Photo Opp, eh?

I look over at Ron, and reach across the maps and guidebooks spread out along the table for one of his French Fries.

"Are we nuts?" I ask him for the second time. "Do you think 'Solar Slab' is too ambitious for the amount of daylight we'll have tomorrow?"

"Nah," Ron says. "We can do this. An hour hike in, two hours up the gully. Then an hour a pitch…"

For nine pitches! I count fingers on both hands.

"Plus 800 more feet up to the top and how many raps down the descent gully?" I ask, my voice sounding higher and higher pitched. "Basically that gets us out at 2am! Maybe we should bag this and drive home tomorrow. It could snow again you know and…"

Ron shakes his head and looks up from the newly revised guidebook.

"I've looked this over and I think we can rap off "Solar Slab" after the 7th pitch." He looks at me. "If we get started early enough, we can do this in a day."

I shove another fry in my mouth and grab the book from him.

"OK," I say, "I've been looking over the pitches and I can't decide if I should just lead the first five - Gonzales says all I need is five of the nine - or if we should alternate. In which case you should probably start because the third pitch is marked 'tricky' in the book, and if you do one and I do two then you can do the tricky one, but then I'm not sure if it counts for my eval if we swing leads and…"

He cuts me off, smiling.

"I don't think this is going to be as hard as you think, El. You'll probably end up wanting to lead all seven pitches. Besides, it's only 5.6. How tricky can it be?"

OK. OK. 5.6. Right.

I'm hesitant to on-sight a route for my eval, even if it is only rated 5.6. I've been on some routes at Tahquitz rated 5.5 that scared me, and I have no idea what the route finding will be like. I'm remembering the rivers of snow run-off Dave Lutz and I faced yesterday, but I'm hoping Ron's right. He's the one with 25 years experience plus a stint on the Riverside Rescue Unit.

I launch into my preparation speech, tallying up all the gear I've brought: hundred ounce Camelbak, eight Cliff bars, four pb&js, headlamp, extra socks, windbreaker, Gatorade, Xeroxed topos, matches, space blanket.

"Space blanket?" Ron asks with a grin, biting into his cheeseburger.

"You never know, we will be racing the sun and it could get cold and…" I look up at him from my notes and lists. "Do you think we're well enough prepared?"

He eyes me.

"Geez, I don't know," Ron says, picking up his napkin. "I'm thinking maybe you should sleep in your harness."
********

Six a.m. Monday and we're hiking briskly into Oak Creek Canyon, watching the moon fade as the rising sun brushes the sandstone with pink and gold.

"Are you going to test me?" I ask. "Like, unclip yourself, or drop a rope or something scary like that just to see how I'll react?"

"You never know," Ron says with a smile.

"Let me know if you decide to play stupid client or something," I say, tightening the chest strap on my pack. "I've heard of evil evaluators doing these kinds of things and I'd just like a little warning."

"You have my word," he says.

Ron swiftly leads us simul-climbing up the gully, stopping briefly to put me on belay for crucial moves. We make it up to the Terrace by 8:30, ditch a few more layers of clothing, and I'm ready to lead the first pitch before nine. I look up to the tree at the top. So far, this looks do-able.

With Ron safely anchored in, I head up. The first piece I place is a little tri-cam borrowed off Dave Lutz. Yay me, setting tri-cams! A few more cams and nuts later, and I'm at the belay ledge tree.

Pitch number two is a little more interesting. A weird angle with a wide crack down to the left, and a run-out face on the right. I opt for the face to save rope and make it to the tree at the top without incident.

Pitch three is a nice low angled crack that takes pro easily. Ron quickly follows me up to the nearly hanging belay. We both look over at the start of pitch four and the dreaded "tricky" move.

"You've been doing great so far, El." He takes a draw off the Camelbak. "Good placements."

I take a deep breath, and traverse across to the base of the next crack system. I look at the "tricky" move, but I can't see the problem. All the guidebook showed was the word "tricky," stamped on the diagram, no written explanation or description. What if I get part way and stumble into tricky part, taking a whipper, popping my pro and bouncing dozens of feet back down past Ron's belay? I think of Juan Carlos in the Trad Leading Workshop urging us to breathe at stressful moments.

I place my feet and begin moving up. It's a little awkward, but not worth warning people in a guide book about. I make several moves and get in the first cam.

"Nice." I hear Ron say from below.

The next section is the dreaded "under the roof" move. I was awake at 4 a.m. contemplating difficult dyno moves, and exposed overhangs I might be incapable of maneuvering. I take another Juan Carlos deep breath.

The pitch is shorter than the book indicated and the scary "ceiling" turns out to be a simple step around with the belay ledge waiting on the other side. My quavering hands gratefully secure an anchor.

Pitch five has a deeper finger crack that widens to a hand crack. I sink the cams and nuts in deep, listening to Ron cursing me out later as he bangs away at cleaning them. Eventually he joins me.

"OK El," he says, handing over gear. "You've done your five pitches, what do you think?"

"I'm getting wicked tired, but I'm gonna finish it," I grin, lapsing into my Boston accent. Only two more pitches. I'm stoked. The RM badge is almost in sight.

I cruise up the very easy sixth pitch, belaying from the top of a pillar looking out across the Red Rocks floor. The sun has reduced me to tank top and vest, but the wind is beginning to pick up and we've still got one more pitch and twelve rappels.

"There's a couple of guys on our tail," Ron says, as he steps up onto the pillar. He starts handing me gear. "They're almost on us."

I scramble quickly up the final pitch to the rappel chains, where we rapidly flake out both ropes, I tie them together, feeding the end through the chains. Both ropes are Mammut bi-color. My rope is bright orange, and Ron's is burnt orange. Dusty and dirty, they look frighteningly similar.

"This is going to suck trying to tell which one is which," I say. "Let's call yours brown and mine orange. We pull orange."

To save time, Ron suggests we simul-rap. I'm getting cranky and cold so I whip on my windbreaker. I'm nervous about a new technique, but it makes sense time-wise, so we each put an end through our rappel devices and carefully move together down toward the next rap station.

By now the two guys on the route behind us are parallel with our downward progress.

"How's it going, eh?" says the leader, sounding (and looking) just like one of the Canadian McKenzie brothers in the movie "Strange Brew."

"Great day for it, huh?" I say, nervously focusing on my ATC.

The Canadian looks over our set-up.

"Oh," he says, chewing on his lip. "Two ropes, eh?"

Ron and I look at him.

Duh.

"Did you carry the second one on your back?" The Canadian asks.

"Uh, no," Ron says. "You know, the second trails the other rope and then you tie them together?"

"Huh," the Canadian says, clearly confused. "Well, we've only got one rope, eh?" He scratches the side of his face. "How's about we rap down with you folks?"

Great. No f**king way. My ankles and fingers are turning blue, Ron and I aren't going to make it down before dark just the two of us, and if we add Bob and Doug Mackenzie here we could be looking at midnight.

"Just say no," I hiss at Ron. "Tell them it's my eval, that I'm responsible for getting us down, and we're on a schedule."

He looks at me like maybe my hair has gone part white like Cruella DeVille in 101 Dalmations. He squints at the Canadian.

I look down the thousand plus feet that remain between us and the trail. I have neither the skills nor the mental strength at this point to supervise four people for that distance.

"Tell them no," I say again. People get killed trying to "rescue" guys like these.

"How were you guys going to get down?" Ron asks.

"Well, we were thinking to find that back gully, eh?"

They'll be fine. Rugged Canadians. Built for cold.

"Say no," I whisper one last time. "Tell them it's my eval."

"You're eval's over," Ron says, turning to the Canadians. "Well, if you're coming, you'd better make it fast."

"Oh, great, great, eh?" The Canadian replies. "But I'd better clean my pro from this pitch, eh? I'm John, and that's Bill down below."

I grind my teeth and white knuckle the rope in my break hand as Ron and I continue our rappel. I've been dismissed, discounted. And I'm pissed.

Ron introduces us to Bill, a quiet guy with a huge pack, and a totally unconcerned attitude.

"I guess you guys are going to rap down with us," Ron says sternly.

"OK," Bill says. "Whatever, eh?"

We hear John above, futzing with his pro and waggling our ropes in all directions. My stomach is growling, the rock is growing colder with the diminished angle of the sun, the wind has picked up, and I have to pee.

Finally, John seems to be no longer on belay, but rapping on our rope, despite a distinct lack of communication between him and Bill. As Bill is closest to me on our tiny ledge, I ask if he can put me on belay while I go lean out under the ledge.

"What?" Bill says. "You want me to put you on belay? What for, eh?"

I'd love to just piss on his shoe, but I smile politely instead, check his belay and crouch under the ledge.

After what feels like hours, John has returned and he and Bill bungle about with knots and ropes and the backpack like two of the Stooges.

"Photo opp, eh?" Bill says to John, snapping his picture, and slapping him a high five.

I glance past them at the locking biner connecting my daisy chain to the anchor. It now has some other sling attached through it. They've compromised my safety without me knowing it. I want to scream at them, but my brain can't form the words. I look out through the fading daylight at the tiny trail below and my legs start shivering uncontrollably.

"OK," John says with enthusiasm. "I checked out the knot, and we pull pink." He starts yanking on the rope.

"Wait! WAIT!" Ron and I yell in unison.

"There is no pink," I say. "One's orange and one's brown."

"Whatever, eh? Pull pink." John begins yanking again.

I snatch the ropes from him and inspect them closely, handing John the orange one and shooting Ron a look.

"C'mon guys," Ron says. "We're losing daylight here."

John pulls orange, but accumulates a pile of only a couple feet of rope.

"Geez, I think it's stuck, eh?" John says.

I scrunch down on the ledge, wondering if tears would be totally inappropriate. My tough, "I wanna be an RM" image is cracking. All I can think of is what it would be like to be back in my warm hotel room. I stare at John.

"Well, guess I better go up and get it unstuck, eh?" John says.

The sun is sinking behind the canyon wall opposite us as John comes down triumphant.

"OK," he says. "Pull yellow."

"Yellow? " I croak.

"Yellow, beige, whatever, eh?" John says.

We finally get the rope down and rap to the next ledge where the rope comes down without a snag this time. Hope surfaces.

Yet at the next rap station, Ron pulls the orange rope for about six inches before it sticks. He turns to Bill.

"You were the last one down. Were you careful how the ropes were running and not to get them crossed or stuck?" Ron demands.

"Crossed, eh?" Bill looks puzzled.

Ron tugs desperately a few more times. "Anyone got any suggestions?" he asks quietly.

All the bravado, rage, and bitchiness I've been fronting dissolves with this question. It occurs to me we could freeze to death. Or plummet to our respective demises from stupidity. I look closely at Ron squinting desperately up the taut rope. Rescue Man is losing it just as bad as I am.

My inner drama queen takes over and I look out to the south, toward where I know Vegas to be, wondering how we'd signal for a rescue. Would anyone come looking for us? I have matches in my Camelbak. Why did I ever decide I needed to get my RM eval done? Maybe I really haven't been leading long enough to do this. Maybe the Canadians have flares in that giant back pack. I could have waited for spring and Tahquitz. Maybe the rangers will see the van and get concerned…

"I'll go back up again this time and get it unstuck, eh?" John says, snapping me back to reality.

"No," I say, wishing I had the skill or experience to head up into the darkness myself.

I yank off the Camelbak and pull out my headlamp and the last pb&j, both of which I hand to Ron. He chews on the sandwich and pulls off his glasses.

"These are my prescription sunglasses," he admits. "I didn't bring my regular glasses."

Huh, I think. Sleep in my harness, indeed. Who's laughing about the space blanket now?

"You can do this," I say. "It was an easy pitch."

Ron nods and prepares to head up.

"Hey, we should call this the lunar slab, eh? Heh, heh." John says to Bill.

I huddle next to a shrub while Ron makes his way upward.

Eventually, Ron returns and we pull the both ropes successfully.

We all get safely down to the terrace, where Ron leads us effortlessly by headlamp down four rappels of the gully.

As I prepare to push off for the fifth and final rappel, John says to Bill, "So, what did you think of your first multi-pitch?"

First multi-pitch?

"Yeah," John says. "His first time outdoors, eh?"

My frozen fingers struggle to shove the stiff ropes through the slots in my ATC. I shake my head. Unbelievable.

"Hey, Elle!" Bill says. "Photo opp, eh?"

I look up as the flash explodes in the darkness, bouncing off the black gully walls. Blinded, I step backward, disappearing into the black, gratefully anticipating the bottom of the Lunar Slab, the end of my RM eval.

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