Once I was on the Mojave Desert road, I lost service.

It had been an hour since I left Eyal and Max at a pullout in Red Rock. We spent the early morning hours climbing, getting a few routes in before the winter storm inevitably descended onto the canyon. We pulled our ropes as the first flakes touched the sandstone.

Getting disconnected from Leah on my phone call was also inevitable. Earlier, I had passed signs warning of no gas stations for the next hundred or so miles. The road ahead was familiar, layered into memory from past drives. The scenery was both fascinating and monotonous.

This time, I was leaving Red Rock. It was by luck and advanced planning that I snagged a campsite for an entire week there. My luck only carried me so far: the storm building in my rearview would render the sandstone unsafe to climb, and I was hell-bent on climbing. Joshua Tree was the best option I had, and so I headed south.

Late in the afternoon, I arrived to Twentynine Palms on the northern edge of Joshua Tree and called Leah again. At this point I had hit a low and let my frustrations flow honestly and openly. I felt ungrounded and lost as I moved from one destination to another, chasing weather. I didn’t mind being alone, but the loneliness this time sat heavier than usual. Saying it aloud helped pull me out of the hole I dug myself into. I knew I had I made the right choice to come, but the uncertainty of what I’d be doing here bred more anxiety than excitement.

My first stop was to the local gear shop to pick up a guidebook on routes in the park. I told the shop owner I didn’t have a partner to climb with, and if I couldn’t find one online I’d take a recommendation on a boulder problem (ideally with a crack to practice jamming). He gave me a suggestion and I checked into an empty campsite, grateful for a hot shower. I settled into the back of my car for a deep sleep.

In the morning, I saw snow in the forecast. I wasn’t in a rush today though. Joshua Tree’s monzonite granite rock didn’t lose its integrity when wet, unlike porous sandstone. I made my way over to the boulder recommended to me the day before. I was told there was a good chance I’d find other climbers there with crash pads working on Big Bob’s Big Wedge (v5).

Sure enough, there were three climbers who welcomed me to huddle under the imposing roof, split by a crack slightly narrower than a fist, my favorite size. They invited me to have a go and didn’t need to ask twice. I was over the moon with the first hand jam, and euphoric again with the second move. I relaxed, allowing my body to sag and enjoy the horizontal sensation, hanging with the easy pressure of squeezing my hands and feet, torquing both just right. Crack climbing had become an obsession of mine but I didn’t practice beyond the never-changing routes at my local gym.

After about an hour, snow started to fall. This snow was thick and wet, and the group decided to break and head back. They invited me to sit in their camper van with them. I could’ve spent another few hours under that rock, but I politely accepted. While we sat, the conversation felt forced on my part and I suspected the group wasn’t sure how to tell me they had other plans. I was grateful for their company, but I had the feeling I should get going. I happily said goodbye and drove out of the park.

Not long after, I found myself in a gas station parking lot with a 6-inch sub on my lap. It was Thanksgiving Day, and after calling about ten restaurants, Subway was the only place open. On the other side of my windows, rain was pouring hard. I entertained myself with social media, and ultimately decided that the most fun thing to do would be to get another sandwich. I put on my jacket and ran inside to put in another order, only to find that Subway had closed early.

My boredom eventually led me to browse Mountain Project’s online forum. I noticed a post from a few minutes ago asking if anyone wanted to hang out at Joshua Tree Saloon. I was the first to arrive and met Kassia. We talked and I learned that she was a strong sport climber living on the road, making a full-time salary working ~6hrs a week pitching stem cell therapy to prospective clients in different cities. We got along great and before long, I noticed across the bar sat a familiar face. It was Will. He and I messaged each other earlier on Mountain Project, agreeing to climb together the following day.

I invited Will over to join us. As we chatted, a guy next to us turned around and said he couldn’t help but ask a question about stem cell therapy. This was Jack, and very quickly I picked up on how funny and friendly he was. I couldn’t figure out his story because of how often he’d go on tangents, always half-revealing another interesting side of his life. I couldn’t tell if he was dirt-bagging on vacation or if he had been transient for a while. His dinner was a bag of goldfish crackers and Budweiser. I did gather he had a CBD skin salve for climbers, and I think he had been pot-farming since he was 16 years old.

On my drive to the campsite, I called Leah again, telling her about how my day had played out, all the friends I made, and how excited I was to finally climb and get my feet off the ground tomorrow.

I regrettably didn’t capture any photos of our first day. I was focusing on trying to show Will that I was paying attention, proving I was a capable partner and also gauging whether my instincts were right about him. The first route I had chosen was Dilly Bar, a 5.6 that followed a chimney. He gave me the first lead and I racked up. The wall I chose for us was in the shade all day this time of the year. The temperature hovered just below freezing and the wind stabbed me to my core. My fingers were fully numb halfway up the route; I stopped for a few minutes on a ledge to return some feeling by pocketing them in my armpits. I looked down and saw Will shivering in his puffy. I wasn’t sure who had it worse: him standing still or me touching cold rock that could best be be described as climbing in a deep freezer.

I came to the crux of the route and noted that the jug (deep depression in the rock) above was filled with water and frozen solid, like a miniature ice rink. At this point, my fingers were useless and my arms felt like blunt instruments. I reminded myself to place gear and move on. When I topped out, the full force of the wind was realized and it almost sent me off my balance. At the very least I was in the sun now. When Will climbed up to me, we looked at each other and agreed finding a different wall was a great idea.

The next route was in the sun, but was miserable in a different way. Bat Crack (5.5) felt more like a 5.7. Will led the first pitch and I got the second. Although the climbing was fairly secure, the entire route was characterized by a lot of groveling and inelegant movement. The low-angle slot I was shimmying up scraped against my skin and clothes, even removing several pieces of gear off my harness somehow.

The gang regrouped at the Saloon and traded stories. Jack and Kassia, both strong climbers talked about how stunned they were to struggle and fail a v1 boulder problem. Joshua Tree’s reputation for stiff grading was felt by all.

The following day, I arranged to climb with Annie, a local of the area. She was eager to show me some of the classics, so we started off on The Swift (5.7). Annie suggested I take the harder pitches of the climb, and I hid my nervousness well by moving gracefully over the rock. After we completed route, I walked into a cactus bush, sending about a hundred sharp “hairs” into my leg. Using some of Annie’s tape, I was able to get most of it out, but to I felt the odd prick here and there throughout the day.

We moved on to another part of the park, hoping to get to Mental Physics (5.7). This was one of more popular routes in the park, but involved a ~1hr hike and some simple route-finding to get to. Walking through the quiet wilderness was a lot of fun. Hopping over rocks and crawling under pinches between large boulders made me feel like a kid. When we arrived to the route, there were about three parties ahead of us. I was happy to wait since we had travelled all this way, but I could tell Annie hated the idea of waiting. She suggested we go to another route 20 minutes away. As soon as we were under the new route, we found a pair of climbers there, lost, looking for the same route we had come to climb.

In a last ditch effort to get a climb in, we hiked over to The Last Angry Arab (5.6). Annie gave me the lead. When I was about 15 feet off the ground, I decided the climbing wasn’t secure enough. The slab my feet rested on was actively peeling layers off. Rather than continue, I decided to downclimb and remove the protection I placed in the rock. When I was halfway down, my foot slipped and I fell. I landed in a perfectly seated position on the ground, amazed I didn’t hurt myself. It was an hour til sunset and we had a decent hike over boulders before we would return to the car, so it was a relief to walk away from the fall without an injury.

The next day, Will and I met up to climb with each other again. Although I had fun exploring with Annie yesterday, I didn’t want to hike far only to be met with a queue of climbers. I suggested we climb The Swift, the same route I had done yesterday with Annie. This time, I would follow the pitches I previously led.

While climbing, we made friendly conversation with the party nearby. They were on Dappled Mare (5.8). It was another classic, and just a level more difficult than what we were climbing. After asking them for beta on the route, we decided to go for it next.

Will and I closed out the evening over some Thai food. We said goodbye and promised to keep in touch.

I stepped into my car and headed back into the Mojave Desert toward Red Rock, where the conditions were finally dry. I was just as alone on this drive as I was on the way in, but I carried with me the memories of new friends and shared stories, which made all the difference.