Kennan started quickly up toward the Rainbow Overhangs, then slowed to a crawl when he hit the slab. He drifted up, moved down, stepped up ... stopped. “This route was put up when? 1979?”
Peter Prandoni and Doug Bridgers put it up,” I replied.
He finally plugged a small cam. “Well, they’re brilliant. And damn good climbers.”
I had to agree. Long routes at most crags follow well-defined features and crack systems. In the Sandias, that rule is often broken. Many routes flow from hidden hold to hidden hold, and route finding must be accomplished in close consultation with a good topo — or divine guidance. Rainbow Dancer, in the remote vastness of the Shield, is the epitome of that type of climbing. It unfolded before us as we progressed, following a path of intuition and possibility upwards, weaving delicately through and around obstacles, spurning power and requiring high-steps, blind reaches, and oppositional pulls.
Kennan continued climbing well past his gear, then executed a delicate mantel onto a shelf where he established a belay. I followed, and as I approached the mantel, he said, “Don’t use that crack to the left. The rock’s loose.”
I looked. The cliff appeared solid to me, but I took his word and ignored the inviting finger crack, and instead grasped two tiny edges, raised my foot, and made a gasping belly-flop onto the ledge. After I clipped in, Kennan stepped forward and said, “Watch.”
He nudged the rock above the crack, and a 500-pound chunk of granite separated from the cliff and fell towards the ground, streaming a contrail of dirt. Six pitches later it struck the talus, sending a sound wave rolling upwards. At a popular climbing area, such behavior would be tantamount to manslaughter, but at this seldom-visited wall, it was more an act of safety and public service to future parties.

The next section went uneventfully, but it brought us to the seventh pitch; the guidebook description read, “going straight up on easy ground leads to 5.10X climbing. Instead, traverse right past the rotten band.” Words to stir the sweaty palm. Kennan had drawn this pitch as well, and I watched tensely as he disappeared around a corner. Each time the rope fed out, I had to fight the reflex to lock off, afraid that he might be falling along with a pile of crumbly rock. I only relaxed when I heard him call “Off belay!” It was obvious when I followed that he’d made the correct route-finding decision, though the pitch was circuitous and allowed him only a handful of gear placements in 190 feet. When I joined him and looked up, I could see the top of the formation. The difficulties were over.
The last 200 feet of the climb scaled a clean, easy slab and deposited us at the wall’s apex. We sat on top, eating a snack and looking out over the valley to the city far below. I felt happy, even elated at what we’d accomplished. Often, putting a ten-year project to bed leaves a void, but instead I felt a deep peace. “You know,” said Kennan, “I’ve really gotten to like this place.” I nodded my head.

Josh Smith lives in Los Alamos, New Mexico, within easy striking distance of the Sandias. One of his greatest pleasures is bushwhacking to remote rocks.