After Potrero, tall mijo still found it in himself to want to come climbing with us, and this time, we'd be heading to West Virginia to put our hands on the nuttall sandstone of the new. I met up with Tim and Esteban, then we met Matt at his place to take one car. "Party tent" had become a tradition after the last few trips to the red and a time or two at poultry days, so we would all be sharing a tent to save on that gear as well.
Pulling into the campground in the rain we pulled out the tent and began to setup. Unfortunately, in the shuffling between cars before leaving, the tent was mysteriously separated from the poles. So instead of a party the first night, we had a cold and wet hammock fest under a shelter. (I have yet to live this one down).
There's no way to be sure if the lack of tent poles set the tone for the weekend, but what is certain is we had a theme of rampant sadness and misery (albeit in jest). While enjoying beers at Chetty's as the rain poured down, a brochure of smiling and incredibly happy people caught our eye. This brochure was more likely the impetus for theme, but again, there's no way to be sure. Any time we could capture a photo, those faces would not pleased. Except for Matt. Matt didn't get the memo.
As the rain was dumping, we managed to put up Centennial, but moved on to Rico Suave Arete since it had the protection via the massive roof. From there the weather broke and we ticked off a handful of routes in Sandstonia as the sun beamed down. Heading back to our accommodations, Matt had very responsibly booked a cabin so that we wouldn't have another hammock fest, and here we had a few beers around the campfire (brought to you by Tim's bike pump).
Even tho most of the images captured portray the somber mood, a wonderful time was had by all. We'll leave you with one final message from Esteban to conclude the trip: "it ain't the red".
