The Sandstone Alps

High adventure in Utah's San Rafael Reef

Two ramps led up into an expanse of sandstone, giving no clue which, if either, was our route. My partners, Kennan Harvey and Tim Gott, were belaying far below. Between us, the rope ran through one cam in a sandy flake.

It was our first day of climbing at the Eastern Reef, in Utah’s San Rafael Swell, and the route was called Way of the Increpids. We weren’t sure what that name meant, nor if the route had ever been repeated. We did know that it topped out on an appealing sandstone fin more than 1,000 feet above the rope-up point. The rock was alternately yellow, tan, red, and white—and very soft. The route was typical of the area: pitch after pitch of runout friction climbing, following vague weaknesses up waves of grainy slickrock.

Slickrock is the word for it. As gently angled as technical rock climbing gets, some of the formations conjured fantasies of skateboard or mountain-bike descents. Except for short crux sections, our route was like extreme hiking. Kennan held the view that if you broke a hold or slipped on these dangerously runout pitches, you could throw yourself flat on the rock and you’d stick, like human Velcro.

I didn’t want to try it. It was true, though, about the friction: Despite the lack of runners, the sheer length of rope dragging across the coarse stone made the end of each pitch a strenuous tug of war.

I pulled up a big loop of rope, chucked the slack onto the slab next to me, and with the yoke momentarily lifted, made a thin move to get started up the left ramp. I climbed the groove above—enjoyable 5.2 stemming, the best part of the pitch—to a small ledge, where shouts from below indicated I had run out of rope.

Now I was sure that we were off route. There were no possible belay anchors. We had a hand drill and a few bolts with us, but they were in Tim’s pack and our double ropes were both clipped through my lone piece of pro, making it very problematic to haul up any gear. If I pulled one rope through and attempted a toss, the coils would land in a pile far from Tim.

Despite this ominous-sounding scenario, it was hard to take the low-angle terrain too seriously. After an inconclusive exchange of yelling, I decided we would simulclimb until the anchor situation improved. If someone slipped, I supposed we’d all just belly-down flat and hope for the best.

Despite its unusual sandstone summits, with long routes at accessible grades, the San Rafael Reef attracts few climbers. This isn’t because the area is terribly remote. An interstate highway runs nearby, and the closest town is only half an hour’s drive away: Green River, Utah, population about 1,000. It’s a run-down, frontage-road sort of town comprised of truck stops, cafés, sketchy-looking seasonal raft-guiding outfits, and roadside stands vacant until the summer watermelon harvest; it’s no Moab. Ghost motels and shells of old-style gas stations dot the strip in Green River, with not a mountain-bike shop in sight. The knick-knack aisle at the truck stop sells mudflap girls instead of Kokopellis.

The climbing area lies about 15 miles west, south of where Interstate 70 cuts dramatically through the uplift of the San Rafael Swell. If the light is good, most climbers gaze curiously at the slabs when driving west through here, but few ever stop. Of the few that do stop and climb, many vow never to return.