HOLLOWED GROUND
PREVIOUS PAGE Jeff Fox climbing a V6 slab (name unknown) on the lower block at Crystal Ridge. THIS PAGE Hanna Hall climbing a V3 (name unknown) on the upper block at Crystal Ridge.
THE VAN’S INTERIOR THREW OUT A FAMILIAR RATTLE OF POTS AND PANS AS I TRAVERSED THE FIFTEEN MILES OF SINGLE LANE WASHBOARD THAT SEPARATE THE SMALL TOWN OF BIG PINE IN CALIFORNIA’S EASTERN SIERRA NEVADA BASIN WITH THE GRAND WESTERN SLOPE OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS OF INYO COUNTY. TWIN F-18 FIGHTER JETS BARRELED JUST A FEW HUNDRED FEET OVERHEAD IN A FLIGHT PATTERN FROM THE NEARBY RIDGECREST AIR FORCE BASE. OUT THE WINDOW LAY THE RUSTED CARCASS OF A 1970S ERA WASHING MACHINE, RIDDLED WITH BULLET HOLES. FOR THOSE NEWLY ACQUAINTED WITH THE EASTERN SIERRA BASIN, THESE MODERN INFLECTIONS ARE THE CAMOUFLAGES THAT SO OFTEN CONCEAL THE SACRED NATURE OF THIS INCREDIBLE LANDSCAPE. THE IMPACT OF MAN ON THIS REGION IN THE LAST 100 YEARS IS VAST AND HUGELY DISCOMFORTING. STILL, AS BEAMS OF LIGHT STREAM THROUGH THE PEAKS OF THE HIGH SIERRA TO THE WEST AND SHADOWS CREEP ACROSS THE VALLEY TOWARD THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, THIS AREA’S RUGGED BEAUTY IS UNCANNY.
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t is said that the word Inyo translates roughly in native Bishop Paiute to “dwelling place of the great spirit.” With even a quick glance at the towering ranges and sweeping drainages, this rendition seems thoughtful and accurate. Yet as our experiences grow more intimate with this region the idea steadily grows far from interpretation. With time the Inyo transforms into a place of unquestionable holiness, a place where harsh elements and a seemingly desolate landscape interconnect with and somehow support the delicate yet hardly noticeable life cycles of hearty high desert species. As I bumped down the dirt road I thought about my survival rate, had I theoretically been tossed out into this landscape with nothing but the clothes on my back. I figured I’d last 48 hours, maybe 72 if I’d gotten lucky and found shelter. Backing down a 1,000 foot stretch of single-lane dirt road, I knew I was lost again. For three years I had been visiting this area to climb on the Crystal Ridge Boulders; a very small zone consisting of three massive angular blocks that stand solemnly in the center of a massive alluvial fan at the base of the White Mountains. Anyone with a general understanding of geology and a sense of the area could probably find these boulders, yet they are sneakily tucked behind a small glacial moraine and only found after a long series of correct turns on nearly fifteen miles of dirt roads. Cursing my poor memory and the faulty directions I gathered from a website early that day, I pulled back onto the “main” road and headed south along the base of the Whites. Once again, intuition and foggy memories would lead the way.
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