For most, Indian Creek is more than just climbing, it’s about being somewhere wild and fantasy like that really plucks our strings. The stone ranges color from orange and pink to almost purple and black. The many miles of corners and aretes stand upright like museum sculptures, each one individually shaped and pronounced, while the sky beyond is soft and ever flowing – the contrast is incomparable – like a priceless landscape painting that’s constantly changing right in front of you, even if we stand still, the scene evolves around us, the desert light shifting and revealing it’s many personalities. I am grateful for it all.
My trip to the desert with Will Stanhope was only five days, but it felt like two weeks (approximately three times longer). When I think about it, that’s about the right ratio, one day down there has a three day lasting impression. ha ha. You could almost live longer if you spent more time there, or so it would seem at least. A fountain of youth, even in the dead of winter.
While we repeated some new age 5.13’s, our new route was the most fun for me, if it was closer to the road it would be climbed 50 times a year, but I kinda like how far away it is, it keeps a bit of mystery locked to it. I have good memories of ring locks, handjams and laybacks, and screaming bloody marry when I screwed up my first sandstone bolt placement at the anchor, and yet all was forgotten while plugging in perfect greens and purple cams.
But somehow, I have even better memories of the sunrise and sunsets each day, the warmth of the camp fires on the palm of my chalky hands, and the company of good ol’ Jack Daniels escaping us at night. I can’t wait to go back. For any length of time. The desert is a gem in itself.
Sunrise over the cliffs of insanity.
An EMPTY parking lot, day one.
Willy’s van packed to the brim.
Packing up after a long day on the rocks.