![]() ![]() I fully anticipated a little joking harassment, a push to try again, and other quips. I got to my last clipped bolt, unclipped and descended the last fifteen feet to my partner. Then I looked down and analyzed the risk versus reward.įreezing, a little wet, over-gripped, pumped, close to bonking, and discouraged, I began to down-climb. Only a pitch and a half left to attain a little bit of glory and a victory beer for conquering this rather easy climb. I got about 25 feet above the previous bolt and finally saw the next one … on the other side of the tiny, trickling, waterfall. I continued, determined to finish the route but unable to find a bolt. I made a traverse over to the bolt and clipped it. We realized it was a tad chossy so I down-climbed and climbed slightly out of the perceived bolt line. I swung into the lead and started my way up. We saw the next belay anchors and felt comfortable about the direct route, anticipating the next bolt to just be camouflaged (considering the runout thus far had been minimal). My partner and I looked up from the belay and could barely see a dark colored bolt, almost in the watercourse. This is where the lust for adventure became too intoxicating. The third pitch ended on a large ledge a little more than halfway up, around 250 feet and at the start of the fourth pitch. We easily linked them together and continued onto a slightly harder third pitch with less protection but the same obvious bolts. The first two pitches were 5.6-5.7, overly protected with shiny bolts. We swapped gear at the car and headed back up to the wall. There was no rain, no thunder, we had food, water, beta-and if we kept our bodies moving, we stayed warm. We touched ground and discussed our options. ![]() We easily found all the rappel/belay stations for each pitch, but the bolt line was harder to follow, though easier up the first three pitches. Upon arrival, we noticed a little trickle of a waterfall, the intense exposure, and some cruddy overcast, windy weather. We headed back up towards a drop in point for the canyon, grabbed our canyoneering gear, and hiked to the big rappel. We parked a car near the canyon exit and put our climbing gear in it. We were a tad anxious the night before, but a few beers and some good company in the Superstition Mountains eased our nerves. We packed the car full of camping, climbing, and canyon gear and headed out. We found a rarely climbed, undocumented, middle-of-nowhere route with no blaring music or hangdogging? Climb on. Approximately 5.9, five pitches, 500 feet, runouts. We scrounged the internet, early guidebooks, and the climbing community for beta and found only a few sentences on obscure forums. So, when my partner and I stumbled upon a line of bolts while rappelling down a middle-of-nowhere, 550-foot canyon wall, our stoke level was high. We know the anchors at the gym and the crag are good and we know one another’s ability. That little tinge of daringness, of pure adventure, makes us feel like those climbing heroes of ours. Nine times out of 10 it is all mental and when pushed we both make it to the top. We are the guys at the crag and gym who refuse to take, and holler at one another to finish the route. The guys who paved the road for climbing and took chances were bold. My climbing partner and I have a slight obsession with the old school adventurers. This was the weekend I was going to hit up the unknown route. The nine-to-five lifestyle had begun to eat away at my recently graduated soul, and there was only a slight chance of rain anyway. I was sick of the same old plastic and was determined to get outside. It had rained the last three weekends, a rarity in central Arizona. ![]()
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