2007 CCAJ

blobs, an occasional cam, all we trusted with our body weight. Not to mention the plentiful cursing, back cleaning, and harassment we used just to keep it light hearted. The fifth pitch was the most exciting for me. I used nothing but #1 beaks and tipped out #4 and #5 cams in horizontal choss flairs. I never knew how bomber beaks were.

On the crux pitch, Jeremy dislodged a watermelon size block. We watched as the block sailed past and then stood aghast as a giant whoomph echoed through the canyon. The rock had hit our fucking ledge! As we rapped down our fixed lines that night, we inspected the damage. The ledge was collapsed and a huge hole was now in my Jolly Roger flag. Bummer again: the bat karma got us. On the way out, I rolled my ankle really hard. Jeremy ended up getting the last pitch.

The last pitch was the gem. Jeremy took a total of 12 hours to lead it strung out over two days.

I had the opportunity to consider my place in life on Thanksgiving Day as I sat on a ledge of mud in the shade at 25 degrees for nine hours. Turkey, gravy and cranberry sauce sounded pretty nice. We finally topped out on Thanksgiving day, exhausted. We were the fourth ascent of the route after Steve “Crusher” Bartlett, some Italians, and the late Cameron Tague. Replacing all the anchors with new webbing on the way down and adding a bolt to one of the rap stations took some time. However, we finally got back down and collapsed amidst our five ropes, beaks, blades and cams.

The best Thanksgiving gift of all was waking up to the Fishers covered in snow, sitting around and laughing with good friends.

-Joe Forrester In Search of Suds III 5.10Washerwoman, Canyonlands Timothy Gibson (’10) and Noah Gostout (’10) Leaving the blacktop behind, we soon realized our adventure had taken a sharp turn. This epiphany was soon stressed by a sign reading “High Clearance 4x4 only,” a qualification that our peppy Subaru Impreza Sport didn’t quite live up to.

After stepping from the car to examine the road ahead, we decided to continue onward towards the Washerwoman tower. With only the directions printed from Mountain Project, our distances and landmarks were based on the passenger’s observations of the surroundings lit by a full moon. After miles of jostling, rock stacking, and loud directions being yelled over the revving engine, we decided the stress was too much and broke into our stash of Tecate Mexican Beer. Our nerves somewhat subdued, we pushed further along the boulder strewn trail. After passing almost six miles beyond what the guide said was the correct distance, we put the exhausted Subaru and ourselves to sleep along side the trail and waited for light and sobriety to find the now illusive Washerwoman tower.

The desert beauty surrounded our makeshift campsite as the sun rose and poured light on vibrant sandstone. Neon colors of reds and oranges emerged from the lackluster landscape we had stumbled into the night before. We placed our dew-moistened sleeping bags into the car and spread out the map. After some hesitation as to whether or not we passed the tower in the dark we moved onward.

Only a few minutes along, and the defining roars from one of the “high Clearance” vehicles that the sign had warned us of broke the hypnotizing purr of the Subaru. From this monster truck emerged the head of a rotund, balding middle-aged man. His astonishment seemed to be in congruence with ours, except his surprise concerned the fact that we could undoubtedly drive and camp between his axels. Inside his enormous Tonka truck, a full array of instruments including a GPS, pinpointed our location.

Using the now clear directions, we passed what was reconfirmed as a not drivable road in the trusty Subaru, and parked at the bottom of the stunning arch. With a hearty breakfast of eggs in a blanket smothered in Cholula hot sauce, we began the approach to our climb. Hiking with speed and determination we covered ground quickly and silently. Our silence was abruptly punctuated with the cracking of a rock lip underfoot and a shriek of swear words. A step that had dutifully held Tim’s weight failed under my own, sending my knee into the abrasive rock, and blood oozing from the ensuing cut. With the mood now dampened by a sense of foreboding, we reached the base of the climb.

Tim led the first pitch, artfully scaling the crack system and placing gear. He paused momentarily and shouted, “Wow, it’s the sky! I thought it was a plastic bag.” His realization came as a shock to 28