Around the campfire, a quirky and somewhat obscene musical experiment quickly develops since its inception earlier in the afternoon on the third pitch.
The dwindling fire dances in the satin sheen of the lone classical guitar. In the shadows of the last log burning, voices sing, sometimes mumbling; the music was on belay.
There’s not a lot of firewood in Joshua Tree. Besides the dry brush picking at your shins, the Yucca brevifolias standing far and wide are the only thing relatively close to firewood, but Joshua’s slow growth makes it sacrilegious to even consider the alien trees as firewood.
What the southern California high desert lacks in trees, however, it makes up for with stone. Across the extraterrestrial landscape shaped by climatic extremes lies massive basalt blocks of varying sizes. The rock here looks not as if glaciers and rivers have carved out the steeps the way most classic rock climbing destinations were formed. Instead it looks like giant stones crashed into the Earth from the cosmos; splitting on impact and revealing cracks that make climbers froth at the mouth. The coarse texture of the rock indicates the rocks didn’t fall with too much velocity though, and shredded hands are the ending to a good day of climbing.
At camp, bleeding paws are just one of many similarities climbers from all walks of life share around the fire. Trad climbers recount detailed descriptions of sketchy gear placements on off-width cracks. Boulderers mimic intimidating top-outs on tall problems. One girl shamelessly passes around a video of her friend ricocheting down a slot canyon after knocking back one too many beers. But as one log can only burn for so long, so too does the climbing jargon. Guided by the influence of alcohol and incandescence, conversation travels in and out of music, travel, politics, and the utterly random; everyone trying to learn more about the people they’ve been trusting their lives to while climbing.
Eventually, when the equilibrium between intoxication and sobriety has been breached, all bets are off. Add the hackneyed guitar to the mix and then a fire becomes a campfire. With a framework of basic chords, it’s amazing what kind of sexual innuendos a group of rock monkeys can fabricate using climbing lingo.
Baby I’ll be your crashpad
Cause you’re fine and you climb V9
So fold me up, strap me on and I’ll spot you all night long.
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