Suddenly the crags loom ahead, rising like dwarf sentinels in the silvery morning light. The 40-foot-tall Gorilla Cliffs appear first, their grey limestone capping a short hill to our right. As we round a bend, the Snake Pit comes into view on the left. A thick field of cactus surrounds the crag, but a thin trail leads to the base of the bulging wall. Farther along, we slow down to look at the dark grey limestone of the Simian Complex. The dozen routes here are mostly hard, technical 5.12s, with a few 5.11s and some bouldery 5.13s.
We come to a skating stop and I follow the glance of my friend and climbing partner, Tiago Reis; a half-mile away to our right is a massive shield of limestone rising several hundred feet to a dramatic, triangular summit. My palms involuntarily sweat. A handful of two-pitch projects grace the wall’s left end, and even the Diamond’s right-side concentration of single-pitch, slabby 5.10s and thin, gently overhanging 5.12s is intimidating.
We slowly motor over the gravel track, passing a small grass clearing and an abandoned campsite, the only sign of human presence aside from the track. Surrounding us are limestone outcroppings that promise future climbs. A melancholy silence enshrouds us as we pause, and we soon continue toward the Soul Asylum.
Twelve routes lead up the Soul Asylum’s steep east face of huecoed limestone. We hike around to the right and enter a tight cul-de-sac that serves as the belay for Orion (5.10b/c) and Petrified (5.10d), two elegant slabs that link the secluded alcove to an exposed headwall. Tiago ties in and gives me the nod, barely containing his excitement. Loading my Grigri, I accidentally brush my hand against the wall and a thin trickle of blood oozes from torn skin. This razor-sharp limestone could easily double as a cheese grater. Reis just smiles and begins stemming up the alcove, pausing briefly at the delicate crux before finding the key undercling, and smoothly transitioning onto a steeper face.
Later we drive back to the Snakepit for a few late-afternoon pitches. My friends rope up, but my torn digits sideline me for the rest of the day. I console myself that by forgoing any more sharp limestone, I’ll have enough skin left to savor a half-day at Turtle Wall and Chuckawalla before commencing the long drive east. To stay warm I scramble up a loose third-class gully in hopes of enjoying a quiet sunset.
I reach the summit as the sun slumps below a thin cloud layer, my vantage point revealing a vast desert of sharply rising hills and watchtowers of exposed limestone. Stuffing my hands in my jacket, I notice a pile of fresh animal scat a few feet away. The droppings belong to a coyote or a feral cat, but there are no discernable tracks in the rocky soil. Besides, why would the animal climb this mountain? There’s nothing up here except the view — a direct line of sight down on the dirt track and our trucks.
Recalling the Navajo man’s Skinwalker story, I shiver in the vacuum-like silence. Imagination begins to fill in the massive void created by the absolute silence. My rationalization that the story is just folklore was more convincing when I was in the parking lot, surrounded by friends.
I try to enjoy the sunset but my imagination soon wins, conjuring disturbing images of something watching us climbing all afternoon. I force a laugh to break the heavy silence, but realize that I’ve already started to retreat. Moving quickly over the loose rock, I head back toward my friends, and concoct a flimsy story about not wanting to get lost in the dark.