CATEGORIES
CATEGORIESCastle Valley is the heart of tower climbing in Utah, immediately east of Moab along River Road (Utah Rt. 128). From Fisher Towers’ mudstone to the splattered calcite of Castleton Tower, the valley’s slender spires teeter on knife ridges of shattered talus cones.
Tower routes are loose, steep and unrelenting. Luckily, one of the Valley’s easier climbs is among the best. The five-pitch “Jah Man” route on the Sister Superior Group features well-protected chimneys, elegant hand cracks and delicate face climbing, all at the relatively moderate grade of 5.10+.
A day of desert climbing inevitably starts with a bleary-eyed, dusty morning. Red sand and dust fill every crevice of the tent to add a certain ‘desert spice’ to any food. Jah Man was no different. We woke to clear skies and a whipping wind. A dusty trail to nowhere took us up a dry wash; we shouldered heavy packs and trudged towards the tower.
Atop the talus cone, we donned harnesses and racked up, sweaty shirts drying slowly in the cool wind. Above, the tower soared heavenward. No wonder the towers carry names of religious figures; The Priest, The Nuns and The Rectory all grace the same skyline as Sister Superior.
We scrummed our way through a chimney to an expansive belay ledge. Two pitches up, Hannah took a lead fall pulling the technical crux of the route: an airy, bouldery traverse. Still higher, I slipped out of the hand crack, exhausted from the continuous, strenuous crack climbing. So much for the on-sight attempt. We pulled onto the summit block, a tiny sloping piece of sandstone barely big enough for three of us to stand.
“YEAH!” We let out an unbridled whoop. The views from a tower summit are unrivalled. We took it all in for a few moments, knowing that a safe descent was the next priority. Our borrowed set of skinny ropes (7.8mm) felt like dental floss in the howling wind. Somehow, the first two rappels went off without a hitch. Not so on the third and last.
Gingerly rapping to the ground, I had trouble keeping a straight path down the face as wind blew me sideways and even upward at points. The moment my feet touched ground, wind grabbed the ropes and blew them around the corner of the tower. Uh-oh. Hannah stopped on a ledge halfway down to retrieve the ropes from no-man’s-land, only to see them whip back around the corner and wrap a protruding horn of rock.
Verbal communication gone, we gestured wildly to Logan to free the ropes on his way down. Somehow, our chaotic hand motions worked as he swung around the corner to free the ropes from their tangled nest. Once down, we clenched the ends, waiting for a lull in the wind to pull them cleanly. One big flick sailed the rope end through the anchors and into space, clear of the rock waiting to devour it.
Relieved, we began the descent down the talus, knees sore and hips bruised, propelled by the thought of a burger and shake from Milt’s Stop n’ Eat, the classic Moab diner. Oreo or peanut butter shake? Three miles downhill over small cliff bands and through sandy washes gave us time to contemplate this weighty decision.
The last half-mile was torturous as every bend in the trail revealed more walking instead of the car. Keys finally in the ignition, the twenty miles to Moab became the longest drive in the world. It wasn’t until we had Milt’s masterpieces in our bellies that we looked back on the day and realized that we’d indeed journeyed in – and up – the Promised Land.
