We're sitting in Taqueria Las Palmas, it's about 8pm, and a large group of us are noshing on chips and fresh salsa waiting for our overly large burritos. It was a good day; we met the folks with whom we are dining at the strikingly obvious line of Iron Man, which I flash, if perhaps with an awkward topout which Clarrie makes look much better. We try a few odds and ends on this rock, including an attempt at the ridiculous dyno of Iron Fly, but instead we move on
We're eating Mexican again at another Taqueria, which we've just caught as they close. It isn't as good as the night before, but we're hungry and it's late. We'd left the Happy boulders with it dark enough to see my my shadow from the moon, forgetting that in smaller towns, the food options shrink as the night wears on.
We had wandered up a Heavenly Path, had a brief sip of Red Rum, before catching some rays at Solarium, and battling The Hulk. This place was amazing. Having only really climbed in Squamish where a "good landing" might mean death or dismemberment if you sneeze at the wrong time, here the landings were flat; the topouts had holds.
The sun beat down on us as we wound down the day looking at a problem that, despite its Squamish stylings, had bested Gerry every time: Rave. We all took a look at the standing start version, which Andrew completed with some lovely vocal accompaniment. A quick look at the low start to Grindrite found us wandering down a dark path home.
We're eating store food and leftovers, cold inside the car. It is windy, it is freezing out there. Our choice of rest days was a good one, as it turns out, as we would have had to weigh down the pads with the very rocks we were trying to cover if we wanted them to stay in place.
Still, all was not lost. We took coffee in the morning, we saw photos, and we made our way out to an empty field, 8000ft of elevation where someone had cleverly built a concrete tub to take advantage of the natural hot springs nearby. It was frigid out there--walking (nay, running) the 200m from the car to the tub was painful, but the reward at the end worth it.
We're at happy hour at Whiskey Creek, our trip coming to a sooner and than we'd planned. The food is good, as is the beer and the company, but there is a weight over the table, a gloom.
We'd started out at the Birthday boulder. There are nice warmups there, and we'd intended to go from there to Fly Boy, and then off to High Plains Drifter and perhaps even Soul Slinger.
Up at Fly Boy, we met a moderately famous climber whose girlfriend was working the sit start to this climb. They had brought enough pads that it looked like a bouldering gym, so we decided to take advantage of this rare chance.
Andrew hopped on the easier version of the climb pulled up and into the crux move, and...
Pop.
Pop.
He hopped down, and his fingers didn't hurt, but none of us quite knew what to make of that sound. As the ache set in, it became clear that something had gone wrong on his attempt. A ruptured pulley, perhaps? How serious?
Nevertheless, we climbed for a little while, soberly, and Clarrie managed to send the climb in grand style, which I sadly could not.
We're at a casino north of Reno, we're on our way home. I still don't understand what exactly they mean by Country Gravy, a strange white and bland sauce that seems to go with many things. Our trip was shorter than anticipated, but we could not climb for two more days while Andrew nursed his fingers. A relaxed trip home, a stop at Powell's in Portland, and we are home at 2am in Vancouver.
There will be other such trips.
