La Joya in a day

I had been hoping that Paul would drive, as my only 4-wheeled vehicle was a '69 VW camper which is great for getting surfboards down to the beach but not so great for long jaunts requiring that you be back at work on Monday. Unfortunately, Paul's wife, Leslie, had dibs on their van so we took the VW. As usual, we got off to a late start Friday night, not that we had any chance of arriving in daylight, but you can always hope. Any chance of arriving before the dark of night was dashed when we hit the highway. The road of was jammed with trucks and other weekend warriors bringing the pace of traffic down to a walk. Passing on the highway being near impossible in the VW, we took our place in line and crawled along. We arrived at the turnoff at around 10 p.m.

Now we've both been to this area many times but I guess that's still not enough because we were misled several times by the myriad dirt roads that cut through the brush on the west side of the ridge line. Most of these were not fatal. The last one was. I took a turn that put us on the sandy wash that parallels the dirt road. This is fine if you have 4-wheel drive, this is also fine if you keep your speed up in a 2-wheel drive vehicle, but the latter also requires some amount of being able to see where you are going. After several hundred feet on the wash I pointed the van into what I thought was a cut back onto the dirt road. It turned out to be a dead end into the deepest sand around. Paul and I worked for an hour and a half to get that van backed out and moving again. It was cold, it was dark and it was no fun. I just wanted to leave it where it was and go to sleep but we were too close to our destination to give up that easily. We requisitioned wood and rocks from the vicinity, broke out the jack and a trowel and went to work. The car came back a few feet at a time. We finally got rolling with Paul first pushing and then standing on the rear bumper to keep the weight over the drive wheels. It was midnight and the campsite under the big live oak was ours.

Saturday morning came early, it was clear and bearably cool. We ate a quick breakfast, organized the gear and started on our way towards the notch at 7:00 a.m. We were surprised to find another group of climbers already stirring as we tromped though their campsite. We stopped to chat with Richard Hughes and his wife Patsy and they reconfirmed the plight of the parties who had done La Joya the previous weekend. We bolted for the path. Neither of us had done this route before but Paul had a vague idea of where it started. We arrived at the notch at the top of the ravine which descends to the base of the route and had a quick look at what lay ahead of us before heading into unknown territory. The route was supposedly visible on the left skyline on the white granite massif called El Trono Blanco, "The Great White Throne". From where we stood to the base of the climb looked like a 15 minute walk. It took us well over two hours to locate the start. We went further and further down the ravine until we were at a point where it would have been necessary to rap or do some serious down-climbing. We realized that we must have passed the base of the climb since we had passed out of sight of the notch some time back. We started backtracking up through the loose rocks and the spiny plant life, searching the wall above us for bolts. We finally spotted the bolt line that leads up the first pitch of the climb just to the right of La Joya. Working our way up through the cactus we found ourselves at the base of a ramp leading up and right. We had arrived.

The wall above us was pure white granite streaked with the wide quartz veins that are a characteristic of the area. We flaked out the 8.5 mm double ropes we thought might come in handy in the event we needed to bail off for any reason. The weather was warming up, the heat moderated by a gentle breeze. The sky was streaked by a thin layer of high clouds that would keep the temperature under control. Paul started up the 5.5 ramp trailing the ropes, off belay. I made sure that rope payed out smoothly and scampered up behind him. He continued up the second pitch of 5.4 and, as he was doing so well and had not broken a sweat yet, I allowed him to continue up the 5.10a pitch to Hotel Ledge with a belay. I tied in and Paul belayed me up pitch #3.

Paul and I had agreed to swap pitches from the top of Hotel Ledge but the dreaded 11b 5th pitch was Paul's. I promised to lead everything else if only he would lead this pitch. Paul, being the nice guy that he his, didn't take my offer. We arranged the rest of the climb around this pitch.

My lead. Pack off, shirt off, draws in hand, I moved up the pure white granite, clipping the bolts of pitch #4. We were getting high enough off the ground that the blue palm trees in the ravine were beginning to look very small. The view of Laguna Salada to the east was widening, framed by the rugged sides of the ravine. I topped out on a comfortably wide ledge with a three bolt hanging belay at the base of the crux pitch, Paul's lead.

The crux move involved a thin mantle with a small edge for the right hand of someone over 6 feet tall. A nice, big, shiny 3/8 inch bolt is perfectly located to protect it. Paul contemplated the move, moving up and feeling the rock numerous times, before he found the secret edge with his right hand. I worried. He was at the limit of his positive ape factor reach before the tips of his fingers caressed that edge. Little hope for the short guy with the pack. Paul pulled it off, rocking his weight over his right toe with his left hand palming the blank white granite face. The pitch was far from over. Paul was out of sight but I could tell by the speed at which the rope was moving through my belay device and by the mutterings coming from above that the going was anything but easy. I would have my turn soon enough. I heard Paul's cry of "Off belay!" with relief. The crux pitch had taken almost an hour to lead but there were still many hours of daylight left to complete the remaining 5 pitches. "On belay!". My turn.

Now I know I could say it was the pack but there was no way I could have made that crux move even without it. It was a combination of a highstep and a mantel and all the other technical, balancy moves that I’ve never excelled at. After 10 minutes or so of futile attempts, with Paul constantly increasing tension on the rope, I finally grabbed the draw and hauled my butt up past the crux. The struggle still wasn't over. I started up what must have been the most sustained 11a friction I ever hope to encounter. It just never let up. The feeling that I was going to pop off stayed with me all the way to the belay. Tiny dime-width edges were all that were offered on a pitch that I would not call over-bolted. That was the pitch that separated the men from the boys ... and I knew which side of the line I stood on! I arrived at the belay drained and we took a little drink break before I started up the next pitch.

The next pitch was rated 5.11a but it was a piece of cake compared to the previous pitch. I flew up it, happy to be free of the pack again. Paul led the 5.9 that followed with his usual speed, setting me up for the 10d. I intended to fly up this pitch as well and started up a wide quartz vein, clipping bolts as they came. A surprise awaited me. In my haste I had not consulted the topo and found myself making desperate moves on itsy-bitsy crystals and on the verge of taking a good whipper. When the climbing eased up and I had clipped the next bolt Paul had a look at the topo and found that I had skipped a bolt. Below me the route had veered(??) off the vein to the left, where another bolt was to be found and then rejoined the vein again higher up. I had gone straight up the vein. Not recommended! The rest of the pitch went smoothly as I managed to stay on the route. Paul followed, taking the path of lesser resistance, and led through the 5.9 pitch that followed. I took the last pitch, a 5.7 scramble.

We topped out around 2:30 p.m., grinning from ear to ear with the knowledge that we ran no risk of spending a night on the top. The sun was shining, there was not a cloud in the sky, and there was hardly a breeze. I had never seen such good weather at this area. We wolfed down our PowerBars, downed some of our water and took the summit photos. Being in no particular hurry, we napped for a while before starting back towards the notch.

The descent route is definitely non-trivial and, having done it, would not attempt it in darkness, except in desperation. The climb tops out in an area that is fairly flat and bigger than a football field, pitted with holes large enough to bathe in were they filled with water. There is enough flora and fauna to make you believe that you are safely on the desert floor. From the top there is a view of Laguna Salada 4,000 feet below to the east, letting you know that you are not in Kansas any more. The walk-off starts heading north-west, away from the ravine, towards the higher stone peaks in the center of the ridgeline. Scrambling to the top of a series of large blocks, you head almost directly south towards the ravine along the top of the blocks, hopping over the occasional crevasse. With the notch again in view to the south-west, you descend towards the west into and around the perimeter of a smaller ravine. In daylight you can see the cairns on the other side of this ravine, giving you a clue that you are heading in the right direction. In darkness, heading in the wrong direction at this point could lead to that big last step. Arriving on the west side of this small ravine, cairns lead south and west in a gradual descent back to the notch. You are still doing a substantial amount of boulder hopping even at this point, but at least the cairns are there to guide you. The beaten path starts again at the notch at the top of the ravine.

Shortly after passing through the notch we spotted a couple climbing high above us and remarked that the female member of the party appeared to be topless. With added hustle we rushed back to camp to verify this event with the aid of Paul's binoculars. This kept us entertained until the arrival at camp of a few more parties. Richard and Patsy were there, as was Alejandro, a young climber from Tijuana whom I hadn't seen in years. He had come not to climb this time but to star gaze with his latest telescope, an enormous black cylinder that he had in the back of his Bronco. It had to be 16 inches in diameter and 5 feet in length. As the sun continued to drop into the western horizon, I was aware of an odd dust swirl over by Alejandro's car. It didn't concern me enough to investigate closer until someone else mentioned it as well. Walking over to Alejandro's car it was evident that the dust was really smoke emanating from the interior. The setting sun had been shining through the windshield and onto the big parabolic mirror at the bottom of the telescope tube. Even unfocused, the reflected beam was hot enough to burn an 8 inch long streak on the back of the driver's seat that followed the contour of the setting sun. Alejandro quickly remedied the situation by removing his telescope from the back of the vehicle and entertained us by setting it up so we could view individual bolts on the rock walls half a mile to the east. Too bad we didn't have use of it earlier :).

The evening's festivities continued until well after sunset. Wood that had been carried back by climbers returning to camp kept the fire fed. Dinner was prepared and consumed, washed down with copious quantities of beer or wine. With a late night of digging in the sand and an early morning start behind us, Paul and I hit the sack early, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the fire and companions, but happy to be heading for the comfort of our sleeping bags.