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The Cat in the Hat strikes back

The Nevada climbing route with the friendly name presents some surprises for a pair who break one of their own rules.

June 07, 2005|Michael J. Ybarra | Special to The Times

Seventeen miles west of the Strip and two miles from where construction workers are hammering together yet another housing development lies the most spectacular sight in all Las Vegas: a 7,000-foot band of sandstone, riven into a series of canyons and crags, all painted with huge horizontal strips of crimson. This is the 197,000-acre Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, where my friend Eric and I drove one sunny morning with the modest goal of climbing Mescalito, a 5,440-foot gray pyramid of rock topped by several hundred feet of red sandstone.

From the road, Mescalito looks like the runt of Red Rock, only about half as tall as the surrounding peaks. There are two ways up Mescalito: the Cat in the Hat and the technically more difficult, not to mention ominously named, Dark Shadows. We picked the easier climb, six pitches of 5.6. "What could go wrong on a route named after a Dr. Seuss character?" I asked.

We soon found out. That morning we had gotten up before sunrise, driven to the trail head, hiked for more than an hour to the base of Mescalito and started climbing at 8 a.m. The guidebook suggested the route should take three hours. Since Eric and I are pretty lame climbers, we guessed it might actually take us twice as long, which would still put us back in Las Vegas well before the start of cocktail hour.

The climbing was fantastic. We followed a series of vertical cracks up Mescalito, the sandstone face fractured into a craquelure of hand- and footholds that made upward movement a joy. By 2 p.m. we were on the top of the route, a small bulge of gray rock halfway up Mescalito with a bolted anchor for rappelling down. Most climbers turn around here rather than continuing up to the summit, which involves more scrambling over boulders and up gullies crowded with thorny plants.

Eric and I found a flat spot. I threw down my backpack and we had lunch. Behind us the neighboring peaks were patched with snow. Thousands of feet below, the desert bloomed green after a winter of unusually heavy rain, and in the distance the Strip rose like some fairy-tale kingdom.

We talked about whether to go on. We have a rule: If one of us wants to quit a climb, we quit. Eric said it was getting late; he wanted to head down. I said I wanted to head up.

"OK," Eric said.

We left the pack and headed higher. After two hours of bushwhacking, a short traverse out onto a narrow ledge and a long body-wedging climb up a red chimney, we were on the summit. The sun was low above the rimrock. I noticed that lights were going on in Las Vegas.

"Let's get the heck down," I said.

We spent the next two hours retracing our steps. I grew alarmed that we wouldn't reach the backpack before dark, when it would become impossible to find, and I rushed through thickets of plants, ignoring the pricks and scrapes. The backpack not only marked our route back to the rappel station amid a myriad of possible paths but also held food, water and extra clothing in case we had to spend the night on the mountain.

Eric had tweaked an old shoulder injury on the final clamber to the top and was down-climbing carefully. I pushed through the inky twilight and down the gulley to where we'd left the pack. Rocks rolled away under my feet as I raced against the gathering dark. The pack wasn't there. I had gone the wrong way.

I climbed up again and found Eric, who had fished a headlamp from his pocket (mine was in the pack). He suggested we find a sheltered spot to spend the night. I said there were still a couple of places where the pack might be. Eric began checking out a rock crevice for accommodations, and I borrowed his headlight to look for the pack.

The next gulley was another dead end. The last possibility was a steep climb along a ledge. As I rounded a corner, the headlamp beam illuminated four points of reflective tape on my pack, shining brighter than any star in the sky. I was elated.

We were soon at the rappel station, tying two ropes together and throwing hundreds of feet of coil off the cliff into the dark. Our headlamps illuminated a few feet of the vast night as we stepped backward off of the ledge and into the void. There were four double rope rappels between us and the ground.

At the bottom of the first rappel, we unclipped from the rope and started pulling it through the anchor. Then it got stuck. The fractured rock face that makes for such great climbing can also make for a rope-snagging nightmare. Velcro rock, local climbers call it.

To free the rope I had to reclimb 200 feet of rock in the dark without any protection. Regaining the rappel ledge, I dragged up 400 feet of rope and started trying to unknot what looked like a giant mess of spaghetti. Then it started to rain.

The rain stopped before I ran out of knots. I rappelled back down and started pulling the rope through the anchor. Again it snagged. I climbed back up and repeated the entire process -- something I would do twice more that night before reaching the last rappel at 3 a.m.

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