Cherry Canyon is an under-developed limestone bouldering crag with tremendous potential. Rumors of a mountain lion patrolling this zone — stalking boulderers — circulated during our visit, with one local telling me this same cat chased a climber to his car a month earlier. (Great: first locals, now mountain lions.) I convince myself that he says this to scare us, but after discovering a rotting elk carcass under one of the area’s most difficult problems, I give the tale more credence.
It’s a pirate’s sanctuary in Cherry Canyon: you drive for almost an hour down red-dirt back roads before stopping at an almost arbitrary, torn-down fire circle. Then you walk “that direction,” as one local says, down steep, random gullies and around thick, overturned trees and high-desert scrub. Cherry breaks down naturally into small sectors, separated by five-minute walks in dried-up river beds and grassy ravines. No trails. No guidebook. You’ll only hear a soft wind through the Ponderosa, and that’s why locals love it.
This canyon might host the most difficult stretch of climbing in Arizona. Chris Sharma snuck back to Flagstaff specifically to knock out first ascents here, and such other strong-johns as Sam Davis left their mark, as well. The climbing is slightly past vertical, on crimps and small pockets, and it’s very fingery. Monsoon rains (mid- to late-summer) can leave some of the spots flooded — go figure — with mud pools forming underneath and holds dirtied by runoff. But mini-cliffs above the basement floor offer an everdry playground. We end the day, after five exhausting hours of climbing and playing with tarantulas, by hiking up steep, rock-strewn hillsides, rain soaking our pads as lightning touches down in the distance.

  We had five days to tour Flagstaff. We slept on dusty floors and drank way too much coffee. Nelson got food poisoning. The dog shat on the passenger seat (twice). We bought truckstop T-shirts with animals on them. We broke down and abandoned the Spray on the way back through New Mexico. We took photos. We had fun, and all without any in-your-face local enmity. My misgivings, it turns out, had all been a case of ridiculous paranoia, fueled by Nelson’s silly voicemail. And somewhere in all this, we climbed. We climbed in the heat. We climbed in the dark. We climbed in the rain. We tore skin up. We did it all, and we chose Flagstaff. No guides. No grades. No names. Good rock. It’s a testament to the idea of climbing purely for the movement, the line, and nothing else. Now I know why the locals don’t want to talk about it.

Senior Editor Dan Dewell harbors a fear of many things, including snakes, the Ebola virus, and commitment.