over for their morning loo visits, and breakfast chat ensued until we began our descent to a grey, rainy, drizzly, miserable Heathrow. The landing was uneventful, and the passport control was a bit slow, though not extraordinarily so in this post-Brexit nation.

Next, we waited at the oversized bit of the baggage claim, which felt like hours, to collect our sports equipment. It soon arrived, and we did the usual airport shuttle rigamarole in the bitter damp weather to get back to the van, throw the pads in and begin the 3 hour slog home.

A missed exit on the gyratory outside of the car park frustratingly added a few minutes of totally unnecessary transit, and after than within maybe half an hour I was beginning to feel a bit fatigued. The orange lights and tiring rain did not do much to keep me alert, so I cracked open the emergency energy drink that I keep in the glovebox. This didn’t really do a fat lot, so surely I must just be a bit hungry? We pulled into the next service station and grabbed a KFC.

This, also, did not do much. DJ Alec was playing some relaxed electronic music, which wasn’t helping my condition, so for the good of the journey, I decided that I needed something a bit more boistrous and lyrical to keep me awake: DRAGONFORCE!

It worked an absolute treat at the cost of Alec’s sanity, but after an enjoyable/torturous (delete as applicable) remainder, I dropped Alec off, and drove myself home - but not the same home from which I departed, of course! A massive thanks again to Lucy for moving house while I was touching cool rocks.