Dirtbag Or Not, Here I Come

Two and a half weeks seemed like plenty of time to hit up all my planned destinations. But, I forgot to account for all the unplanned destinations that would be taking up time as well. When every countless enticing opportunities in life solely exist immediately in front of your dashboard, its easy to remain in one place for a while longer than anticipated; especially when that place is Indian Creek.

                                                                                                                                                    

The plan was to spend a couple days in southern Utah and then make the drive to Canada and catch the last remains of winter in Lake Louise and Whistler. A couple days quickly became several days and next thing I knew, it was time to start thinking about making my way back to Seattle.

I drove to Moab from Salt Lake City in hopes of finding some solid mountain biking before friends from Salt Lake showed up to climb Indian Creek for the weekend.

Ignoring the beta I got from a guy in Gear Heads to ride the Pipe Dream Trail (an "advanced" trail in the guide book), I instead opted for a "moderate" trail farther along Rt 191 towards Indian Creek. Never again will I doubt my abilities as a mountain biker when referring to the guide book. This "moderate" trail shared with OHV's ended up being flat and boring with lots of sand. Regardless, it was beneficial to get out and reacquaint myself with the ways of the desert (like blowing dirty snot out of your nose no matter how hard you try to keep you nostrils clean) and get a solid dose of Vitamin D.

Basking in the final hour of sunlight for a post-climb beer sesh after Day 1 in
Indian Creek. In the background stands Second Meat Wall where we climbed
classics like Tofu Crack (5.10), Top Sirloin (5.11), and Extra Lean (5.12-).

Later that evening, I waited along the side of the road for the Salt Lake (Black Diamond) fools to finally catch up with me. They had work that day and hit traffic on their way out (so lame).

It was about 9:30 when they finally reached me on Route 191 where I was waiting patiently next to the van with a tasty Washington beverage in hand. Jon hopped in my van to ride shotgun and direct me to where we'd be camping in Cottonwood Canyon (one of the many canyons in Indian Creek). Simply following Leanne's truck was not an option since [A] her ride was about 20 years newer and [B] she's a faster driver. Chicks with trucks...

Driving into Indian Creek for the first time at night is a bit like eating a cannoli without any taste buds. It feels amazing (as you know it should) but the one sense that really allows you to take it all in just can't deliver. Not being able to see any of the cliffs or strenuously long crack lines was such a drag. But I knew in less than twelve hours, I'd have my hands and fingers mangled into them, so I kept driving along.

After a long decent into the valley, taking a turn onto a dirt road (at which the closest crapper was located; BLM doesn't like it when you poo in the desert since nothing really happens to it afterwards) proceeding two miles down said dirt road, driving through two streams, pulling into and out of three campsites (Indian Creek is an off-the-grid playground meaning no cell service to call your friends to "see where they are at"), we finally found our home for the weekend. The first night was chill, sorta. Beers, whiskey, camp fire; chill.

The best way to start your day? A half pound of bacon; with eggs, cheese, potato, and salsa all wrapped in a perfectly heated tortilla for optimum hand-to-mouth sustenance delivery. After consuming my glorious cylindrical breakfast along with a cup of "campresso", I was more than psyched to experience the creek. And experience it I did...

My taped hands after climbing Top Sirloin (5.11), my third climb
of the day and first failed attempt to complete a climb.

The first two climbs were a 5.10 and 5.10+, both of which I finished only taking a few times on each, which left me feeling pretty good for a first timer. Or so I thought. Then Top Sirloin (5.11) came around, and I felt the ruthlessness of climbing in the creek. Go after go, trying to pull myself to the 1-inch finger crack section left me tired and helpless. Yet still, I got on two more climbs that day (one of which was Extra Lean (5.12-) that was super fun to flail on) and got shut down some more.

Me on Tofu Crack (5.10)

When the sun was beginning to taper towards the horizon, and our hands could bear no more pain for the day, our feet made way for the trucks where relatively cool cans waited for us in the coolers.

That night, we washed down steak fajitas with some imported PNW suds with better flavor than the local supply and huddled around the fire. I was probably the only one nursing my hands from the throbbing I was feeling.

Day 2 began just like Day 1. Breakfast with coffee followed by a trip to the corner of the dirt road and the paved road where we could do our daily business, and then proceeding to our climbing destination for the day.

Day two was spent at Pistol Whipped. Succumbing to the effects of peer pressure, started fast for me with leading Short And Stupid (5.8), which was indeed short and stupid. Three people in our group had to leave early-ish that day, leave me with Leanne and (other) Ryan. The three of us rocked it chasing the shade northward around the wall. The last climb of the day was Dusty Trails to Nowhere (5.10) which took all 2" cams and a couple 3" cams, translating to "Glorious Hand Crack" in the climbing world. This climb became the first climb I ever completed clean in Indian Creek; a pretty awesome milestone in my book of achievements.

Me belaying Ryan as he tops out on
Dusty Trails to Nowhere (5.10)

Chasing the shade around the corner for our final pitch of
the day.

Leanne and Ryan had to head out of the creek that afternoon as well, which left me on my own again to decide where Victor was going to take me.

When I returned to our giant campsite where Victor was still parked, I met two more Washington folks that had just arrived that day (two others had showed up the night before and joined our party of six). Now there were five of us Washingtonians dwelling together. Since I had already made friends with these guys, staying the night only seemed like the obvious thing to do. Conversation about all the awesome things about Washington coupled with more good food, more beer, and more smelling like camp fire gradually turned into bed time and sleeping with all the curtains down so I could stare at the stars as the moon settled over the horizon.

When the sun came up, I decided to get on some boulders. A while back, I had read about bouldering in the creek and how underrated it was, so I decided I would check it out and see if I could find anything good. After bidding fairwell to the fellow northwesters I turned Victor around and charged down the road in search of fallen chunks of rock, still beckoning to be climbed despite their ancient stature.

It wasn't long before I pulled over to scope out some prospects. Per usual, the bouldering was more difficult than I anticipated. The other amazing effect I experienced while scouting the boulders was how much larger the boulders were than they appeared. Without any trees, bushes or people to bring their size to perspective, it was very difficult to approximate their height from far away. Many times I would be driving or walking along, think a boulder might be too small to project, but then arrive at its base only to discover that it was quite the high-baller.

After a couple failed boulders, I got back in the van to keep driving along. It was in the next parking area for the Reservoir Wall that I met three guys from Iowa climbing in the creek that week. Our tiny world felt even tinier when I quickly learned that one of these guys works at Climb Iowa (the only climbing gym in the Des Moines area) where my mom and I went to climb this past Christmas! What a coinkidink. After a minute or two more of small talk about Iowa, my quest for boulders, and how dedicated you need to be to drive from Des Moines to Indian Creek for three days of crack paradise, they invited me to climb with them for the day. I looked at them, looked at my hands, looked at them, and respectfully declined. My hands were badly swollen from two long days of losing my sandstone crack virginity to all the beautiful splitter lines on  Second Meal Wall and Pistol Whipped. Sticking to technical face-climbing boulders was a better way to not put myself in more pain...righhhht.

One of the many random boulders that I thought looked like
they had amazing potential for clean fun.

Failing to find any more established boulders and scrubbing choss off rails and crimps got old pretty quick. This wasn't how I wanted to spend my last day in the creek. So I made the trek back to the van, grabbed my rope, and made the approach to the base of the Reservoir Wall to join my newfound Midwestern compadres.

As luck would have it, I couldn't find them up there. But in the midst of my venture back and forth along the base of the wall, I met two more people (one girl from Joshua Tree and another guy from Bend, OR) that insisted I climb Three Fools (5.10) with them. It became apparent pretty quickly how fitting it was that the three of us were getting on this 60-ft wide-hands/narrow-fists crack. The three of us encompassed just about every humanly possible hand size (mine being the largest, and the girl's being the smallest) making our climbing techniques very different for this crack. In our own individual fashion, we all made this climb our own foolish struggle. Despite my struggle, I managed to make it the second clean route in the creek for myself.

Next, after fooling around on the wide hand crack, we hopped on Dr. Carl (5.10-), a really fun twin crack with some powerful sporty moves (untypical of the creek). As I was cleaning this route, the three gents from Iowa strolled by and caught my attention.

Ernie Used To Box (5.11)

They were headed over to Ernie Used To Box (5.11), a classic mix of off-width climbing and big fist-jamming moves. I hadn't experienced climbing anything like that before so I seized the opportunity to get on it and test my ability on top rope. Utilizing arm bars, fist jams, foot cams, elbow jams, and something awesome called the Circle of Power, I made my way to the top, taking only a few times in the final traverse section.

Looking back on Reservoir Wall after day three in Indian Creek.

Several pitches later, the sun was sinking low over the Bridger Jacks and the cooler temps were drawing us back to the parking lot where our cars (or vans) awaited with bountiful gifts of carbonated barley juice.

Being low on my Rainier stock (note to self: bring more Rainier next time), donated PBR's became the common canned beverage of the post climbing parking lot party.

When the darkness finally settled in enough so that I couldn't even see where I set my PBR down, the Iowa guys invited me over to stay at their site for the night. Feeling super flexible and commitment-less, I followed them down the road to site 20 at Creek Pasture Campground.

Twilight in the creek.

That night, while sitting around the fire, drinking the potpourri of leftover beers in my cooler, passing around whiskey, and eating my dinner, I came to a deep realization of how incredible of an environment Indian Creek is. Not only is the scenery stunning, and the climbing world-class (and seemingly endless), but the people that go there to climb are some of the most approachable and down-to-earth people that I have ever met. Anyone who goes to the creek is there to do one thing: climb. What this creates is a demographic of like-minded roudy dirtbags with vans (if you don't drive a van, you're probably going to find yourself in the minority) who are all in it to just have a good time. Indian Creek is a mecca of free access climbing and camping, attracting only those who wish to have a frill-free and minimalistic vacation (or life) and come out of it feeling dirt between there teeth, the throbbing in their hands, and a 100% refreshed attitude about what it means to live a life doing only what makes you happy (well maybe not everybody is there is in it for that last part, but that was how I felt when I drove back to Moab the next morning).

Victor inviting me to take the wheel and put the pedal to the
floor. It was time to leave Indian Creek to seek Moab
single track.

Indian Creek released me back into the land of cell service and convenience stores just in time to catch the sunrise coming over the mountains of the Manti-La Sal National Forest. In those mountains awaited my next physical endeavor. I was headed to Moab to catch a shuttle to take me up there where I would ride a 15-mile trail with a 3000 ft vertical decent. But not after doing what would make me happy first; this day was for finding a camp site and basking along the banks of the Colorado River. My body was begging for R&R, and I had no issue with abiding.