The Dirtbag Database

X. The West Temple

The weeks in Zion had passed in a blur. Fun, sure, but slipping into the same old mess: cigarettes, bottles, and late-night dice games. The novelty was fading, and a familiar emptiness started to creep in. I needed something raw. Something real. Something to push me to the edge.

That’s when Max showed up.

He was a coworker I’d grown to admire. The kind of guy who didn’t talk big but lived big, strong, gritty, and generous with his passion: mountaineering. He walked up to my table in the cafeteria with his usual easy smile, plopped down beside me, and after a few forkfuls of food said, “I’m climbing the West Temple on Tuesday. Wanna come?”

I looked over, half expecting him to be joking. But by now, I knew better. Max didn’t joke about things like this. My stomach turned at the thought, Dangerous, intense, but deep down, it felt like a calling. A door swinging open when I needed it most.

“I’ll check my schedule,” I said. “If I’m off, I’m in.”

Pulled it up on my phone. Tuesday was blank.

Grinned. “What time?”

“5:30 a.m.,” he said, finishing the last of his meal. He stood, grabbed his tray, and over his shoulder called, “I’ll text you the details. It’s sure to be a good one.”

The West Temple is Zion’s peak of peaks, 7,810 feet tall, a raw sandstone monolith like a holy temple into the sky. The tallest formation in the park. A mountain carved from ancient wind and time, shaped like a tiered cake with sheer faces dropping thousands of feet to the canyon below. The only way to the summit is a narrow ridgeline, just a few feet wide in some spots. One wrong step, and it’s a long fall to nowhere.

The climb would be brutal, steep, exposed, and far beyond anything I’d done before. But some voice, gut, heart, or something older, said I couldn’t ignore it. The opportunity had come. I had to go.

November 19th, 2024 — Zion National Park

Days later, I pulled into the gravel lot on the western edge of the park, just outside Springdale. The green glow of the dashboard clock lit the cab: 05:28. No one else had arrived yet.

Stepped out into the cold November air. In the distance, the silhouette of the West Temple loomed a mile off as the crow flies, yet it looked impossibly close, impossibly vast. A sleeping giant waiting to be stirred.

Then came the sound of an engine. Headlights of an old Subaru rolled into the lot, gravel crunching under the tires. The door opened, and out stepped Eric, a climber from the nearby town of La Verkin. He looked like he’d been forged in the desert itself, weathered, solid, experienced. The kind of man who didn’t just climb mountains, but belonged to them.

Then Max got out. That same glimmer in his eye. Like a kid about to pull off something wild. He was ready for the hell-and-back adventure that lay ahead.

Standing there with the two of them, men who might as well have been carved from the red rock themselves, I felt a quiet kind of honor. Like an apprentice stepping into a rite of passage. If nothing else, I knew one thing: I had to keep up.

We threw on our packs and started the trek, first moving through brush and winding trails that skirted patches of mesquite. The calm before the storm, just one foot in front of the other, settling into the rhythm of the unknown. An adventure begun, with no idea when we’d be back at the parking lot.

Just as the sun peeked over the canyon walls, we reached the first face, and I got my first taste of the red rock we’d be climbing all day. A simple move, but with enough exposure to send adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Climbing that first shelf put the mission into perspective. We stood high above the desert floor, the landscape falling away beneath us. I looked up, the mountain still loomed, closer now, but still vast.

Eric pointed to a break in the rock high above. “That notch right there,” he said, “is where we need to be. It’s the only way to gain the ridge, and that ridge is our route to the summit.”

The notch was a narrow split in the sandstone ridge, the key to unlocking the upper world. From where we stood to the base of the notch was a long steep trudge through loose sandstone rubble; those were the last easy steps of the day.

We reached the base just before 11:30. I let out a dry chuckle, nearly six hours of hiking behind us, and only just arriving at the point where the real climbing began.

We moved slowly into the notch, one careful step at a time. At this depth in the route, there was no room for error. I picked my line through the sandstone, weaving between boulders piled between the towering rock walls. The shade felt like mercy. Even in November, the canyon sun burns hot.

At the top, we paused for a breather and got our first glimpse of the backside. The drop was just as sheer as the front, but instead of looking down at Springdale, we stared into a vast, maze-like sprawl of redrock canyons stretching endlessly into the wild.

Eric turned to me.

“Matt, leave your trekking poles. From here on out, they’ll just get in your way.”

The poles had helped on the gravelly chutes, but what came next would require my hands too. Leaned them against a rock, unsure how long before I’d see them again.

From there, we climbed up onto the main ridge, a narrow stretch of sandstone backlit by the sun. We’d gained the ridge. Stood for a moment in reverent silence. The drop-offs on either side were dizzying, but the climb still ahead was even more staggering.

Max looked back.

“We’re committed. No turning back now,” he said, grimacing. “Today we summit this mountain… or we die trying.”

Those words hit hard. Not just about mountaineering, they were a lesson. A mantra. When you lock onto a goal, you don’t flinch. Tunnel vision. Total commitment.

We picked our way along the ridgeline, slow and deliberate. Always at least three points of contact. And we did our best to not look down. Fully present. Every move, every step, every breath intentional. When the margin for error is that thin, your full concentration is the only thing keeping you alive.

Eventually we reached a drop in the ridge, about twelve feet, right next to an ancient pine twisted like driftwood. The wind had shaped it over decades, maybe centuries, and still it clung to life, rooted stubbornly in the rock.

A faded handline was tied to a rock nearby, sun-bleached and worn. Eric gave it a few solid tugs.

“Seems good enough. I’ll go first.”

With both hands gripping the rope, he lowered himself carefully down the face, picking his line like a man who’d done this a hundred times. At the bottom, he called, “Down.”

My turn. I grabbed the rope and began following his steps. About halfway down, a piece of sandstone supporting my left foot crumbled, the foothold snapped clean off. Heard it break, bounce once, then vanish into the void below.

Crack. Tlack. Gone.

I held tight to the rope but lost footing, swinging hard into a jagged branch jutting from the old pine. It tore deep into my thigh. I grunted, pain and surprise flashing through me.

Adrenaline dulled the shock, but it was bad. Swung back into the sandstone, scraping my knuckles bloody, and searched for new footholds. Slowly, worked down to the saddle.

At the bottom, Eric looked me over.

“That looked nasty. You alright?”

“Yeah,” I said, breathing hard. “I’m good.”

My leg throbbed, but better not to check. Either way, there was no turning back now.

Max met us in the saddle, and we pushed on. Still a lot of ground to gain before reaching the base of the peak, a towering formation shaped like a wedding cake. The ridgeline narrowed with every step, progress slowing to a crawl. In sections, the ridge was less than five feet across, a fall on either side certain death.

The sun beat down, sweat dripped from my forehead, but a familiar peace settled in. That meditative focus that comes when walking a razor’s edge between life and death. Sharpened awareness. Quiet clarity.

As the sun began its slow descent behind the canyons, we reached another rope. This one climbed vertically through a narrow chimney, anchored to a tree far above. Eric went first, fluid, confident, like he belonged on the wall. At the top, he called out that he was off rope.

My turn. Took a breath, studied the line. The rope felt worn, creaked against the trunk. Hands were tired, but adrenaline kept me moving. Climbed carefully, testing each step. Made it. Relieved, but not done. A short scramble followed, over steep, exposed rock. By now, climbing was instinct.

Then it appeared: the final face.

A 5.8 crux, the technical crux of the entire day, leading to the second of three summit levels. Bolts hammered in by climbers before us jutted from the red sandstone, weathered but solid.

Eric led again, roping in and moving with grace. Wedged his feet into a crack, clipped the rope as he climbed, carving a route for us. I watched closely, memorizing each move.

When it was my turn, strapped tight the Velcro on my climbing shoes, clipped the rope into my harness, and began. Palms gripped the warm sandstone, grit digging into skin, grounding. Picked the way up, careful and precise.

Halfway, hit a reachy move, stomach dropping. Took a breath, extended a leg toward the next foothold while gripping the rock tight. Foot found purchase. Pressed into it and kept climbing. Eric shouted encouragement from above, Max from below. Their voices kept me moving.

At the top, I unclipped and exhaled, relief, pride, presence. Just one final half-mile traverse remained to reach the summit.

That last stretch was a trial in a different way. Legs ached. Hours of climbing clung to every muscle. The sun was low now, casting everything in gold. Picked through brush, skirted patches of snow, and faced one last climb: a landslide of sandstone rubble lit like a stairway to the heavens.

Step after step, until finally, stood on top.

The summit didn’t feel real. Around me, a 360-degree panorama of desert and canyon stretched endlessly, every fold of red rock bathed in golden light. The air was thin and cold, but not a single breeze stirred. Stillness made the place feel untouched, suspended in time.

An ancient energy lingered there, silent and watchful. Something sacred had taken root at the peak and remained, unspoiled, because so few ever reach it. Remoteness had protected it. Difficulty of the climb had kept it pure. It was as if the mountain had chosen solitude, and in doing so, had held on to something eternal.

Sat. Breathed. Took it in.

The descent would be long, and dark, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I was full. Alive.

Thoughts wandered to Mount Whitney — how close I’d come to the summit, only to turn around. That heartbreak. That unfinished business.

But here I was now, at the top of the West Temple. On a peak so tall, so dangerous, and so beautiful, saying to myself:

Hell yes. I just did that.

It was more than a climb. It was growth. Redemption.

Accomplished, Max, Eric, and I took one last look from the peak, then began the long descent.

We reached the top of the 5.8 crux just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Light was fading fast. Wrapped the rope around the trunk of a sturdy bush, and one by one, rappelled down. I’d only rappelled a handful of times, all since arriving in Zion. Hands clenched the rope as it slid through the device, lowering me slowly, deliberately. When my feet touched solid ground again, unhooked and looked up, waiting for Max to follow.

That was the first rappel of many. We’d climbed so many steep faces that day, faces too sheer to downclimb. Picked our way back along the ridge, stopping every ten minutes to set up another rappel, each one bringing us closer to the desert floor.

Still high on the ridge when the last light drained from the sky. Stopped to put on my headlamp and glanced upward. The Milky Way burned above, purple, brilliant, alive. I wanted to sit there and stargaze all night. But we had hours to go. Clicked on the headlamp, casting a narrow cone of light on the red rock, and continued downward.

Over an hour later, we reached the notch. The moon had risen high, casting an eerie glow across the sandstone walls. Found my hiking poles where I’d left them seven hours earlier. Descended into the steep, gravelly fingers of the mountain, the same ones we’d climbed that morning.

By now I was in a trance. Eyes locked on the trail beneath my feet. No point checking how far we’d come or how far we still had to go. We moved slowly, sometimes losing the path in the rubble and backtracking through the dark. Every downward step slammed into my knees. Leaned hard on the poles. They were the only reason balance held as altitude dropped inch by inch.

Finally, the last mile.

Delirium had set in. Nothing hurt anymore, and I was somehow wide awake. We moved like ghosts, and then, suddenly, the cars.

Midnight.

Eighteen hours after starting, we were back.

Leaning the poles against the car, I shook the hands of the men who had led me up the most challenging climb of my life. Tossed the pack and poles into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, turned the key. The engine rumbled to life. Slowly, I drove through the silence of the night, back toward the lodge.

The West Temple still loomed in the moonlight behind, but now it looked different. Not like something I had conquered, more like an old friend.

At the bunkhouse, nodded to coworkers on the porch, stumbled inside, and collapsed into bed. The pillow hit, and I was gone.

Waking the next morning, I felt alive. Clear. Like I had found something lost, and brought it back from the summit.

The few weeks that remained of my stay in Zion passed fast.

I worked hard, saved what I could. After climbing the West Temple, I felt like I’d done what I came to do. I was satisfied. Ready to get back on the road.

On my final night, my truck was packed and humming. I walked to the mess hall one last time, piled a big hearty meal on my plate, tipped my hat to the few close friends I’d made, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The road home was calling; I answered without hesitation.

Driving into the desert my mind wandered, I reflected on the wisdom shared with me in Zion, the wild nights deep in the canyon, and her, Dani. 

The sight of her tail lights still etched in my mind. Nothing I could cling to, but the thought of her lingered, like an echo off canyon walls. 

I wondered where she was, what she was chasing now. 

I didn’t know when or where, but something told me I hadn’t seen the last of her. 

XI. If You Climb Into the Saddle…

December 12th, 2024 — Southeast CA

The day I crossed the border from Arizona into California marked six months since leaving home.

Not desperate to return, but eager. Ready to see friends again, to sit by the sea, to look at a familiar place with new eyes.

But first, I had to make it. From the dry, cracked desert of southeastern California all the way back up the coast. That day I drove for hours from the pine-draped town of Flagstaff. The sun had long since dropped. Eyelids hung heavy. I needed a place to camp.

Just outside the tiny town of Jacumba Hot Springs, I turned off the highway onto a winding dirt road. It twisted into the desert, the night was dark, black as coal. I searched for a wide enough shoulder to pull off, but the sand was soft. The truck shifted beneath me. Uneasy, found a spot to turn around. But the ground wasn’t solid. Mid-turn, the front wheels dipped, then the rear, sinking deep into soft desert sand.

I tried creeping forward, gentle on the gas, but the tires just spun. The engine whined. The hole dug deeper.

Jumped out, cursed under my breath, surveyed the damage. Sure enough, both rear tires were buried nearly a foot deep.

Back in the cab, I tried rolling backwards. No dice. Just more revving, more sand flying. Exhausted, this was not the situation to deal with, not here, not now, not so close to home.

Grabbed the shovel from the truck bed and started to dig. Cleared the sand, tried again, nothing. The tires just spun and undid the work. Now the left wheel sat nearly two feet deep. I could see over the roof of the truck.

Kept digging.

Kenneth’s words flashed through my mind a line he’d scrawled in my journal long ago: If you climb in the saddle, be ready for the ride.

Chuckled. This was part of the ride.

So I kept digging.

Tried again. Deeper.

By now, it was hopeless. The desert was dead quiet except for the hum of cicadas. Hadn’t seen anyone since a border patrol truck when I passed through the town, hours ago.  From where I stood, lights twinkled across the border in Mexico.

Sleep wouldn’t come until I got the truck out.

Walked back toward cell service and called a tow truck. Gave a brief rundown of the situation. They said about 45 minutes. I waited.

Nearly an hour later, headlights bounced down the highway. Ran out and waved them down.

The driver was an older man, arms inked in tattoos. A real desert veteran. He looked at the truck, then at me with a raised brow and a smirk.

“Pretty damn stuck there, sonny.”

“Yep,” I laughed. “Ain’t the first time, either.”

He kicked the sand. “I’ll have to be careful bringing my rig down here, don’t want us both getting stuck. Then we’ll have a real problem.”

He eased the tow-truck down the sandy road slowly, careful not to sink. Stopped just short of the worst of it, then hauled out two thick steel cables from the winch.

“Get in the cab and turn it on,” he barked. “When I tell you, crank the wheel and be easy on the gas. Don’t dig it deeper.”

Nodded, climbed in, rolled down the window.

“Throw it in reverse,” he yelled over the hum of the winch. “Wheel all the way left!”

Did as he said. The winch groaned and tightened. The truck shuddered as the undercarriage dragged across the sand, grinding. Slowly, the back end lifted, tires inching up, until the whole truck lurched free, scraping through a desert shrub on the way out.

“Now straighten the wheels and throw it in neutral!”

Obeyed.

He pulled me slowly back up the road I’d driven down nearly four hours before.

When the tires hit pavement, I stepped out, stared at the truck. Not in a hole. Not stuck. Just dusty.

Exhaled hard.

Shook the man’s hand. “Appreciate it,” I said.

He nodded.

Googled the nearest truck stop, and that night, I slept like a baby.

I was going to make it home, no matter what the desert threw at me.