The Mantra of the Whiskey Ghost - Bringing Everest to Joshua Tree

To simplify further, we agreed that the total footage could be completed with 1,000 individual routes rated 5.1 or higher. A Joshua Tree custom is to give “local” status to all who climb 1,000 individual routes at the area, a feat I achieved a decade earlier but decided to renew and up the ante by taking away the safety support. A shake of the hands and the bet was on. Already my mind wandered to the possibilities of leather chaps in winter on my compatriots.

The next day, I woke to sweat frothing my skin inside my sleeping bag, homage to the late-night goodbye to my favorite beverage. The sun started an alpine glow, lighting the brilliant azure sky. Snoring next to me was Wes Goulding, my partner in crime for many adventures and a phenom soloist in his own right, having clocked in fifty-pitch days and simul-soloing up to 5.12 with me on a regular basis. Tucked in a fetal curl on a crashpad nearby lay the brilliant photographer and highball specialist, Damon Corso, who volunteered to take photos of the “expedition”. I pulled free from the bag, rubbing the sand from my eyes, pre-caffeine grumpiness tempting me to empty my bladder on their sleeping heads, but instead grabbed my shoes and chalkbag.

Soloing is a private pursuit, though mine has reached the paradoxical problem of publicity forcing me to explain my actions. And I can't. I can merely give lip service that never quite distills the rewards I receive. I know we are born from the earth and that we return to the earth. I know that there is something beyond the physical and the mental experiences. I know that there is a past and a future. Soloing keeps me in contact with my roots, allows me to tap into the unexplainable, and provides the ability to live in the moment. That's the lip service that borders on an extended bumper sticker slogan. In truth, nothing on this earth compares to the freedom of unencumbered movement. Each decision is mine and I am a free will being. My concentration during these times is not focused on the climbing, but on the things that matter in my life. I don't care about the size of my house or the age of my car. My thoughts when climbing are the last time I hugged my daughter, and the warmth of my wife's foot touching mine under the covers at night. Each hold brings new life to these memories, each move brings a joy I cannot explain. During these times, I become a humble poet in constant touch with the artful rock.

The first touch brings goosebumps to my skin in anticipation of the day. A highstep stretches the legs. My feet find their place as the fog of sleep slowly lifts. An overhanging handjam extends the muscles in my back, I indulge an old shoulder injury and lock off at my chest instead of my waist. Three moves in an off-width tighten the abs and snap the senses. Halfway into the tenth route, the sun greets me on the wall. I can't help but marvel at the way the rock changes from crisp hues of blue to golden grains of comfort. I find my rhythm for another ten before heading back to camp for breakfast.

Caffeinated and ready for the second round, Wes joins me on Intersection Rock, the birthplace of California soloing. Thirty years prior, soloing anything under 5.8 was considered a “scramble” until Tobin Sorenson stepped up and soloed the notorious “North Overhang”, a 5.9 sandbag. John Bachar soloed it next, and his legend was born. Last season, a climber tested his mettle by attempting to solo this route and found himself in the hospital with a lifetime of therapy after taking a 90-footer into the dirt.

Wes and I are reminded of the past as we move over a body-sized bloodstain from a roped fall gone sour on the opening moves of “Lower Right Ski Track” (5.10c). Dark humor gets us past the clots, and we spend the next few rounds debating who was sexier on Gilligan's Island, Ginger or Mary Ann (Mary Ann of course!). Downclimbing “Upper Right Ski Track” Wes suddenly pauses with a heavy intake of breath. A crowd has gathered in the parking lot below, and a hundred pairs of eyes analyze our every move.

Used to the probing, I can't help but tease him a bit, “they're not staring at me, everyone knows I solo. They're trying to figure out who you are.” Another intake of breath and I can see Wes' hand tremor slightly. “I don't understand how you can solo with this kind of pressure?” I step into his zone of concentration, and gently remind him that they don't exist. We share a warm comfort that other partnerships will never understand, and his smile at that moment is something I'll keep for life. Focus returned, we finish the route and move to the hinterlands for the remains of the day.

Two days later, I'm on “Uncle Remus” (5.11b) and break out in a round of laughter that confuses Damon. Spring time prior, I was wandering the desert floor with Bachar and Boone “first American to climb 5.14” Speed in search of a good photo to finish an article he was working on. Having soloed several smeary classics earlier in the day, my feet were in need of something fingery. We followed John into the outer reach to a large boulder with a lone route, sitting proud among the desert fauna. Bachar and Kurt “the General” Smith had put the route up on lead with minimal bolts during the heyday of the rap bolting wars. It was their way of tossing a finger to the mental midgets trampling on the royalty of our past.

“Yo Reardon, here's an onsight waiting for you,” John said with a smile.

I've known John long enough to recognize his Cheshire grin as a sandbag waiting to happen. Now I'm not one to climb with a chip on my shoulder, but having Boone behind the camera and John's verbal bitch slap prompt, I shoed up to the challenge and headed into the unknown. Two bolts in, the overhanging crimps disappeared and the spine crushers below sent a shiver through my body. I cramp up from holding my bladder tight and downclimb my way back to safety. Three times I repeat the process until finally, “I give, where's the rope to rehearse this bitch.”

The three of us explode in a laugh of relief as Boone graciously provides a belay for me to quickly rehearse the crux into submission. Twenty minutes later, the route is soloed with ease, Boone's photos are complete, and Bachar's Cheshire grin has turned into a twinkle of pride for his protégé. I conquered my ego that day and with a hug, thank Bachar for teaching me the courage to back off regardless of the situation. Later that night, when I ask Bachar about the first time he soloed the route, the grin returns as he responds, “I never soloed that route, but I knew you could.”  I can only count it once during my expedition, but solo it repeatedly for the memories while Damon snaps away.

Two hours later, the sun beams brilliantly on “No Mistake, Big Pancake” (5.11c). Damon sets his position, then scanning the route gets a puzzled look on his face and asks, “how are you going to keep three points on?” As a soloist, I preach that there are four points of contact between climber and rock (two hands, two feet), of which at least three should always be on before making a move. This route has a dyno crux, leaving only one smeary foot stopping me from becoming a pinball of doom in the blocks below. I smile, and climb. At the crux, I reach as high as I can, balanced with one toe on the lone smear, lightly brush the finish jug with my fingertips, then ever so slowly, reverse the move and downclimb back to the base. Damon's look of wonder tells me his finger is on the button, but his camera never took a shot. I tell him, “Climbing is not about getting to the top, it's about the journey there, and a soloist should NEVER make a move they cannot reverse.” Damon gets it and with a smile shared, I climb to the top with his camera catching every move.

More days pass until Thanksgiving brings the Outlaws together for our annual feast. Having my friends around motivates a quick 300, including twenty first ascents and a repeat of “MRSR” (5.12a). The route was named after my father, Michael Reardon, Sr. who passed on several years ago. He was my best friend and inspiration, who's only request to me was that I ignore money and follow my passions. Last year, when some mental midgets had begun to rape Joshua Tree by chipping and gluing routes that held tremendous potential for the future, I responded by putting up more than 100 first ascent solos. The hardest of these lines is a fifty-foot vertical face with no pre-rehearsal, and forced my mental limits to their maximum. Doing the route with several guides, a Boy Scout troop and my friends present was flamboyant by any standard, but also a personal statement that climbing should never be about merely the physical. If that's all this sport holds, then become a gymnast where the true masters of that realm play.

The final days come and snow has transformed the golden desert into a Dali landscape. There are those that claim global warming doesn't exist and then there are realists. I watch in wonder as a brown rabbit the size of a coyote, no longer hidden with his coloring, scans the air for predators with his nose. He bounces off with my approach. Tourists and climbers alike are driven off by the cold, leaving the playground free, and we take advantage of every moment. Test-pieces such as “Burning Bush” (5.13a), “Tic Tic Boom” (5.12b), and “Blood of Christ” (5.12a) mingle with the old classics of “Illusion Dweller” (5.10c), “Overseer” (5.9), and “Double Cross” (5.8) and the rediscovery of new classics such as “Papaya Crack” (5.11b), “Cryptic” (5.8), and “Tarantula” (5.2). In the middle are thirty new routes of every shape and size. Then one morning, when the park was empty and snow still crunched under our feet, Damon and I walked up to the mythical dragon of Joshua Tree.

When soloing, reversing moves, three points on, staying in control during the death zone and climbing on secure holds are cautionary mantras that keep a soloist alive in this most dangerous of sports. Anything less will eventually get the deserved outcome. In this, I have always strived for the full experience of complete control over the body, mind, and spirit which could only come from one route, “EBGBs”. Located in the center of the park for the world to see, a large formation surrounds a cove. On top of this formation sits a giant cube where years of weather have sandpapered the surface smooth. In the center of thewidest face, at its longest length, a madman set off and created a testpiece for the insane. Though rated 5.10d, it was put up on lead more than thirty years ago when the rating held meaning, and many claim it to be much harder. The route has since become myth for both its lack of holds and lobbing the best of climbers off its crux at the top. Every polished smear demands a precise tango, every move a test of will to keep the urine at bay. I soloed it three years ago and felt the personal reward that goes beyond surviving the experience, but since that day, have wondered if it was the capstone of that season or my life.

As custom with our relationship, Damon dissolves into position, leaving me to my thoughts as I walk to the base. We both understand that climbing or walking away are both acceptable, the goal being to enjoy the experience. With shoes and chalk ready, I turn the ipod off and allow the memories to wander in.

The opening mantel sends a warm spark through my skin and the memory of Wes leading the route while three mini-tornados stretched into the sky behind him, coated in black dust from the scorched earth of a massive fire days prior. I round the corner and look up the massive face, laughing at the memory of a stoner reaching desperately for a clip that didn't exist before flying into space for thirty feet. Two thirds up, and I pause at the tiny protrusion that almost sent me to my death during the previous solo. It was wet then but the crisp air and light wind makes the smears tacky with adhesion. Two more moves and I traverse left, crossing my feet and dancing with my daughter at her first school dance. A teenager now and quickly becoming a woman, I allow the fog to cover my eyes and the cotton to plug my ears to savor the moment. At the final crux, my left foot finds its place, my right highsteps to my hip, my hands lightly drag on the wall and my wife has accepted my hand in marriage. It is the screams of joy from Damon that tell me I'm standing on the top with the best view of the valley beneath me. My Everest is done! I celebrate by taking a second lap, this time creating new memories of how best to make the Outlaws earn their dare and excited for what the future holds. Damon greets me at the base with a grin and a glass of warm amber liquid as we toast the past thirty days.

It's morning again. The Outlaws are back in camp, tucked in their dreams. I've got that perma-grin all climbers get from accomplishment achieved. The rock is chilly. Goosebumps rise on my flesh with the first touch. One hundred feet above the fauna, the wall is changing colors under the golden sun. I breathe in deep and a hint of sage whispers into my lungs. It is a moment, like so many others, that I'll remember all my life.

For more please visit www.petrala.com and www.freesoloist.com

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