August 10, 2003
Salt Lake City, Utah, USA

11:20am I'm rubbing my eyes having just woken up after the second night of costume partying till 3am. Friday night, at the first party, I overheard Tony trying to convince Jason to crank up a 10 pitch route in Little Cottonwood Canyon, getting up at 5:30am, in about four hours time, so Tony could be on the road to City of Rocks by 1pm. It sounded crazy; just the kind of mission I've been looking for, so I volunteered with, "I'm in! My gear is in the car."

I crashed on the couch at Tony's. We woke to dark gray clouds, thunder and lighting, and it started raining during the drive, but when we got there the cliff was dry and nothing but blue sky.

7:30am on the rock, shady and cool, we ascended 5.8 cracks up a steep gully for four pitches(50m rope lengths), on then followed an arete to a slabby sea of granite with killer exposure and twenty foot run-outs between the bolts. Steep and smooth, the slab rarely had edges for hand holds. Leading first up the slab, I unknowingly passed the regular belay station and was soon faced with seriously heavy rope drag pulling me down. Ten feet out from a bolt, feet smearing dishes, literally holding on by fingernails, a chip broke and I fell 20 feet but wasn't hurt. Resting at the bolt again I called Tony on the two-way radio asking how much rope I had left, which he replied was about 20 feet. The next belay station was at least 50 feet up, so I asked if was cool to belay off the bolt. "Two people on one bolt… no way!" He answered. "When you run out of rope we'll simul-climb."

Not wearing a helmet, I was scared thinking that if I fall and the rope rapped around my leg it would toss me head first into the wall. I had to do it, even though I had doubts. I've heard it is only an adventure when you're not sure what is going to happen.

Slab climbing is like a cat on the prowl, stocking the next secure stance. No sudden moves, everything is very slow and delicate. Each foot placement is presice and choreographed like dance in slow motion.

Every fifteen feet there were a cluster of round stones that protruded out from the stab where I could rest and clip-in. In the 70's, George Lowe drilled the bolts by hand. That'd be hard-core balancing with one foot on a bump, hammering away at granite twenty feet above the last thin little piece of metal you tacked on to the wall, which if doesn't hold, could be your death.

I finished the pitch without falls, cheating only once by stepping on a bolt. After another pitch, one pitch below the top, we rapped down instead of doing a long walk-off and got on the road by 11:30am.