Colorado RIP

Ely is a historic town, from the Lincoln 50 Highway to the Hotel Nevada & Gambling Hall. The hotel was completed in 1929 and was at the time not only the tallest building in Nevada due to its six stories but also the first fire-proof building in the state. Unfortunately, we are staying across the street, far away from the gambling, the blue haired ladies smoking cigarettes next to their oxygen tanks, and the life sized wood carved cowboys.

Ely is halfway between Rifle and Toulumne. It's 400 miles too close to Colorado and 400 miles too far from California. The scene in Rifle is a social vortex and I was quickly swallowed by the drama.

A bachelorette party crammed into a tiny blue Mustang sports car, making the engine growl and the stereo bump as they drove into the narrow limestone ditch. The silver and pumpkin streaked cliffs make a two mile corridor only a hundred yards wide; sound bounces between the walls and the hens' cheeps proceeded them to the Anti-phil Wall. The women hopped across the meter wide creek to the base of the crag. A rope, a Gri-gris and half a dozen pairs of shoes were spilled at the base as the group giggled, and skipped their way up the difficult routes. Angele hiked through the crux of I Am Not A Philistine, a technical 5.12c, while Monica worked out the moves on Easy Skankin', a long 12b. Cassy shouted encouragement, waiting for her chance to fire.

Further up the canyon, below the Project Wall a slinky tassel paced, a fat purple stripe ran along her knee high socks, which were pulled over shiny spandex pants. She was straight out of Disney's TRON. Accessorizing with a cigarette and a Jackie Brown stance, Ally was representing the Boulder Hipsters. Next to her, Herm stood staring at Simply Read, a steep and technical 13d. He squinted, looking halfway up the cliff, his hands pantomimed a complex sequence of side pulls and crimps. The middle-aged Clark Kent had been sieging the route, dialing out the minutiae of the gymnastics. He pushed his Buddy Holly glasses up his nose and gave a slight smile. "Next try."

At the warm-up cliff, a young lady sat next to me, her eyes gushing out tears as she balled. Her boyfriend had shut her out of his van. He wanted to rock climb more and didn't have time for her, they could still share a campsite though. In the middle of the canyon a group of Rock & Ice's Tuesday Night Bouldering listened as Andrew Bisharat defined his controversial phrase "Jesus Christ on a pogostick" At the Ruckman cave, a douche bag swung from the middle of Pinch Fest shouting to his friends below, "As soon as I get to the top, I'll fix a line, and someone can videotape my send." He adjusted his headband and flexed, a real hard man.

My feeble mind had a hard time overcoming all the distractions but I tried to focus on the climbing. Fossil Family, a popular easy 5.12 in the Winchester Cave, features classic Rifle polish. The handholds are greasy and smooth, regular soap. My shoes skidded on the bars of Dove, as my fingers slid on the holds. The crux was below me but the pump in my forearms was overwhelming. A quick-draw hung in my face mocking me. The holds beyond it would offer a reprieve from the difficulties, but the energy to clip the rope left me seven feet below me at the last bolt. I started sport climbing. My hand shot to a small edge, as I moved past the draw. Five fingers hit the crimp and promptly slide off. Hurling towards the ground, I cowered into a small ball. Alex reeled in an armful of slack arresting my fall three feet from the ground. Sport climbing is scary.

My days consisted of eight or nine sport pitches a day with a rest day following two climbing days. The weather in the canyon was warm, not ideal for sending but perfectly adequate for a reconnaissance trip. The rock was not sharp, my fingertips weren't worn, but the grease of the holds coupled with steepness made my forearms throb at night. I'd say that I sent the gnar in Rifle but I'd be lying. I could rock climb out there but onsighting, doing routes first try without any knowledge, is difficult in Rifle. Anything resembling a hold is covered in chalk and the sequences are deceptive and technical. Even flashing routes, hearing the spray down from the locals, was difficult. Rifle is a place to project, to work a difficult route into submission. This is not an easy task unless one has a fair amount of time and patience. I had plenty of the former but none of the latter for a climbing area with such a scene. Still I made one attempt at a project.

Stepping out of the car at the Arsenal my eyes met those of a beautiful young lady standing below Vitamin D. With a smile that'd melt Antarctica, and a Coke bottle body, Katie Brown had all the right weaponry. I gave her a dumb, blank look as my tongue hit the gravel. After shoveling my tongue back into my mouth, I shuffled past her, ignoring her "Hello", and feeling gripped at the sport crag. A few minutes later I struggled on the technical knee scum of Pretty Hate Machine. I tried working out the moves but ultimately pulled through and went to the anchor. After lowering to the ground I walked towards Vitamin D, to talk to Katie but as I reached the base I heard a car pull out, and the elusive Ms. Brown split. I'll have to go back to get after that Pretty Little Hate Machine..

I left Rifle shortly after. The quiet serenity of Toulumne beckoned. It'd be good to go spend more time in Rifle, it's not all bad. It's definitely better than Ely.