And to the south, north and west, nothing but red rock, red sand, red river (the Colorado). Arches and Canyonlands National Parks are here, Indian Creek is here, and canyons inscribed with petroglyphs and pictographs wind into the red hills and sandstone domes. (by the way, a pictograph uses paint, while a petroglyph is actually carved into the rock. Here you can see me looking at newspaper rock...which is a beautiful series of petroglyphs, though I spent 3.2 seconds looking at it before whining about getting back in the car to continue on to Indian Creek to go climbing).
Speaking of, a whole posse of people arrived on Friday night at the house where I'm staying, and after playing didgeridoos, harmonicas, guitars and mandolins late into the night, we woke up relatively early Saturday morning, packed up our gear, and drove the quick hour to one of my favorite places in the world, Indian Creek, Utah.
We spent a beautiful Saturday at the Cat Wall, one of the more popular cliffs, but we had the place more or less to ourselves. In the sun, we were able to climb sans shirts and absorb some vitamin D. Of course, I forgot my camera this time, but here is an idea of what the climbing looks like from a photo taken of my housemate Ben last fall:
Essentially, Indian Creek is all about crack climbing. There are few, if any, holds on the face of the rock, so instead you cram your hands, fingers and fists (along with your feet and sometimes your knees) into cracks that split the rock for what seems like miles and miles.
Just as I was finishing up leading Deseret Moon, a 130 foot route that thoroughly kicked my ass (but was also the hardest route I've done at Indian Creek, so I felt like hurling and smiling at the same time) very ominous clouds started moving in from the south. As we were packing up and heading down the trail, vicious winds started blowing, and the horizon was obscured by black clouds, only to be illuminated by jagged bolts of lighting just past the six shooter towers. We whooped and hollered our way down the trail to the cars, arriving just in time to beat a torrential downpour. I drove to our campsite in my friend Bobby's beat up and dilapidated Volvo station wagon. The drive was extra exciting because his windshield wipers don't work, but we managed to find the muddy road that brought us to a motley collection of vans, SUVs, and tarps draped over bushes. It looked like some sort of eastern european refugee camp, and I wouldn't have known where I was, except for the drum circle beating out a lazy beat beneath a tattered blue awning.
Some of the guys who came with us cooked a big pot of venison stirfry, so I filled my empty stomach with this delicious (and free) dinner, and then spent a few hours shooting the breeze in the back of the Volvo, before setting up my tent and settling down for a long winter's nap, which is ironic because at some point the steady rain turned to wet snow, and I awoke to an alien world cloaked in three inches of fresh white stuff.
When my fellow refugees emerged from the backs of their cars and suvs, shedding blankets and sleeping bags, we made a simple breakfast of banana bread and graham crakers and, dazed, drove back to town. With bruised, battered and bleeding hands, the souvenirs of hours spent crack climbing, we drummed the dashboard to bluegrass and dreamt of the day when the weather would clear and we'd be coming back to the Creek. In fact, that day is tomorrow! Well, I'm off to rub salve on the wounds and pack my gear.
Be good, and be good to yourselves.
Lots o' love,
Connor
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