The first in a series of adventures of the Twenty-nine Palms Gypsies…
Although your world wonders me,
With your majestic and superior cackling hen
Your people I do not understand,
So to you I shall put an end
And you’ll never hear surf music again
– J. Hendrix
I have a pretty good memory; it’s just that it’s terribly short at times. I can’t recall exactly, but I’m sure it was back in early autumn of 2009 or thereabouts when the call to arms went out. Originally there were at least fourteen people who were considering joining in this little adventure, but due to various and sundry attritions our number dwindled over time to just four. Just as well too. Can you imagine having to wrangle that many climbers? Our ragtag little band took our informal name from the town closest to our destination. Twenty-nine Palms; is a typical California desert town, on the edge of despair and yet also on the edge of Joshua Tree National Park. For those of you musically inclined Twenty-nine Palms was also the home of the King of the Surf Guitar – Dick Dale. Although we had bandied about various locales for this midwinter escapade, J-Tree made the most sense and won out in the long run. None of us had climbed there before; it had the best potential for good winter weather, world class climbing, and maybe, as it turned out, even more importantly; the magic of the desert and the magic of its history. We would be humbly and in our own simple and limited fashion, covering some of the same ground as some of the legends of our lifestyle: John Long, Jon Yablonski, John Bachar, and many others. Now in the spirit of full disclosure let me be totally and abundantly clear that none of our groups climbing expertise should ever be confused with that of those guys; not even close, yet there is some small barely discernable thread that does somehow connect all of us who climb, regardless of ability or type of climbing.
I remember that it was amidst nasty mid-west winter snowstorms and some of the usual bullshit of world politics that we set out on Christmas Day and Boxing Day to finally gather in Las Vegas late on the 26th. Renee and I had packed as if for a siege, and had to stumble through the airports with laborious awkwardness, combined with a blend of some comedy and Spartan effort. Caleb and Kevin by contrast seem to have packed as if for a poorly planned picnic.
The recommendation for warriors is not to have any material things on which to focus their power, but to focus it on the spirit, on the true flight into the unknown, not on trivialities. Everyone who wants to follow the warrior’s path has to rid himself of the compulsion to possess and hold onto things.
-don Juan
We made some stops in Vegas to pick up some last minute gear at REI and some groceries and by late afternoon we were finally on the road. Renee aimed the truck into the rapidly setting cold winter sun and drove us into the heart of the Mojave and towards the gathering darkness. We eschewed the main highways and took to the back roads, past places like Cima, Kelso, and Amboy. The miles and hours passed and late evening found us pulling into campsite 12 at Indian Cove. We hastily set up camp, Renee, Caleb, and Kevin opting for tents, while I chose the hard ground to lie on, and the hard night sky and stars to sleep under. The excitement was electric and we were as giddy as a bunch of schoolgirls. We probably weren’t making friends with any of our neighbours at this hour. We were scrambling around by headlamp on the boulders that back-dropped our little camp, and Caleb even wanted to break out the gear and do a climb right then and there. In retrospect, it’s a shame we didn’t. Only once the rush dwindled a little, did we notice something… it was cold…very cold.
Camp
The night was long and after shivering and teeth chattering for seemingly interminable ages, day finally dawned…cold…very cold. Coffee of course would be the first order of business, and then some grub. With cold toes and numb fingers we fumbled with the stoves, coaxing them to life, heating the much-needed water for our dearly loved French Presses. The aroma of the brewing coffee cut through the crisp, chill of dawn. The smoky scent alone was amazing; intoxicating, mixed with the dry desert air, but it was the first mouthful of the elixir that we craved. Soon enough it was coursing through our veins doing its intended job. It was early still. The sky was a flawless winter blue, but the sun was not over the hills yet; still cold. But we knew that it wouldn’t be long now. And sure enough the sun mercifully raised its head into sight and smiled upon us.
OW Jammin’
That was the sign we had been waiting for. We hastily grabbed our gear and made our way to the first climbs. It was a burly approach, possibly taking sixty seconds over flat ground from our campsite. Now, with the sun out it warmed up quickly and we could move about in short sleeve shirts. The rock was of course the legendary cheese grater granite we had heard so much about, waiting to make a tasty meal out of our soft, citified flesh, but to us it was as if we were actually touching the stone of some famous statue. The day was spent trading leads on a number of excellent short single pitch crack climbs.The climbing was solid and with bomber gear placements.
Renee channeling her inner offwidth
Renee going long…
We only had a reservation here for a single night and for some reason I can’t recall it was becoming problematic for us to book another, so taking after our name we pulled up stakes and headed on. We had hoped to stay in Hidden Valley but the campground there was of course booked solid, by the real hardcore desert rats, so we settled upon Jumbo Rocks as our next camp. It was over a full 300 metres higher than our previous site and of course correspondingly colder. We ended up with a great campsite nestled up against some giant boulders where we spent three more nights, and on each of those nights the coyotes would raucously serenade us to sleep, as we were trying to will some warmth into our sleeping bags, and plan our days ahead…
Playlist:
Katie Mae – Grateful Dead
Last Trip to Tulsa – Neil Young
Third Stone from the Sun – Dick Dale
Jamming – Bob Marley