New Routing in Cochise Stronghold

During the week of January 23, 2022, I along with Michal Rynkiewicz and Chandler Davis established a 4 pitch, 500ft route next door to War Paint on Westworld Dome, as well as a single pitch sport climb in the adjacent gully. 

I flew in from Seattle to Tucson on Sunday evening to be met by my friends in Michal's massive van, normally used for schlepping blown glass to art shows across the Western US, now a crashpad-laden, beer-filled, cannabis-powered dungeon of unmentionable acts. The guys were on week four of a bouldering and route developing road-trip, having just come from Vegas where all of their crew except Chandler had come down with horrendous food poisoning from what the latter referred to as the "second best sushi I've ever had."  They welcomed me with a bowl of the dankness and we were on our way to the Stronghold. 

The sky was unfortunately pitch black as we rambled our way down the rough dirt road leading to the Dragoons. This being my first trip to the area, I was hoping to see the otherworldly domes on the long and bumpy ride in, but alas it was not to be. The many totes of food and cooking supplies, water jugs, and all loose items (including me) jostled violently as we careened our way forward at a speedy 10 mph under the command of Captain Chandler. Michal wondered out loud if one of the jugs had spilled. We stopped to see. It had. Six gallons right onto the floorboards. This loss would cost us a half day trip into the metropolis of Tombstone a few days later. Oh well! Michal advised Chandler to boogie, and putting the pedal to the metal he delivering us to our campsite and home for the week in no time flat. We ate a quick dinner and settled in.

Next morning we rose with an unbridled psyche. Awakened by a couple of batches of shitty Folgers french press, we packed 280m of rope, a few beers, a baggie of weed, climbing equipment, drill and bolting gear, rack and forty bolts. Getting to the base was trivial if a bit tiring, only a 35 minute approach of mostly flat wash walking through a magical landscape. We reached the base of War Paint and racked up. I shot off on lead, taking all the pitches as Mike followed and hauled and Chandler jugged. Thankfully I managed to onsight this slab masterpiece and we reached the wind torn summit post-haste. The temperature dipped drastically and so I uncinched Michal’s backpack to pull out my puffy layer, moving his approach shoes out of the way to retrieve it. 

After a nice toke we began rigging our way down the feature. Originally we had intended to tackle the impressively overhanging face of the summit block, but we soon realized that it wasn't worth it and probably didn't go. Mike bemoaned the waste of time, while Chandler insisted it did go and was psyched on doing a stupidly huge dyno move off a ledge to a sloper, which would have been followed by a heinous pounce to a sidepull undercling tooth and easier climbing. It looked like a V10 to a 5.10. No thanks! We voted him down, but he insisted through the rest of the trip that it would have gone. May the world never know. 

Abandoning Plan A, Michal left us both hanging out unroped on a foot ledge 450ft off the deck, ascended to the summit and rapped down a much easier finish, fishing us from our odd perch on the side of the cliff. We continued to rig ever downwards, with all the typical rope management shenanigans as the sun dipped nearer and nearer to the skyline. Michal leaned down to pull up some rope, and in doing so one of his shoes escaped from the top which I had neglected to cinch back up. We watched in dismay as his shoe bounced off the slabs below, disappearing into the dense and prickly brush. 

“Oh no! Rise from your grave, Mummy Foot! Onward! Hail Satan!” he yelled down at Chandler. “Release the night boar!”  I looked at him quizzically and an unnamable anticipation rose inside. Many small songbirds alighted from trees throughout the valley in a rush of wings. Crows began circling overhead, and the wind stopped suddenly. A javelina’s snort echoed through the canyon as my blood ran cold. What is this devilry?!

One shoe lighter, we set our minds to getting off the cliff pronto. Hastily rigging and speed rappelling, we touched down in time with the sun, in vain searching for the lost shoe. “Mummy foot!” Michal howled. Chandler and I halted our search and ran back to find Michal wrapping his climbing tape over his socked foot, and it all made sense. Impressed by the ingenuity, we shouldered our packs and hiked out in the dark. I challenged Chandler in chess and he whipped my ass. It was the start of a vicious feud from which, I am proud to say, I emerged somewhat victorious. Michal kept the mummy foot all the night long. 

Another morning of gritty and much needed coffee and a light breakfast saw us off with light packs to the base of the route. The first challenge was to decipher the path of the first pitch, which was not at all obvious. Michal noticed that there was a nice patina on the edge of a floating pillar that led to parallel cracks, so we routed our rope up a mellow looking layback leading up to a step across to the patina and boulder problem, gaining the main flaring hands crack. Above that a blank looking golden face loomed. A black water streak marked its edge, with a lichen sprayed stretch before the wall eased off to a low angle desert of sparse knobs and the continuation of the water streak, which came from a spacious ledge at the base of the third pitch. This day we nearly finished the entire route, but forgot to bring enough bolts. Chandler decided to scout for boulders instead of helping us on the wall and initially refused to grab those extra bolts from camp for us. Ultimately, he did go back and get them but left them in the wash, far away from our eager hands. We drilled all the holes anyway, rapped off and headed back to camp after a fully exhausting day. 

Already low on water, and spent from the previous days' toil, Michal and I took a half day rest and went to the Apache Market in Tombstone to resupply. I don't know what I was expecting, but the desolate cinder block hovel was not it. The grim exterior gave way to a dim, eerily quiet interior and a lonesome, jittery attendant. Oddly, the place was supplied with some upscale items, so we grabbed produce, water, canned goods and, naturally, a lot of beer. Not that I do any drinking really. Upon returning to camp we unfolded some crashpads, laying down for a rest in the strong sunlight, a welcome reprieve for me from the incessant gloominess of the Pacific Northwest. The sun warmed me to my bones, and the chirping of birds and rustling breeze quickly lulled me into a trance. 

Michal lounged in his repose for an entire 45 seconds before having had enough of it. He was off to bolt a glorious egg shaped rock with dinosaur plate patina near Elsie the Cow. Over the many years of working with him, I have learned to listen and follow when Michal sniffs out a piece of rock. That’s the whole reason I found myself in Arizona in the first place.  Knowing that he was off to something good and wanting to use my time wisely, slowly I motivated myself, at first going out in search of a huge boulder we saw from afar the previous day. 

After some spirit questing in the brush, I came upon the massive block, and was not surprised to find that it was holdless. Pretty typical for the boulders in that area. Slightly disappointed in the boulder, I meandered my way to Elsie where I spied Michal and Chandler working on the psychedelic line, hooting, hollering and bickering in their typical way. About a dozen crushed Budweiser cans littered the base. Michal’s baritone voice echoed off the canyon walls as he waxed poetic about the gloriousness of the route and its "perfect rock." I couldn't work myself up into a similar fervor as I was just too tired and sun-drained, but I was certainly glad to be there among my drunk-as-a-skunk pals. 

As they were wrapping up, Michal proclaimed that if my lazy buns wanted to be in on the FA all I had to do was fire the route. Not wanting to miss out, I took dibs when the time for redpoints came. My first attempt ended with me sagging off the miniscule opening crimp. After finagaling my body position and desperately trying to believe in the matchstick sized hold, I pulled on, dynamically stabbing for a good right hand sidepull, my feet flying off the wall. I somehow managed to stick the move and continued on to the big patina holds, which I discovered were beautiful but far from perfect; bits and pieces crumbled under my weight. I carefully tiptoed my way up the route to the anchor, afraid that at any moment a hold might snap, sending me flying into the greenery below. I clipped the chains, and All Seeing Eye was born. 

Michal and I switched off and he tried to grip the grim starting hold with his desperately wet tips. He fell off, incensed. He tried again with similar results. Again he tried and pulled on mightily. He flowed easily up the rock, masterfully shifting his weight through the patina landscape.... until a foothold devastatingly gave way, sending him airborne. Expletives exploded exquisitely from his soul. I lowered him, and he tried again with the third bolt clipped, but fell off the first move, slamming into the boulder behind him. I cringed in empathetic pain. More curses. Curses! He pulled on, through the crux, and again entered his flow... only to have the same hold break! My heart sank into the depths. Michal had been beaten. I shan’t share the delicate details that followed, or Michal’s reaction to Chandler’s stylish onsight. Suffice it to say, we headed back to camp with the mood rather dampened.

In typical Michal style, he was back to his chipper and confident self the very next morning. He proclaimed his flash of insight, that he would never put up routes with another human being from then on, instead having the wind as his only companion. Chandler and I chuckled and shared a knowingly skeptical look. 

The three of us were prepared for another full day as we made our ritual trek up the unyieldingly beautiful wash to the base of Westworld Dome. Yet, upon finishing the bolting on our long route, and the rigging of another glorious single pitch we decided to make it a mellow one as we let our skin regrow and psyche heal for the send attempt the following day. That night was blustery and moody; trees moaned and cackled in the strong desert wind, vastly unlike the motionless and silent nights before. The three of us in our separate beds buzzed with anticipation.

The wind continued into the morning, foreshadowing the arctic conditions we were to face on the wall. We engaged in our morning ritual of coffee and a very light breakfast, beyond stoked to finally climb upon our masterpiece. Chandler jugged up our fixed line with camera in hand while Michal racked up at the base. “I’m a little intimidated by this pitch,” he said. I took in the stretch of rock above us and agreed that it looked like quite the way to start the day. We went through our customary belay check and he was off, easily stemming and laybacking his way up to the hanging pillar. He hung around for a couple of minutes. “I feel like I’m forgetting how to climb!” he reflected as he played around with body positioning in the awkward feature. As soon as he found the right stance he grasped the patina and committed to the exposed and powerful boulder problem. Pulling on to the pillar he sunk a hand jam, built his feet and flipped his left hand so that he was compressing the hanging tooth of stone. He moved into the first crack, then made a big span out right, now squeezing the rock between the cracks as he threw a high right foot into the bottom of the main crack, pulling himself over. Climbing a little farther he placed a cam and began charging upwards, fighting the pump and painful rock. I stood in anticipation in the frigid gully, praying that he would make it to the anchor. I watched him do the final crux, using some face holds as the crack widened, and he pulled himself up to the anchor. Pitch one was done!  

I tightened the laces of my shoes, did some tendon glides and jumped around a bit to get the blood flowing. The rope pulled tight and I started upwards. The first section went easily, the cold ever so slightly releasing its grip on my muscles. I grappled with the same awkward section, pulling onto the pillar too high, then fighting to move downwards as I floated in space. I reached out right, sunk the hand jam and gathered my wits. Mimicking Mike’s beta and heeding his words of encouragement I wrestled my way into the main crack and began battling upwards, the pump building and crack eating into my skin. I was breathing hard, grunting and getting pummeled by the blue collar crack climbing, passing the final crux and over-gripping my way to the belay. “I’m gonna need five minutes!” I told the guys as I slumped into my harness.

Unfortunately, the wind continued unabated and the cold seeped deeper into my soul. I began shivering. I threw on my thick beanie and puffy jacket and tried to warm up, but it wasn’t really happening. I just had to get moving, so we adjusted the belay and I headed up a few easier moves and closely spaced bolts to a stance before the meat of the route. I was anxious to send and my movements were terse and hesitant. I worked my way to the crux section and, failing to see a couple of holds, I toppled off. Disappointed, I lowered to the belay, pulled the rope and started up again. I was slightly more confident this time and ready for the crux move to the sloping pinch. Moving through the increasingly difficult sequences, I placed my left hand on a sculpted, sloping quarter-pad crimp, gastoned a small incut with my right hand and moved my right foot to an edge at waist height. With the sun just peeking over the wall’s horizon, I pounced to the pinch, grabbing it for a split second before popping off and taking a sizable whip onto the bolt below. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!” My yells echoed off the walls across the way. 

By this point I was pissed off. I didn’t want to take any more time in sending this pitch, so after a brisk gathering-together at the belay, I set off imperiously toward the crux move, flowing easily across the small edges. I focused my whole mind on the left hand crimp, settling each finger into the small divots and imperfections in the edge, and then mightily squeezing my thumb over my forefinger and bearing down for all I was worth. I got my foot high and without hesitating reached for the pinch, the sun now in my eyes. Blindly I grabbed the hold and stuck, reeling my feet to good edges and continuing through a minefield of small and delicate crimps to a jug. A few more moves led to the low angle slab fully in the sun, which welcomed me to the glorious views above. I tied off a knob and walked to the next bolt. I froze there, unable to see the next footholds clearly, worried that I would somehow slip off and have to repeat the pitch. Chandler dangled above me taking photos and encouraged me to just trust my feet. I finally committed to the easy moves and romped to the anchor. 

Michal nearly TRonsighted the pitch but fell off after the crux proper, again crumbling a hold under his weight. He and Chandler swapped places for the third pitch, which Chandler had briefly toproped the day before. He set sail on the steep slab, drifting his way across the nearly invisible holds, angling for an obvious rib of knobs that disappeared over the horizon. He fought with all his might as he executed the crux, a big reach to a good knob off of nonexistent hand and footholds. I myself fought a battle against terrible pigtails in the rope- a major concern given the extremely runout nature of the rest of the pitch. Chandler slowly waltzed his way to the anchor, where we were within spitting distance of the summit. I followed with all of my layers on, instantly overheating. I teetered off a delicate stance, and pulled on the rope to keep from fully whipping onto the slab below. I had no chance at sending the pitch after my earlier efforts, but gave it another try, only to happily pull through. 

The final pitch is a fun line of huge knobs, with a crux down low and very secure and pleasant climbing to the top. I led the pitch and brought Chandler up behind me. The three of us celebrated at the top, extremely pleased with our project, a result of three full days of work from start to finish. Michal rappelled War Paint while Chandler and I rappelled the route to derig our static rope. We all reached the ground satisfied and safe, having established The Ritual, so named for all of the familiar acts of route development built over years of practice. We hope that many people enjoy this modern outing in a unique and wild landscape for decades to come. 

All this happened and more unsaid.

New Routes: 

The Ritual, 5.12b, 4 pitches

All Seeing Eye, 5.12b

Great storytelling! Thanks for the work you do :)