The Texture of Light

Being a rock climber involves more than the technical ability, knowledge and skills needed to climb. There is a wealth of culture attached to climbing that is pervasive and well understood through the community. There are tall tales, origin stories and legends passed around the campfire along with jokes, rumors and advice. These legends are always centered around places, both obscure and well-known, imparting important knowledge of those legendary places upon the listener. This is how new climbers learn about Yosemite, Indian Creek and Smith Rock-places that shaped the core of climbing as it is today. It was this passing of stories- around campfires and gym mats- that taught me about El Potrero Chico. Sometimes stories stop being enough, and you have to go see for yourself.

The plan for the trip came from Quinn, one of my oldest and closest friends. We planned nearly a year in advance, occasionally mentioning it until it was almost time to go. We booked campsites and did almost all the research we needed before packing into my car for the 20 hour drive from Durango.

Before we get any further, I need to admit something. When we left, I didn’t really think of myself as a Climber-you know, with a capital C. I had been climbing for five years, taken trips to Indian creek and all the destinations within a few hours of home. Hell, I even onsighted a 5.11 once. But climbing was just something to do when there wasn’t snow. In fact, some ridiculous part of me was worried about missing out on the first big winter storms while sweating my ass off in Mexico. This was my first true commitment to rock climbing- the first time I have ever made it a priority.  

This was not the case for Quinn. Growing up in the Front Range together, he was as committed to climbing as I was to snowboarding. He was the high school kid who would walk up to your project and flash it, then ask you how your day was. The month before we left for potrero, just shy of his 21st birthday, I watched Quinn send Colors Of Emotion, a nearly blank 5.13c in Penitente canyon. From down the canyon I watched him as he crimped shallow pockets and threw huge dynamic moves, screaming at the top of his lungs like he was Chris Sharma in reel rock. His face, normally slack and fit with an impish grin, was locked in concentration, framed by locks of long blonde hair and staring upwards as though he planned to keep climbing into the sky. Needless to say, he is a capitol C Climber.

Quinn and I have been tight for years-and while climbing is really only a small part of our friendship-when we shut the doors to the Subaru and pulled out of the driveway we entered into an agreement of sorts: That we would trust each other, and we would do all that was in our power to make the trip legendary.  

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We got off to a great start- we ran out of gas outside Hatch, New Mexico. Quinn pulled off the highway at just the right moment, the engine shutting off as we rolled to the top of the exit. While I called Triple A, Quinn set up camp chairs, where we played our guitars and watched the wind blow dust over leafless pecan groves in the desert winter. I was nervous, and still not entirely sure if I was making the right decision.  

Over the next few days the land became flatter and more arid, the plants thicker and sharper. Before crossing the border, we slept in an abandoned rest stop, the trucks and sleepless cars rumbling past on I-10 only fifty feet away. I didn’t sleep well. The thundering trucks and heavy mist held my attention, only serving to amplify the anxiety I had about crossing the border-something I had never done. Those legends that inspired me to go all that way had cautionary morals attached to them: trust the Mexican army (not the cops), don’t keep all your money in your wallet, play dumb and be prepared to pay a bribe. Most importantly, follow traffic laws and have all your paperwork in order. Of course, we broke both of those rules by noon the next day.

As we drove over the Rio Grande, past an impossible amount of speed bumps, we came to a fork in the road giving us a choice: go right and go through inspections or go left and enter Mexico without getting our car inspected for drugs. The answer was obvious. It would be two weeks before we found out we were in the country illegally. Oops.

South of Laredo, the desert continued in its planar fashion. Ringed with horizon, the road continued as Joshua trees began to appear, solitary at first, then blanketing the landscape in whimsical scaled groves. As we approached Monterrey, the mountains appeared in the distance, paradoxical in their sheer cliffs, spires and aretes snowless and exposed in the deep cactus-laden desert. It looked as though the great peaks of the Karakorum had been stolen and were left in the Sonoran desert to be choked to death by the dry jungle of northern Mexico. It was fantastic in every sense of the word. “shit” Quinn said. We missed our turn.

Quinn quickly found a way back to our route as I tried to ease some tension from myself. Driving in Mexico isn’t relaxing- the speed limits are always unreasonably slow, making traffic laws hard to follow as people usually go 40 kilometers an hour above the speed limit. The tolls come at random intervals, each with wildly different prices and every thirty minutes or so there’s a truck full of cops with assault rifles and black ski masks. I was beginning to learn one of the most important lessons you can learn from travel: you can either freak out and stay in control or surrender and let it take you. As we finally found the road to Hidalgo, I was confronted with that exact decision.  

We were turning under the highway, the road was clogged with trucks and taxis each honking incessantly as people meandered through the gridlock, almost nobody paying attention to the barely visible traffic light. We were stopped, the light was green, and cars were still pulling though in front of us. The light was red, then green again and as the cars around us accelerated. I realized that we would be running a red light by the time we made it to the intersection. Nobody else seemed to have a problem with that, so I stepped on the gas before glancing to my left and seeing a wave of oncoming traffic. I looked to my right, where a massive chemical truck was quickly filling the lane as it took a turn far tighter than it was designed for. On instinct, I floored through the rapidly closing gap, missing the truck by less than an inch, my mirror going under the trailer as traffic ceaselessly sped for my driver’s side door. We barely made it. Had it not been for that instant of surrender, I would have ended up in a Mexican hospital.

On we went to Hidalgo- the highway was filled with beaten down trucks and commuter cars, each one driving at whatever speed they felt like. The road followed a long valley between high limestone peaks, the desert rolling in every direction. Houses were colorful and signs called out with the price of Tamales and Tecate, two of my favorite things.  

This is a strange time to travel-the time of the internet and limitless information. When I first saw the front side of El toro I had two conflicting thoughts: that it looked just like the pictures, and that no camera could ever truly capture that great expanse of stone and spires. For the weeks I was there, it seemed like everybody was always staring upwards. In moments of silence, you could look around see the eyes of everyone present trained on that great ocean of stone as though it was a temple. If you have never seen it, I envy you. I would love nothing more than to see the face of that mountain, it’s spires, minarets and canyons, for the first time.  

Our first few days of climbing in El Potrero Chico were a crash course of sorts. We registered with search and rescue, fought for our tent sites at La Posada and learned to hitchhike into Hidalgo for groceries. We learned the market days (Tuesday and Friday) and the names of countless former strangers with whom we became fast friends. I exercised  my atrophied Spanish skills while Quinn picked up my slack, correcting me when I made mistakes. Thankfully, we had both brought our guitars, which made making friends as easy as breathing. Music attracts musical people, who are almost always a good time. We also climbed.

         Being the non-climber that I was I came into the trip with some serious goals. The fall season had been my most successful yet- I onsighted 5.11 trad, sent more boulders than ever before and even got in with a crew of strong boulderers in Durango who guided me to my first  official first ascent (Shagnasty mclutchbutt, V3+). I was feeling pretty good. I only had two season-goals left: I wanted to send 5.12a and I wanted to climb a route with ten or more pitches. In addition, I wanted to have lots of fun.  Quinn, as far as I knew, was on the same page. Having had somewhat of a breakthough season himself, he was psyched to get a taste of everything in the canyon, hopefully send something hard and have at least one epic day getting high on a wall. Finally, there was one route we had heard about from everybody we talked to, one that seemed to be a worthy challenge for both of us, Time Wave Zero. At 23 pitches, it was the longest route in the park. We knew we had be dialed, that we had much to learn before we could do the route in it’s entirety. So we went to work.   

We climbed every day, tasting each area and finding respite from the suffocating crowds of peak season. We climbed mostly single pitch-as Quinn had forgotten his helmet. That was fine by me. In that first week I climbed more routes at my limit than I had in my life. I fell into the rhythm of clipping bolts and taking falls, breathing, resting, thinking and fighting the pump.  I sent nothing, and it was likely the most successful week of sport climbing I’ve ever had. I learned to love the process.

We climbed at Club mex, Virgin canyon, The Spires, The Surf Bowl and on down the list. We made friends and established ourselves at La Posada, the crowded hostel becoming more and more familiar as we met its permanent and temporary inhabitants. We played guitar and held long conversations with Climbers (with a capitol C) from all over the world, most of whom were Canadians. We learned that everything you have ever learned about Canadians is true. They are kind, generous and hilarious in that order.

We became regulars at a taco place, showing up almost every night to eat 15 peso tacos and drink Carta Blanca over the sound of soap operas in the kitchen. We partied on new years, riding mechanical bulls, jumping over bonfires and dancing to cumbia while fireworks sprayed overhead. Needless to say, we were succeeding in having a good time.

Then, at the peak of our rhythm, we caught covid. Or, at least, we were pretty sure it was. Having both fallen ill, we tried our hardest to climb before realizing that rest was necessary. After all, neither of us had sent anything and the end of the trip was rapidly approaching. I was beginning to get worried. I had come closer than ever to sending a 5.12, even passing the crux on blue fin before pumping out at a rest. I was confident it would be easy, but gaining a full number grade in a single season of climbing was beginning to look like a greater challenge by the day.

         In the peak of my illness I woke in the middle of the night almost unable to breathe. I went to the bathroom and cleared my sinuses, practicing deep, strong breaths in the buzzing fluorescent light. As I walked back to my tent I stopped and watched as the moon emerged from the mist that shrouded the spires. Everything was glowing. The oceans of stone looked taller and more imposing than ever and I wondered why the hell anyone would ever want to climb them when just looking at them was that magnificent. The light surrounding the mountains had texture like a blanket falling from the shoulders of some great beast. I realized we would be leaving in five days.

From here, things began to pick up.

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Quinn had promised to climb the first 5 pitches of El Sendero Luminoso with our fried Sam. Unfortunately, he was far to sick to climb. I was feeling better, so I stepped up knowing I could at least jug and belay. If you don’t know Sendero, it is likely the king line of El Potrero Chico, and of it’s 15 pitches half are 5.12 or harder.  I was intimidated, but I knew I couldn’t pass it up. After all, I only had three days to become a real Climber.  

On our hike that morning, we were accompanied by a drunk local who had likely been out for the entire night. Sam and I humored him until he asked if he could join us on our climb. We shared an awkward look before telling him, in broken Spanish, that it would be impossible. Thankfully, as we picked up our pace he turned back, allowing us to hike to the spire in peace. Sam was psyched. This was a climb he had been dreaming about for years, and seeing that kind of inspiration in his eyes looking the base of the climb nearly answered the question I had asked myself on that moonlit night days ago. That is why people climb. For him, this was a quest. Sam clearly had a fire in him, one that burned hotter as we racked up.

What little I knew of Sam was enough to know that he was a very strong climber. He climbed hard finger cracks in the creek and was a regular at Durango’s world famous Golf Wall, where forearm strength goes to die. Watching him onsight the first pitch of Sendero was nothing short of amazing. He cruised with ease, fingerlocking small cracks and smearing slick limestone, clipping the chains and loudly proclaiming “ that wasn’t even 5.12!”. I’m no expert, but after falling on the crux a dozen times before jugging through, it certainly was. My respect for Sam as a climber only grew as we went higher. He climbed fearlessly above the ever present exposure, dialing tricky sequences and reading cryptic movement with ease. He onsighted three of those five pitches, only stopped by the 12d crux and the fatigue he felt on the last pitch after onsighting nearly 900 feet of steep technical limestone climbing. Watching him filled me with a question, Do I have a quest like this? Could climbing ever mean this much to me? Was I strong enough to climb Time Wave Zero?

When we returned, Quinn and I made a plan. We decided to take a partial rest day, then wake up early the next morning to make our attempt on the longest route in the canyon. Once again, I was beginning to feel nervous. 23 pitches? 5.12 crux? It was daunting. And reminiscent of another adventure Quinn and I had shared.  

Two months before we went to Mexico, Quin and I ran rim-to-rim-to-rim in the Grand Canyon. Neither of us was in peak condition and neither of us had run more than a marathon in a day. On that day we ran 45 miles and covered 11,000 feet of vertical gain. At the top, 14 hours after we started, Quinn confided in me.

“that was the hardest thing I have ever done” he said. I thought about it, then replied, “me too”. As I thought more I began to realize that if it was harder I still would have done it. The hardest thing I had ever done had not been my limit. Time wave zero would be different. In the grand canyon I was confident, all I had to do that day was keep moving forward. But now I had doubt about myself as a climber that I never had as a runner. Am I strong enough? Can I withstand the exposure? Will I be too afraid?

The day before our biggest (and final) climb, Quinn and I went to the surf bowl. I tried my project one last time, falling at the crux. I was bummed and feeling out of place among the crowd of shirtless crushers taking turns on steep 5.13s. When we got back to La Posada, Quinn took me out on a run. We listened to my favorite album and ran through the canyon, passing friends and waving, nearly sprinting past hordes of climbers and locals alike, watching the sunset over the ring of spires that framed the canyon. I looked to the back side of El Toro-the path of Time Wave Zero-and silently acknowledged that it would happen. That come tomorrow, I would stand atop that great mountain.

That night, as we sat at the picnic tables outside the community kitchen at La Posada, we overheard laughter from an adjacent table. It was group of crusty rock guides and their clients, and they were talking about Time Wave Zero. “Tomorrow’s gonna be horrible” we heard one of them say, “if I was doing do that route i’d start ten minutes ago!”. I called over to their table, “ why? What’s the deal with tomorrow?” I was met with blank stares. One of them piped up, “tomorrow’s gonna be 90 degrees, at least.”. Shit, I thought. I turned to Quinn and met his surprised stare. In an instant, without speaking, we made a decision. We had to do the route.  

We made our plan quickly, debating the idea of sleeping for an hour or two before deciding to make some coffee and just get after it. We were both already tired, and the last two days had been full of hard, exhausting climbing. We packed our bags with the silent, intense quiet that one only experiences when you know that no matter what you bring, what comes next will still push you to the limit. We were ready to go by 9:30. Before we left, we each took half a dose of Adderall and two ibuprofen,  and when I shouldered my pack I could still feel the bruises on my hips from hanging in a harness two days before. I ignored the pain, finished my coffee, and got to walking. As we left La Posada, passing people brushing their teeth in pajamas, we were met with whoops and hollers from the crowd outside the kitchen, cheering us on into the rapidly growing darkness.

As we hiked to the base of the route we listened to Modest Mouse, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. I focused on the hike, pushing hard and sweating in the darkness as the drums and guitars blared in my ears. As we reached the base of the climb, I felt the fatigue of the last few days weighing on me like a block of steel. I couldn’t focus on that. My harness felt comfortable and familiar, reminding me of the incredible power of Ibuprofen.

Our plan was to link as many pitches as possible in an attempt to climb fast. The first two pitchs were rated 5.7 and 5.11, I lead first and blasted through the 5.7, my backpack heavy with water. I was full of confidence linking into the 5.11, until I hit the crux. It was well bolted but steep and cryptic, after multiple tries I took my first fall. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure it out, my confidence waning as I realized I couldn’t climb a grade I had been consistently flashing for weeks. I lowered back to the first anchor and let Quinn finish the pitch, knowing the night was already veering away from how I imagined it. It was 11:30.

Things went better from then on. We linked pitches and swapped leads as bats chirped and swirled overhead. The moon rose and bathed the  mountain valley in silver light so bright we hardly needed our headlamps. As we climbed, we learned to peer into every crack and hole in the rock as there were often spiders the size of apricots in the best holds. At one point, Quinn pointed to the great spire of limestone to the east, stating with conviction “I swear to god, there is a dragon somewhere over there”. For lack of a better word, things were looking dragon-y.

The night wore on and we reached our first big ledge. It was a ridge of sorts, connecting a small sub-peak to the larger main body of El Toro. We picked up the rope and walked through cactus and yucca, the all but pervasive bats still chirping around our heads. The next few pitches would lead us to a bivy ledge which marked the halfway point of the route. After a quick break, we made our final push to the ledge.

It was my turn to lead and though I had long run out of chalk in the still heat of the desert night, I still held on to a sense of confidence as I dialed yet another pitch of runout 5.9 slab. I felt a tingle of remembrance as I passed a set of anchors, was this the 5.10 pitch next? Or the 5.7? I thought, am I supposed to link these? I decided I should, that it would be an easy romp to the next anchor. I was wrong. The holds disappeared and I was suddenly aware of how sweaty I was, dipping my hands into my chalk bag more for comfort than for anything else. I smeared my feet on the slick limestone and entered an overhanging dihedral. Jamming my hands in a sharp crack, feet slipping, I became suddenly aware of the yawning blackness below. The weight of my pack, the suffocating heat and my all-encompassing exhaustion were starting to get to me. I gave up and grabbed the nearest draw, pulling up and reaching a sloping ledge. Ahead, there was a slab with a few bolts and no anchors in sight.

I bulled ahead, with more rope drag than I have ever felt pulling me off the wall. I was worn thin and the slab was terrifying. Long sections of slick limestone with bolts at poor clipping stances. When I saw the anchor I let out an audible sigh of relief. As I belayed Quinn I began to unravel. The darkness was unsettling, the exposure was scary and I was beginning to see spiders in the corners of my vision that probably weren’t there. I took deep breaths, leaning into my harness for comfort. I can do this I thought. I came here to do this.  By the time Quinn made it to the belay, I was composed. I told him the pitch was scary, but not that I had talked myself out of a panic attack, that would be giving up. I wasn’t going to give up.

Quinn linked two more pitches and belayed me up to the Bivy ledge. We took off our harnesses and sat down, eating, drinking and watching the moonlight pooling in the valley. I had been looking forward to an hour of rest, but when we checked the time it read 5:30 am. Unfortunately, if we wanted to make it to the top, we would have to push on. It was time to hustle. I racked up and linked two pitches of 5.9 off the ledge. I was shaking and sweating, the normally easy climbing kicking my ass as I clipped spaced out bolts and found small foot smears in the ever-present darkness. At the belay, Quinn and I talked over what was to come- six long pitches at the least and the hardest climbing on the route by far. Quinn racked up and kept going, pushing on towards the top.

I didn’t want to give up, but as I looked to the east I began to see the first twinge of pink on the horizon. The sun would soon be up, adding to the already oppressive heat. No matter how fast we climbed, we wouldn’t beat the sun. I knew right then that I didn’t want to keep going. I wanted to sleep. I no longer carried that inspiration that kept me going through the night, just waves of weariness and disappointment as I realized my limit was lower than I thought it was. The color on the horizon deepened and light began to permeate the mountains, illuminating spires and pillars in waves of golden texture-sunbeams laying like blankets across the still moonlit sky.

I looked up at the now shining stone above me, and Quinn questing his way towards the top-determination evident in the speed he carried up the wall. I knew that finishing the route would be an incredible challenge, one I wasn’t ready for. I knew he would be disappointed, almost as disappointed as I was in myself. I weighed my options and yelled up to my partner, “Quinn. I think we should bail”.

True to the that silent agreement we made weeks ago, he didn’t argue or doubt my decision but for one clarifying statement’ “Are you sure?” he said. “yes.” I replied. “well, then it’s probably a good idea”. He didn’t say any more than that. As the valley came in to full view, he found an anchor and lowered down, grabbing gear as he went. We took pictures at the belay and watched the sun rise from more than a thousand feet above the valley floor. I can hardly describe how I felt. Before me was one of the most magnificent sights I had ever seen, punctuated by a rare and bitter feeling: failure.

Despite all this, an entire night of climbing the mountain, I had failed. I had never felt failure in this way, in the context of climbing. How strange it was. leave it to climbers to scale an 1800 foot cliff and claim they did nothing only because they didn’t make it all the way to the top. As morning took hold, we rappelled to the bivy ledge and let ourselves rest. The sunrise was still glorious and while we stared out at the valley we laughed in equal parts spite and relief as we finished a family size bag of mandms. When we decided to go, it had begun to heat up, and with the dreaded sun at our backs we started the long rappel to the ground.

The rappels took us the better part of three hours and after packing up and hiking down we found ourselves passing through crowds of climbers just now entering the canyon. As we walked under the massive yellow entrance gate to the park we saw our friends Sam, Jess, Carson and Emily. It was then that I began to feel the full weight of my exhaustion. They took pictures and gave us hugs while we rambled a half -coherent retelling the nights events. By the time we made it back to camp it was 10:30 am, a full thirteen hours after we left.

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After being awake for almost thirty hours, thinking became I herculean effort. I knew I wanted food, and maybe a cigarette, but that accounted for the entire realm of my thoughts in that moment. Quinn and I shared the cigarette we had found the week before and entered the hostel’s restaurant. After telling our friend Bernando an abridged version of the nights events in imperfect Spanish, we ordered two whole breakfasts each and ate to the point of bursting. I barely made it to a hammock before falling into a restless sleep by the swimming pool.

Unfortunately for us, Quinn and I did not receive a full and restful sleep. We napped off and on for most of the day before finding ourselves hungry once again. In the kitchen, we once again encountered Sam and Jess, who informed us that it would be their last night in Mexico. As it happened, it would also be ours and given the circumstances, we rallied. It was jazz night at the crux, a nearby bar, and we showed up ready to dance.

What followed was the most pronounced second wind I have ever had. Fueled by Tecate and Mezcal, we danced for hours. Laughing and singing and switching between broken Spanish and slurred English. We closed out the bar, drinking with the owner until we moved into the street where, somehow, we ended up in a Local woman’s car, blasting Spanish rap and cruising the streets of Hidalgo. It was the result of complete immersion, total and beautiful surrender.  The next day we packed up while I fought the worst hangover of my life. We made the rounds at La Posada giving our heartfelt thanks and goodbyes, then drove into Hidalgo. We stocked up on tortillas, tamales and our favorite brand of beans before setting off down the highway.

I was full of thoughts on the drive home. It had been a remarkable adventure, one with unusual lessons to be learned. I decided failure was okay. Looking out at the vast plains of west Texas for days at a time, I came to the realization that if I showed up and did everything I wanted too it wouldn’t have been a valuable experience. It would have been easy, and what’s the point of driving a thousand miles to do something easy?. I’m glad I failed. I have unfinished business now, with a mountain and with myself. The kind of vendetta only a Capitol C Climber can have.