Which brings us back to 7:15 am on Tuesday, at the Boulder Canyon pull-off. Staring up the hill to the wall we were to “check out,” it was immediately clear that the approach was going to suck. To begin, we made a quick Tyrolean over the rushing river. We then followed a nice, steep trail to the popular crag called Avalon, walking by all the moderate, fun, unoccupied routes and then promptly off any reasonable human throughway. Next, came the Congo bushwhacking: we raked our arms and legs through thorny tangles and, at one point, encountered a class 4 section requiring a mantle on a loose tree trunk with mossy rock slabs for foot holds.

After at least half an hour, we reached the uber-crag-to-be. “It’s like the incredible shrinking crag,” proclaimed Matt, flatly. And indeed it was a fair bit shorter than it appeared from the road. Strange, as I had believed that objects generally seemed to grow larger as they occupied more of one’s field of view. “And there’re bolts,” said Matt. Of course there were. One meager line of winkers winked their way up the stumpy cliff — three bolts and a bolted anchor before a big horizontal break. A second, cracked-block headwall rose above the break, but it was uninspiring. On the ground an old hose used for ice farming lay in a faded blue-green tangle. No great discovery had we made. We contemplated going town via another route, but the prospect of coming back up the steep gully that entailed if it cliffed out was too much to bear. We retreated.

Numerous red ants attacked me on the way back to the car, their little pincers stinging my wrists and ankles, adding to the thorny-vine pricks. “Rock!” I shouted as on the final scree slope I dislodged a football-sized stone, nearly bowling Matt over from behind. We recrossed the river and hobbled to the car, finally ready for the peace and quite of a day behind the desk.