West Temple ~
We’ve arrived later than we’d like. While James lightens his pack and gathers gear I pause, looking at my note card of hand-scrawled Beta. I spent yesterday at the visitor center poring through the three-ring binders that serve as Zion’s unofficial guidebook. One ancient, laminated entry displayed the sparse prose typical of an alpinist: “West Ridge, Grade III, 5.8. An enjoyable tour if you start early enough,” I read aloud. James chuckles; it’s 1:30 p.m. After summiting, we will have to retrace our steps down the boulder-choked approach gully. Doing this in the dark would be a mistake.
“You ready?” James asks. I shrug, not so sure about a mile-long traverse of rotting sandstone. Ahead, there are no laser-cut hand cracks or flinty-hard knife edges — just a faint trail through stacked blocks of purplish-brown rock as delicate as grandmother’s china.
We begin climbing. In some places the ridge resembles a poorly maintained hiking trail. At others, it’s fourth-class terrain punctuated by the occasional low-fifth-class move. We pick our way across sections of brittle, iron-coated rock, and after 30 minutes, the ridge deposits us on the edge of a chossy cliff band. I backtrack, certain we’ve missed something, and then turn to see James bear-hugging a pine tree and slowly shimmying from branch to branch.
In front of us, a quarter-mile-long sidewalk of bone-white sandstone stretches to the summit. The narrow, flat ridge — a perfect, but precarious third-class pathway — undulates from 10 to two feet wide. To the right, the West Temple’s dramatic face drops away for 2,000 feet. To the left, the high country’s twisting canyons, sandstone peaks, and unclimbed walls beckon. With less than two hours of daylight left, we motor, slowing only when the rock dictates caution. A quarter-mile later, we rest, slumping onto a white boulder peppered with brown iron deposits the size and shape of ball bearings.
“This is a familiar situation,” say James. He studies his watch, as if it might provide an easy, obvious answer.
“The classic dilemma — retreat or continue. Bold or smart?” I ask. I have a hunch as to what James’ pick will be. We both share a stubborn streak that borders on idiocy.
“A little farther,” he offers. It’s all the convincing I need.
We pull the rack from the pack, expecting to rope up at any moment. Instead, we work our way up a 300-foot natural stone staircase that delivers us 50 feet beneath the broad summit plateau and, at last, to some fifth-class climbing. James protects a bizarre finger-crack corner (5.8) with an orange TCU and clips four shiny bolts, a rare sight in the Zion backcountry. The sun is lurking somewhere near the western horizon. The summit — a broad, red capstone punctuated by a radio tower — is 20 minutes distant. Deep inside my pack, the hands on my watch spin toward a near surety — we’re going to find out just how dark the desert can get. I can already feel the night settling thick and cold.
At some point, James will mention mountain lions, and I’ll spend the rest of the hike scanning the brush for the eerie glow of yellow eyes. In the morning, I’ll spend an hour picking cactus spines, earned via hours of sliding down scree and trundling along sandy ridges studded with sharp plants, from my palms. For now, though, an hour of daylight remains. We start running.