“The issue’s cryptobiotic soil,” laments Jen Nad, a chemist and decade-long resident climber. “If you walk on it, it won’t grow back for centuries.” Cryptobiotic soil is an organic crust that serves as erosion protection for soils throughout the desert Southwest. When exposed to moisture, cyanobacteria and green algae move through the soil, exuding a sticky trail of organic matter that forms a retention web. This web, or cryptobiotic soil, prevents desert erosion and accounts for roughly 75 percent of the desert’s living ground cover. While most of the St. George crags are located outside the Reserve on BLM land, cryptobiotic soil is found throughout the area, and climbers need to protect the soil by staying on established paths.
Mesas and canyons divide the Red Cliffs Desert Reserve and span the full spectrum of colors as the sun follows its daily migration westward. The air is still, at peace with the land and the stone, yet pregnant with an electric charge of possibility. Lowering back to earth after battling a late-afternoon pitch on the Turtle Wall, I let evening’s serenity mesh with post-climbing euphoria. The dry smell of the desert returns. Magentas and golds stain the western horizon, and our brightly colored climbing gear contrasts with the organic tones of our environment. Shadows flicker against the hulking sandstone, and I start at a figure in the periphery of my eyesight. It’s just a coyote, lurking and then vanishing, but I sleep poorly that night, out under the desert stars.
People’ll bolt the shit outta something, but they won’t let you climb it,” says Isaac Caldiero, 21, and a full-time climber, one afternoon at the Utah Hills. No climbing area is without controversy, and St. George is no exception. As soon as new areas are developed, red tags are tied to the first bolt on “project” routes, frustrating climbers on both sides of the ethics fence. “Red-tagging makes sense on sketchy, loose routes that need cleaning; otherwise it’s selfish,” says Visser.
“If I develop a crag, I should have as much time as I need for the FA,” argues Todd Goss, area guidebook author and owner of Paragon guiding service. Goss, a Maine native, moved to St. George in 1992, drawn to the desert and the area’s untapped climbing potential. Goss estimates that he’s bagged nearly 400 FAs around St. George in the past decade — an average of about 50 routes a year — two-thirds of which are sub-5.11. Yet on page 70 of his own guidebook, Goss cites the following proverb, penned by an unknown sage: “There is no limit to the good man can do if he doesn’t care who gets the credit.”
Some of climbing’s biggest names have nabbed the FAs of red-tagged routes around St. George, inciting the usual resentment. One example is Breaking the Law, a project that Salt Lake hardman Tim Wagner partially bolted in a ground-up effort, but later abandoned. Jeff Pederson then secured Wagner’s permission to add bolts in 1996. Pedersen spent several days working it over the next several years, but had forsaken the climb, believing it to be just out of his league. On a road trip in autumn 2001, Dave Graham ignored the route’s red-tag and snagged the first ascent. “I’d be surprised if Graham didn’t know it was my project,” Pederson says. “Joe [Kinder] saw me on it the year before and knew it was my route — he was there when Graham sent it.” While Graham rated Breaking the Law 5.14b, Jason Campbell cranked the second ascent in four burns, despite a six-month hiatus from climbing, calling it “easy 5.13d at best.” “In 100 years people’ll remember Fred Beckey — nobody’ll care who Dave Graham was,” Goss concludes.
Climbers who aren’t concerned with red-tagged 5.14s and just want to enjoy user-friendly moderate routes will be more interested in Crawdad Canyon, a private “climbing park” on the northern side of the Pine Valley Range. Bisected by a naturally heated river and a grove of cottonwood trees, Crawdad Canyon also boasts a swimming pool and greasy-spoon grill that accommodates climbers and non-climbers alike, making for humorous cross-pollination during summer months when multitudes descend on the park to swim and scarf fried food. Crawdad Canyon houses almost 200 routes, half of which are 5.10 or easier, and range in height from 40 to 60 feet. In the interest of pleasing paying clients, many holds have been blatantly chipped or enhanced, but the park is still good fun. For an entry fee of $7.50 ($4.00 during the “off season” summer), climbers can hone their skills on safe trade routes in a dreamy climbing atmosphere. Everyone must sign a liability release form, agree not to trad climb, boulder, or free solo, and agree to watch their language. (The latter rule is often overlooked by sailor-mouthed climbers about to take the whip.)
The most exciting climbs on St. George limestone are the multi-pitch and rope-stretcher routes on walls such as the Beaver Dam and the Phalanx of Will. Perkins, in particular, has invested countless hours and thousands of dollars here, and jokingly admits that his “credit card company owns a lot of these routes.” The Beaver Dam, which he established between 1997 and 1998, is a 400-foot headwall of shale-encrusted Kaibab limestone perched atop an exposed hillside above town, and contains several five-pitch 5.11s and 5.12s. Two unconfirmed 5.14 pitches grace the wall, some of the only multi-pitch 5.14 limestone routes in the United States.
The Phalanx of Will is a freestanding limestone pillar situated 45 minutes south of town on the Arizona Strip. The slopes below the Phalanx are rife with fossils, and people have found round, opaque “Moqui Marbles” here, too. In the Hopi language, “Moqui” means “dearly departed one.” Legend maintains that the deceased ancestors of the Hopi play games with these marbles at night, when their spirits are allowed to visit earth. By sunrise the sprits must return to the afterlife, but the marbles are left behind to assure their relatives that they are well. The Phalanx is also the location cited by my Navajo acquaintance in his Skinwalker story, and scores of other spooky encounters trace back to the Arizona Strip, a place as desolate as the middle of the ocean.
The Phalanx is perched atop a steep escarpment of loose and fiercely sharp limestone scree. The formation begs to be climbed, but its powers of intimidation can run circles with your imagination. A third-class scramble is required to reach the uncomfortable belays, and a constant barrage of loose stones from above makes one wonder if the Phalanx was bolted solely for its location. Closer inspection, however, reveals crimps, pinches, and slopey jugs. For a climber seeking a wilderness sport crag — and a four-wheeling approach adventure — a visit to the Phalanx will prove unforgettable.
Twenty miles south of town our caravan of pick-ups bears left off I-91 onto a rambling dirt track leading to a series of nine limestone crags known as the Utah Hills. The road is bumpy, and around us is the desert, quiet under a January sky. Juniper and sage grow in abundance, and a few scraggly Joshua trees fight to survive in the northernmost tip of their range.
The road rises gently in front of us and an eerie, unsettled atmosphere enshrouds the barren, little-visited landscape. Locals have told me of the “holes in the ground” out here; rumor has it that Vegas hit men sometimes escort their “clients” into the Utah Hills for “nature walks.”