Golden Cliffs

Dad

For a morning that started by looking out the window, seeing big snowflakes falling, and turning over again, we got a few good climbs in. My Dad said on the phone later that the weather looked OK at his place, so we threw the climbing gear in the car with our skis just in case. It turned out that the Golden Cliffs were truly bathed in warm, golden sunlight – impossible to resist. Dad drove down and met us to try a few routes. Climbing next to us were three women who entertained us as much as the climbs with their tawdry tales of temptations unconquered and lewd jokes about the Coor’s beer being busily brewed five hundred feet below us, all the while complaining about struggling on 5.10c and gearing up for something harder. They joined us in our praise of my father, who displays great climbing instincts for someone with little experience on a rope or steep, roof-riddled basalt. Before we knew it the sun was dipping under the horizon, prompting a scramble to exit before the gates closed.

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