Sand Blasted

The first pitch involved mean colonette pinching and was uncharacteristically well-chalked. There wasn’t a single junk pitch or bunk move in La Zebda’s eight ropelengths. Pitch three went at hard 5.12b, starting with devious face climbing and finishing with a spectacular roof that forced footloose moves on massive jugs. Pitches four, five, and six involved creative, impromptu moves, as the route gradually snaked right across a wide-open canvas of stone.

Finally feeling the groove, we scouted the eight-pitch Tout Pour le Club (5.12d), on Oujdad. The next morning, however, the clouds caught up with us, a rare occurrence in Morocco. After the first pitch, we bailed, spending a heinous, stormbound night at a ramshackle gîte below the wall. The thick-walled mud room was barren, with only a single dim bulb. The noxious fumes of burned toilet paper and plastic wafted over from the adjacent chimney (burning trash is Said’s only option for waste management). Fortunately, we had cards and a stash of Gatorade and tequila.

The clouds parted at breakfast — Inshallah! — so we hotfooted up the hour-long approach, reaching the wall just as the sun warmed the rock. I French-freed P1 (I’d climbed it the day before), and then punched up the second pitch (5.10), gunning for the belay in a single, rope-stretching push. On the third pitch (5.12d), I found myself stymied on a thin slab. I lowered twice, hoping Brittany wasn’t getting sick of me hanging, and then slid through via a sneaky sidepull, with little chalk to mark the 70 feet of tech-bot climbing that remained.

After a few more 5.11 and 5.12 pitches (Brittany onsighted one of the 5.12b’s), I stared up the final ropelength, an intimidating 5.12d comprised of hand jamming out a roof crack, to insecure jams up a slightly overhanging face. I grew up in Albuquerque, mere hours from Indian Creek, but, unfortunately, never made it there. It was now time to bleed for my punk-sport-climber mentality. Going out on the steep swell, I quickly found myself ass-handed. I lowered and gave another go, half-heckled and half-cheered by Andy and Jonathan, both well-versed crack climbers. Wasted, with my feet slipping but jams staying in, I pulled the lip and continued desperately up the fussy fissure. At the top, I took in the view of a half-dozen unnamed towers fading to orange as the sun slowly set.