Adventures in the Swell

The San Rafael Swell in central Utah is, arguably, one of the more remote and--largely--untouched wilderness areas in the state.  Though there are a great many other Utah landmarks--such as Arches and Canyonlands National Parks--that are, perhaps, better known, the "Swell" is, undoubtedly, the preferred destination for climbers seeking total solitude and full-value adventure.  I was fortunate to have shared two action-packed days with none other than Paul Ross, prolific adventure-first ascensionist, amateur naturalist, breeder of champion Jack Russell terriers, Renaissance man and a living climbing legend--he's also my boss Andy's old man.  With routes to his credit spread across the UK, the French Alps, North Africa, New England and--most recently--the desert Southwest, Paul's what I'd call, the climber's climber--at 76, he's still opening new lines, often in bold, ground-up style, and with more tenacity than climbers a quarter of his age.  He's been at it pretty much non-stop for over six decades, having witnessed the world of climbing change dramatically since the very first time he tied into a rope.  As much as I know to what extent he'd abhor me saying it, Paul--not to mention his son, Andy--is a personal hero of mine, and I'm still sort of buzzing from our time together.
In two short days, we:
opened three new multi-pitch routes, drilled on-the-lead from stances
rescued two toads, a garter snake and juvenile rattler from a deep pothole in the slot-canyon portion of our approach
witnessed two Peregrine falcons hunt mourning doves, both diving at full speed from high above us--we were well off-the-deck ourselves, a few pitches up on the wall
camped with the full moon shining so brightly that we didn't need headlamps
sat in lawn chairs and drank wine, watching lightning strike all around us in the vast desert--I've never seen so much lightning all-at-once in all my life!
bailed from our final route just moments before the skies opened up and a huge thunderstorm engulfed the Eastern Reef slabs

Thanks to Andy and to Paul for an incredible introduction to the area!

Annus Mirabilis

From the Latin, meaning "year of wonder," or, "year of miracles," I'm borrowing this phrase to name a new route we completed yesterday, just one of three FAs this week.  About a month ago, our friend, Andy, needed some help in documenting a long-neglected zone in Little Cottonwood for his upcoming guidebook project. Despite its proximity to the road, for whatever reason, the area had eluded other first-ascensionists--a rare thing in this town, as the Salt Lake valley is home to, perhaps, the highest concentration of climbers and of climbing talent in the country...  Take that, Boulder!  Anyways, it was during this early recon that I spotted several lines, all of which--through my binoculars--appeared to boast some of the best rock quality in the canyon, made evident by its orange-pink color.  And so it all started, in earnest, last Saturday; Georgia Shaun and I set out early to explore the area, and, after spending the better part of the morning unable to forge a new line without the use of bolts, we decided to go at it the old-fashioned way and hoof it.  Had we been successful in opening the initial pitch--in other words, had I not been so stubborn and brought the hand drill--we would have climbed right to the base of the intended buttress; instead, Shaun and I endured several hundred vertical feet of sketchy, unroped "adventure-neering," as Andy calls it, to finally reach the base.  Uncertain whether we'd have enough daylight to complete the first ascent, we admired the views for awhile until my ambition got the better of me and I rushed to rack up and tie in--it was nearly 3:30 in the afternoon, and we were going for it!  Here's what we put up that day; I have yet to decide on a name for the route, and I suppose that as it's an unclimbed feature, I get to christen it whatever I wish.  But I'm not quite there, yet. 

The following Monday, Coby and I revisited the zone, and I tried to open the independent, left-hand line, on-sight.  I fell at the roof, which, on Thursday, I finally sent with my buddy, Tyler.  Both lines are of superb quality, in every respect--great, remote position, excellent rock and stellar movement...  What more could one ask for? 

And just when I thought, "how can I be so lucky, to discover an unclimbed--and very aesthetic--feature in a canyon that's been crawling with strong, imaginative climbers for decades?"--BAM!!!  There it was:  a pillar of perfect, pink-orange granite, separate from any other known formation, complete with its own mini-summit!  I spied what appeared to be a reasonable weakness, and after hours of examining zoomed-in digital images on the laptop, and peering endlessly through my binos, I asked my boss, Andy Ross, to join me in climbing it.  Yesterday, with the help of our friend Gene, it all came together:  a new and challenging route, on a formation that's remained untouched by humans--let alone climbers--until just before five in the afternoon, when, fighting the jitters, I launched into the insecure liebacks of the upper headwall and managed, just barely, to top out above the difficulties and clip the anchor.  Annus Mirabilis, 5.11, Andy Ross, Gene Vallee, Shingo Ohkawa, 4 June, 2011--how better to celebrate what has, no doubt, been one hell of a year, not just for new routes and for climbing, but for life, in general! 

 Here's a pic from our first recon; on our way down, a light rain made capturing a clear image a bit difficult, but as you can see, it's a bit steeper than what the next image suggests--once on the route, however, the climbing is quite a bit steeper!

YAARRR!