Mary and I just returned from Bishop. You have to work pretty hard to not climb something good in this high-desert hamlet, but I somehow subjected myself to a number of "no-star" routes, and quickly realized why guidebook authors add their two-cents in the first place. It's not that I didn't have a great time; my sojourn into obscurity reaffirmed why I like climbing in the first place: distilled and esoteric adventure. When I first started coming to Bishop years ago (2001, I think), the modern "trendy" bouldering movement was on the nascent side, and Chris Sharma was just beginning to throttle the minds of climbers everywhere. Bishop was my first climbing trip, my first dirtbag locale, and my first outdoor vomit experience (following a massive Mexican feast at Amigos). I wax nostalgic whenever I come here.
We also had the fortune of following Jake around with his two friends Dillon and Dana, all of whom had been bouldering every day since that previous Monday, making Friday—the day we met up with them—their fifth day on the rocks. Oh, the eternal springs of youth!
Mary and I just bought Dale a backpack. Now he carries my rack, his water, and the legacy of working-breeds everywhere.
I had never bouldered up at Dale's Camp, but I can't wait to go back. Jake has his sights on Xavier's Roof, V11. He's super close, but Dale doesn't seem to care.
Owens River Gorge.
Here I am, unwittingly committed on a stupid-thin 5.12b at the Gorge. This climb shredded my tips and almost ruined the weekend.