While Mike and his bride floated up several hard routes to warm up, Pete and DeAnn “Princess of Rifle” Masin went to work cleaning a line in need of a couple bolts. Mike pointed to a crack nearby that had not seen an ascent, to which I put on my shoes and took care of that problem, then started wandering the hills to finish the tour I had started the day before. I soloed about 15 routes when I heard Pete’s howl of completion, followed by DeAnn’s dance of flexing biceps that mocked my dismal buggy whip arms of despair. 

The route was quickly dispatched by everyone, but with the heat of the sun threatening a short end to our trip, Pete tossed out the idea of “a proper Reardon-style seal of approval.” I contemplated a mojo run but realized that the girls might be scarred for life, or discover I have compensation issues, if subjected to my naked nether regions swaying in the breeze above them. So a compromise was reached. I soloed the route, but not without flipping the bird as a reminder of how fun this sport is, and earning that bird back from my new friends. Typical to our collective mindset, we volunteered a variety of spicy names for our new masterpiece, most of which Hustler are using as titles for future articles, but settled on “CF1” a.k.a. “ClimbFest 1” and look forward to next year’s participants carrying on the tradition of doing a new route at each event. However, next time the ante is going up and the pants are going down. 

The next day on the way to the airport, we made a quick stop to climb at Little Cottonwood. It was strange to climb there. A religious group blasted the granite slabs to create a temple of faith, but in the process created a temple of adrenaline for our reality. Both points were highlighted by a giant rusted drill bit stuck in the middle of a boulder problem covered in chalk. However, the rock quality itself reminded me of Tahquitz — sticky when cool, slippery when warm, with splitter cracks as far as the eye can see. I soloed a dozen routes and was sitting on a ledge when I realized that the rock might feel familiar, but the view was different, bordering on the surreal with it’s similarities to sights in my past. It was then that I knew it was time to go back to California. The weekend away was great, making new friends and sharing a beer with the legends was a dream, but it’s time to push my limits the only way I know how. It’s time to train with the Outlaws.