We left town on Friday night and drove five hours. We stopped for the night just off the road a few miles from Kayenta on the Navajo Reservation. We woke up Saturday morning and jumped into Dan’s truck. A half an hour later we were driving through picturesque Monument Valley on the border of Arizona and Utah. I saw huge sandstone towers everywhere I looked and everything was red. The red soil, the towering sandstone spires and buttes provided a dramatic landscape. Vegetation was almost non-existent with an occasional stunted Juniper and lots of short gray sage brush. As we drove down the main highway, Dan pointed to a 500-foot-tall butte called “Shangri-la”. This was our goal.
We turned off onto a seldom used dirt road and drove a quarter mile until the truck bogged down in soft sand. We were hopelessly mired. The fact that we were trespassing on Indian reservation was bad. We flipped a coin to see who would go get help and soon, I started walking back to the highway hoping to snag a ride back to Kayenta.
It just so happened that I was a Project Manager for a new Middle School that was currently under construction. I flew up to visit the project once a month. It was Saturday morning and I didn’t know if anyone would be at the jobsite but I walked over to the school and was overjoyed to find a mechanical contractor on the job. I explained my situation that I needed help. He agreed, but not until his workday was over. Fair enough, so I waited in the shade of the building all day until he was ready.
We hopped into his pickup truck and headed back North to the turnoff. We found Dan and the truck in the same place patiently waiting. Dan sacrificed his older rope for the worthwhile cause and in about two minutes, the truck had been pulled out of the sand. We thanked him and followed him out to the main highway.
We were hot, sweaty and dirty as we drove North to the town of Mexican Hat which lay right on the San Juan River. The river water was warm and muddy and it cooled us off. We bought a couple of cold drinks and headed back South in the late afternoon. We turned onto a different dirt road in the same area and followed it back to the shady side of a big mesa where we camped for the night. I called this the Bandito Hideout. The shade and the seclusion behind a big mesa known as “The Stagecoach” made the place a great campsite.
We rose early and drove back to the highway, then back South. After a mile, we turned onto another dirt road that headed directly towards the tower. We passed a Hogan shortly before we parked the truck but didn’t see anyone. We huffed and puffed our way up the 45-degree boulder strewn slope to the spire. Dan led me up to the start the route and we put on harnesses, uncoiled ropes and sorted gear.
Dan put the gear sling over his head and shoulder, tied into the rope and took off up a crack in the soft dark brown mud-like rock. He moved slowly and deliberately up the fragile stone, showering me with bits of mud and small rocks. After he ran out the rope, he anchored and I soon followed him, removing the gear he had placed to protect him from a long fall. As I removed the gear he had placed, I wondered how well they would hold in that soft rock.
As I geared up for my turn, I noticed that the rock above looked more solid. I entered a big dark chimney and I made steady progress. I felt more confident when I found good protection placements where I slotted nuts that seemed solid. But I remained vigilant as I climbed. I gingerly moved upward and made steady progress. There was lots of loose rock just waiting to be knocked off. I was trying my best not to dislodge anything. At one point I brushed up against a basketball size rock which crashed down the chimney like a pinball towards Dan. I was horrified, but I watched it break up into smaller chunks. I yelled “Rock!” to warn Dan who ducked under a projection. The stone shrapnel showered all around him but he was unscathed. That was close! I continued upward until I found a good blay ledge. I set up a good anchor and Dan followed up to the ledge.
It was a pleasant little ledge with a great view off to the East and West. Dan followed as I pulled in the slack. He joined me on the ledge and sorted the gear while catching his breath before heading up the next pitch. The July heat was rising but the big chimney we were climbing was shady. The climbing was progressing smoothly and we were making good progress. The route above was obvious.
Dan led the next pitch as I fed out the line. He was climbing steadily and I was enjoying looking out at the Mars-like landscape from my eagle’s perch, high on this tower.
It seemed odd, but I thought I heard a bell. I kept hearing a bell and scanned the landscape below. It took quite a while, but I finally saw some sheep grazing. I then noticed a young boy and his dog that were apparently tending the sheep. I hadn’t expected to see this.
It was quite a view I had, far above the ground. I was looking west and my eyes were caught movement in the distant sky that was moving towards in my direction. I was confused for a while, but I realized it was an airplane. Not just any airplane, it was an eight-engine B-52 bomber flying much too close to the ground. I was flabbergasted as it blasted past me at my level! Not something that you see every day.
A year later I read about a B-52 crashing in Monument Valley after it glanced off of one of the towers. Apparently, they practice flying low to avoid radar detection.
Dan finished his lead and I quickly followed him up to his stance. We were close to the summit now. We swapped the lead and I took off for the top.
I continued up the chimney and was happy when I stood on the summit with a fantastic 360-degree view. I saw a thunderstorm quickly approaching, a common occurrence during the summer monsoon season. I anchored and brought up Dan who took some photos as I began setting up set up our rappel. With the storm approaching, we retreated back down our route without delays as we raced the storm while the rumble of the thunder got louder.
We paid close attention to loose rock as we rapped back down the ropes. This was not the place to have an injury or accidentally chop a rope with a loose block. We were all alone up here and possibility of rescue were as remote as the landscape. In 1982, there were no cell phones, we were on our own. The danger enhances the adventure.
After we finished the last rappel and coiled the ropes, I noticed that Dan looked as if he had been doused with a bucket of red dirt. Climbing that sandstone was dirty work.
It was late afternoon and the storm was quickly bearing down on us. We wasted no time and hoisted our packs for the hike back to the truck. The steep loose slope that we had struggled up that morning now seemed easy as we went downhill.
With lightning cracking nearby, the rain began pelting us just before we reached the truck. We tossed our gear in the back and jumped into the dry cab just as the brunt of the storm kicked in. A few minutes later we were back on the highway and heading home.
As we drove down the main highway towards Kayenta, we saw some horsed out in the downpour. Dan asked me: “Do you know what happens when horses get stuck out in the rain?” My response, “Yeah, they get wet!”