LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 27 It seems misleading to describe all of these forma- tions as rock piles. That's apt for some, but many are the size of hills. On my longest scramble I took two hours to reach the summit. The previous night I had camped off the Boy Scout Trail on the edge of a region known as the Wonderland of Rocks, a labyrinth of large formations that constitute a climbers' paradise (provided they don't get lost). One such formation rose behind my campsite. It looked to be a short, easy scramble to the jagged ridge line, so I set off with no hesitation and with no water. I aimed for a tower that I took to be the high point. As I ascended, I encountered a variety of features— slabs, corners, cracks, crevices, chimneys, tunnels— for which I drew on the climber's bag of tricks. Mostly, it was third- and fourth-class scrambling for which a rope is optional. As a frame of reference: most Ad- irondack slides are rated third class; the Trap Dike on Mount Colden, where people have died in falls, is fourth class. Fifth class is the realm of roped climbing, though the degree of difficulty varies greatly within it. Occasionally I arrived at a spot that required fifth- class moves and had to decide whether to go for it or back off. One such moment came when I reached the short tower. It would require more than a simple scramble. I explored the west face and found some cracks that led to slabs that I could follow (hopefully) to the top. The few short moves didn't look difficult, but as I was alone I opted not to take a risk. When I inspected the other side of the tower, I saw that it was not the actual summit; nor did it provide a means to the summit. There was a higher ridge that had been hidden from sight. I still had quite a bit of ascent ahead. I faced a number of similar choices before topping out at 8 a.m. At 4,590 feet, the summit is higher than many of our High Peaks, but of course its prominence is much less. I had climbed 400 feet from the desert floor. If I had been hiking a trail, I could have got there in 15 minutes. But with all the route-finding, explor- ing, back-tracking and dilly-dallying, not to mention the technical difficulties, I needed much more time. I delighted not only in the complexity of the climb, but also in small and unexpected scenes of beauty: a prickly pear cactus near a tunnel entrance, a miniature canyon harboring junipers and cacti, honeycombed scoops in the rock, a geological phenomenon known as tafoni. At the top, I was surrounded by a group of aerobatic swifts darting hither and thither, riding the currents before abruptly shifting course, whistling as they flew past, sometimes so close I could hear a whoosh. Someone had left a small tin on the summit, about the size of a cigarette pack. Inside was a tiny notebook that parties had signed and dated. One person wrote, "How do you get down? " Once I had soaked up the views of the desert and the mountains, that was the question I faced. I had managed to stay in the shade during most of the climb, but what seemed like the easiest way down would eventually take me into the sunny plain. It was getting hotter, and I regretted that I had not brought water. Like the climb, the descent required route-finding and posed a few difficulties. The most memorable moment came when I stepped on a large boulder and heard hissing. When I hopped off, I heard more hissing and then a rattle. I turned to see a rattlesnake about six feet away. It slithered harmlessly away. It was one of many wildlife sightings during my days in Joshua Tree. I had also seen bighorn sheep, ravens, a roadrun- ner, and countless lizards. But I felt especially lucky to have seen a reclusive rattler. I returned to the campsite more than three hours af- ter setting off. I quaffed a bottle of water, packed up, hiked to my car, and drove to town for breakfast. What a wonderful start to the day. That was my routine most days: scramble in the shade in the morning, drive into town, and return to the park in the afternoon. I usually spent an hour or two in the air-conditioned library, charging my phone, checking email, running digital errands. One afternoon I drove to the Geology Tour Road, a long dirt road in the middle of the park. I wanted to take the self-guided tour, but the kiosk had no bro- chures. Instead, I went down the road a few miles until I saw a large pile just to the east. This turned out to be a top-notch scramble, a maze of tunnels, crevic- es, caves, and giant boulders. At one point I tiptoed across an upright fin of rock only an inch or two wide. I didn't make it quite to the summit, but I had a blast. What followed was not fun at all. On the way back to the park's main road, I pulled over to change out of my grubby clothes. I kept the car (and its air conditioning) running. After I resumed driving, a message appeared on the dash: "The key fob is no longer in the vehicle." The Jeep had one of those push-button ignitions that will start if the fob is near. I returned to the spot where I had changed and scoured the area. No fob. I walked a good distance up the road. Still no fob. I drove back to town and called the rent- al company. They didn't have a spare. I was informed that my only options were to have the car towed 150 miles to L . A ., at my expense, or hire a locksmith to replace the fob. It was late, but I managed to get hold of a locksmith who said he was pretty sure he could replace the fob. It would cost $450 or so, but what choice did I have? I pulled into a dusty parking area a block from the main street, shut off the car, and tried to get some sleep. The locksmith's assistant showed up about 1 p.m. the next day. He had a replacement fob, but he needed to program it by plugging in a portable machine to the vehicle's electronics. After fiddling around for more than a half-hour, he gave up. I called two other locksmiths, but neither had the right kind of fob in stock. It was 104 degrees, and I was stuck in a

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