High Rollers

Desert light. Stunning mountain ranges at altitudes upwards of 7,000 feet. Some of the best rock-climbing in the West. My climbing buddies Greg and John, our guide Rich, and I set out with ecstasy for five days in the Red Rocks region of Nevada’s desert. Although initially enthusiastic about nights under the desert stars in a pristine wilderness, we begrudgingly agree that John’s company-paid hotel room in Las Vegas will be easier than hauling camping gear from the Midwest. We’ll close our ears to the noise pollution and crowds. We’ll suck it up and deal with the lights and chaos. Early, alcohol-free nights, I vow. Nothing to impair our pure climbing experience. And what a contrast it will be! The natural beauty of the landscape versus the tacky Las Vegas Strip. The adrenaline rush of the impossible climb juxtaposed against fat zombies slumped over slot machines! If it weren’t for the proximity to superior climbing, we’d never deign to spend a minute in Vegas.

DAY ONE: MORNING – On the Rocks

Clang, clang, clankety, cling go the metal carabiners dangling from the harnesses at our waists as we scramble over scarlet boulders and suck for oxygen up twisty trails. Rich moves nimbly up ahead, fully focused on his quest for optimal climbing routes. He flicks his arm upward toward the stunning rise of gray limestone above red sandstone. “Formed by the Keystone Thrust Fault,” he says over his shoulder without pausing. Greg bounces happily from boulder to boulder. “Hurry up!” he implores us. “Let's see how many climbs we can get in!” I take one last glance at the view, re-shoulder my pack, and race Greg to the top.

DAY ONE: EVENING – Rolling Rocks At the Slots

Clang, clang, clankety cling go the slot machines in the mile-square casino that doubles as our hotel lobby. Rich marches ahead, fully focused on his quest for the perfect round of the card game "War." He grabs a Rolling Rock off the bar without stopping, and gestures toward the fluorescent lights and chartreuse walls. “Vegas is so hideous,” he sneers over his shoulder. As we struggle for oxygen through the cigarette smoke, Greg yells, “Let's see how many roller-coasters we can ride in four nights!” He bounces happily from nickel to quarter slot machines, trotting up to report his winnings to John and me in between. Old Bad Company tunes blare out of the loudspeakers, and I hesitate for half a second before joining Greg in shots of tequila.

DAY TWO: Another Day in the Desert

Wide bold horizontal stripes of pink, red, gray, and white rock stretch out below us in the increasing daylight. Towers of sandstone and lime rise out of the desert in dusty pastels, dotted occasionally by green scrub trees. Rich moves gracefully up a crack, silently clipping his rope into carefully placed pieces of protection. John belays Rich, feeding rope up to him as he moves. Greg and I eat sunflower seeds and dried dates and watch the red, purple and white dots of T-shirt clad climbers easing their way up distant faces with names like the Magic Bus, Meat Puppets, the Romper Room, and the Panty Wall. I close my eyes and lie back in the dirt, feeling the sun on my skin, and the pureness of the earth beneath me.

DAY TWO: A Night on the Strip

Wide bold vertical stripes of neon pink, red, and blue extend around us as we stand on the walkway above the Las Vegas Strip. Gleaming towers of green, white, and yellow rise up out of the surrounding sand. Rich climbs the fence for a better view down into traffic, and Greg and I chew on popcorn and watch the colored dots of people easing their way up the street toward structures with names like Circus Circus, Excalibur, the Luxor, and Slots-O-Fun. I throw my arms around Greg and John’s shoulders and do chorus girl kicks while singing “Viva Las Vegas!” in my best Elvis voice.

DAY THREE: Fall

I clamber up the first half of a face on the Magic Bus wall. The light's fading, and the muscles in my legs are starting to quake. I reach high for a nub of rock, shift my weight in one long swift motion, lose my footing, and careen twenty feet down in two long seconds before John, my belayer, arrests my fall. I bounce and swing sideways across the face, chest pounding. When my pendulum swing ceases, I place my shaking palms against the rock and rest my forehead against my hands before pointing forcefully toward the ground. Once safe, I stumble out of my knots, relieved to feel my feet against the earth.

DAY THREE: Spring

We clamber off the elevator at the top of the Stratosphere, Vegas' tallest hotel. At 1,000 feet high, it shoots up out of the desert, a giant phallic symbol replete with the "High Roller" coaster and the bungee drop "Big Shot," perched unprotected on its mushroom tip. We head for the Big Shot. “Head back, sir,” the attendant tells Greg. Above the roller coaster, we sit on open benches with only shoulder yolks, lashed to a giant pole erupting from the Stratosphere's roof. With no warning, we fly upwards above the dotted lights of the sprawling city, 45 miles an hour for two long seconds, screaming our brains out, before dropping back down the hundred and twenty five feet, bouncing and bungying up and down repeatedly. When it's over, even Greg is silent. I stumble off the seat and hurry down the steps, relieved to feel my feet against the cement.

DAY FOUR: An Afternoon on the Ropes

I exhale deeply and reach for a tiny outcropping of rock just beyond my grasp. Gently, I slide my foot across a smooth section of stone and brace it hard, shifting my weight doubtfully onto that leg. I sense the height, the exposed openness of the rock face, the rope taut at my belly. Two more moves and I'm over the top, pumped with exertion and exhilaration. Slapping a shaking palm against the rope's anchor to signal completion, I yelp out a “WHOO-HOO,” and grin down at Greg, my belayer. I check my harness and lean back on the rope to absorb the vista of indigo sky, granite canyons, and red clay boulders miles to the west and hundreds of feet below, before he lowers me to safety. “Awesome,” he tells me. “What a rush!” I exclaim. A high five and a victory dance, and it’s my turn to belay.

DAY FOUR: An Evening on the Rails

I exhale deeply and step doubtfully to the edge of the overlook at the Stratosphere. We’re back, this time for the “High Roller” coaster. Greg leaps into the front car. Rich and I get in behind. John heads for the bar. I feel the height, the openness, the padded bars taut across my chest. I check the harness holding my upper body against the seat and lean back, as the vista of brilliant flashing marquees spins past me, dozens of miles to the east and west, and hundreds of feet below. When it's over, Rich's skin resembles milky climbing chalk. “Awesome,” says Greg. “What a rush!” I exclaim. A high five and a victory dance, and we're of to the casino.

DAY FIVE: the Summit

Inching and grunting up the hardest face I’ve attempted so far, I hesitate, legs quivering on a tiny ledge. I look up the last few overhung feet to the top, then down at my friends perched on boulders below. “You can do it,” John calls up to me. “Almost there,” Rich adds. I look out through the fading desert light at a tiny family of dots around a picnic table on the roadside. I exhale sharply, and haul myself over the top in a series of strong, fast moves, drawing blood on one elbow in the process. Smacking the metal carabiners at the rope's apex, I check out the view and smile like a clown from Cirque de Soleil. Looking past the Red Rock canyons and out across valley floor below, I call down to my companions. “Guess what?” I yell. “I’ve got the most incredible view of the Stratosphere!”

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