It was Wednesday, and Phil and I had decided the night before to head to First Creek Canyon to try the three-pitch 5.fun Rising Moons. The other boys had been climbing hard, multi-pitch since Saturday, and since Phil and I had just arrived on Monday, we left the others to their well-deserved day off.
The forecast was calling for a chance of rain, so we threw some rain gear in our packs and headed out. The first pitch of Rising Moons is a gorgeous but too short chimney, completely smooth on the back wall with just enough features on the sides to make you wish it was 100 feet instead of 20 feet. Before heading up, Phil and I took one last glance at the route description and then stuffed it into our packs, which we carefully stashed in a nice little alcove to keep dry in case of rain.
I headed up the chimney and about half way up, found the perfect spot for a hex. I hadn’t placed many hexes in my day (none to be exact) but had taken a set with me after hearing Andrew tout their amazing powers. He was right. The hex slotted into this notch so perfectly I thought I heard angels sing.
A few moves brought me out of the chimney and around a corner where a nice tree helped me bring up Phil. We were laughing and talking about how much we enjoyed the chimney that we didn’t notice the precipitation that had started to fall. We got set up on a big ledge for the second pitch and I headed up still thinking about that shiny hex in its cozy home. The second pitch was easy going and I had a few pieces in, the last being a slung chicken head. After that I traversed right a bit, seeing a crack that looked liked it might take pieces a bit better than my current trajectory. I had traversed quite a few feet and was anxious to get something in. I slotted a nut into what would normally be a bomber tapered groove, but as I tested it, I could sense the sandstone wanting to give. It was at this moment that I realized why it wanted to do so. The rock was completely soaked and as I looked down at Phil, I realized we were in the midst of some freak snow/sleet downpour. At the same time, I realized that my hands were numb and that I could barely see Phil through the swirling whiteness.
I was not at all happy with this nut, and fairly confident it would bust through the notch it was sitting in if I fell on it. I went a bit higher and quickly got a .5 cam in. Silent until now, I called down to Phil with the suggestion of backing off. He was in full agreement as by this time ice water was running down the rock, the rope was soaked, and we were both shivering with frozen hands. I left the cam, and down-climbed, removing the other pieces as I went.
I should note at this point that between the two of us, Phil and I own enough gear to sew up a 5-foot crack. Our friend Dave, who was not able to make the trip, generously loaned us a portion of his gear, the total of which could stock a small gear store. I didn’t know it at the time, but Dave is very fond of and particular about his gear. He sacrificed a lot to obtain it. I have since learned that we can be packing up at some crag, with 50 pieces laying in all directions and Dave will take one glance and say “I’m missing a .3”. Sure enough, that .3 would be hanging on the back of your harness. He’s like a magician.
So, when Phil said no in response to my comment about leaving the piece behind and getting out of there, I was a bit surprised. He said, “I’ll go up and get it.” I asked him if he was sure. I asked him again. I asked him three times. But he was steadfast in his responses. I put him on belay and up he went, ignoring the cold and the freezing wetness. He reached the cam, put it on his harness, and carefully climbed back down. All the time (I learned later) with the water running over his hands and into his sleeves, soaking him completely. I was thoroughly impressed with his bravery, and once he was back to the ledge, I was able to relax.
We quickly gathered up the rope and rappelled down with the snowsleet still coming down hard. When we got to the bottom, we discovered that our cleverly stashed packs were completely drenched. Apparently our alcove had a nice little funnel near the top, which directed the weather right to our packs. If we were trying to collect water on a desert island, we couldn’t have planned it any better. Nothing for it but to pack wet into wet and start down to the trail. The weather soon improved, but the rope was a continuous reminder of our adventure, as it began to dry itself at my expense.
We would come to find out several days later that we were off-route on that second pitch. But right now, we were off-route on the hike out. Even after reading the guide-book description to stay out of the wash, we inevitably found ourselves in it. We would work ourselves back out, only to be corralled back in somehow. It got to be a bit ridiculous after awhile, perhaps the canyon sensed our unfinished business and was reluctant to let us leave. But even with this bit of desert bushwhacking, our moods were lightened by thoughts of hot showers and cold beers, and we were soon back at the car. Not long after that we met up with the boys at Shucks Tavern and were enjoying some warm food, pints, and good company.