IT’S MY THIRD WEEK IN CHINA and my climbing partner heard a rumor of some cliffs north of us. From the description and a very small photo, I am extremely anxious to see if this place really exists, so I quickly agree to spend my weekend looking for China’s next climbing Mecca. It’s like that in China; the climbing areas are wide open, mostly untapped, and you always have the gut feeling that you might be the first climber there. But, in China, even a new cliff isn’t the most intriguing aspect of the climbing trip. Let’s just say that sometimes, getting to the cliffs is much more difficult than the climbing itself.

IT’S 7:15 on Saturday morning. We were supposed to meet at 6:30 but my partner overslept, again. The first leg of the trip is to the downtown bus depot. For this, we use Guangzhou’s very modern and efficient subway system. Arriving at the bus depot two minutes too late for the early bus just increases my already foul mood, but I keep all comments to myself. My partner doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s because he’s Chinese and is use to delays. Anyways, as usual, he is cheerfully optimistic. While I have the bulk of the climbing gear, his backpack seems more full than mine, I wonder what he has that I don’t, but I don’t ask him.

An hour of waiting in a crowded and under-ventilated depot turns out to be the perfect prelude to the rest of the trip. Finally, with eleven other passengers, we board an exceptionally large and extremely well air-conditioned bus for a two-hour ride.

Sitting in the deep cushioned seats, drinking bottled water, our bus attendant passes out before it begins to freeze. Within minutes I regret not packing my sleeping bag. An artic blast pours from the air-conditioning vent over my head. It’s a cold headed for the bones, a cold lets you count every nasal hair. My partner casually pulls out his down jacket; a sure indication he knew. I keep my comments about his parents to myself.

Two hours in our mobile meat locker lands us in Ying De. I often hear that China is a nation of contrast, I couldn’t agree more. Dressed in shorts and t-shirt, the 90-degree heat outside is a welcome relief. My partner casually puts his down jacket back in his pack. Ying De, as it turns out, isn’t our final destination.

We need to take a second bus from the depot on the opposite side of town. Being in rural China, this means a taxi ride. People in China drive some real heaps, but how this taxi holds together for the ten minutes ride through town is incomprehensible. With the windows down, China’s marvelous smells flow past. Rotting vegetables. Essence of wet dog. Eau d’sewer. Our driver, who, like all drivers in China, is training for the Indy 500, dodges potholes, open sewers, and the occasional pedestrian—who assumes our vehicle has brakes. It does, I can hear the familiar metal-to-metal grind.

We reach our destination and I stagger out into the dust and sunshine, shoulder my over-loaded backpack, and stumble towards the bus station door. Strangely, my climbing partner doesn’t seem as unnerved as I. He gives me a wink. Any taxi ride you can walk away from, I guess.

Our next bus, a modified eighteen passenger van, complete with roof and half a dozen fans to keep the inside air circulating, makes the taxi we just left look like a first class limousine. Twenty-one passengers and eighteen seats means that bundles of “China Daily Post” double as seats. Unfortunately, I can’t read the Chinese characters between my thighs, but if I could, they would probably say “________________________.” Since every seat and bundle of newspapers is occupied, our packs are placed with the gaggle of geese on the roof rack. Luck them.

During the next hour and half, I watch and listen to other passengers cough, hack, and spit. The spitting is most attractive and done with much clearing of the throat, just to make sure no one sleeps through it. On two separate occasions, a young boy decides the next pit stop is too far and relieves himself on the bus’ floor boards. Through this all, one thing keeps me sane and smiling: the countless limestone towers we’re passing. I point them out to my companion and he smiles too. As far as the eye can see, limestone totem poles proudly stand 200 meters above flat ground. Two weeks after the trip, my neck will still hurt from looking up for so long.

Dizzy, stiff, and completely disoriented I step off the bus. From here, we still need to reach the actual climbing area, so we barter with two motorcycle-taxis. How the two oversized mopeds succeed in climbing the hills with two riders and sixty-pound packs, I’ll never know. I do know the moped ride continues my involuntary preoccupation with death. I am so terrified, I am not sure my thin T-shirt will constrain my pounding hearth. I know the driver can feel it. My arms circle his narrow chest like a shrinking rope. For now, he and I are one. How’s my climbing partner doing? No clue, I have enough to do reviewing my own life as it flashes in front of my eyes.

There is a God. The mopped wallows in the dust as it comes to a six-G stop. After some of the most terrifying, disgusting and bone chilling vehicle rides I have ever had the misfortune to attempt, drunk or sober, we arrive frazzled but unhurt. And now, to play.

One of my partner’s friends established two new routes up the middle of a spectacular two-hundred meters tower named “The Camel Hump.” We’re here to do the second accent.

In 95-degree heat, and matching humidity, we harness up. Hoping not to dehydrate, I gulp down a liter of water, and then launch into the first lead. At only 5.9, the first pitch is straight forward climbing, within ten minutes I finish my lead and tell my partner to climb.

Pitch 2 follows a vertical two-inch crack to a slightly overhanging face with tiny holds. At the end of the crack, I find a small no hands rest and make the most of it. Holds above look small, but I look for the possibilities. With a sequence in mind, I climb towards the crux. My arms feel heavy; sweat strings my eyes, and my calves burn. Still, I continue to move upwards.

Instead of enjoying the challenge, I fight to control the situation. Is it a spill over from our death defying rides, maybe a lack of sleep, or just a new environment? I can’t tell, but I can feel Fear starting to creep in like seawater in a wetsuit. I grip the rock harder, causing more lactic acid to build up in my forearms. Legs shaking, hands over-gripping, and my focus on where my last piece is, I fall. After several more attempts at the crux sequence, I decide I have no more energy or strength and bail. It’s a decision I don’t want to make. We came here to climb, and we came so far.

6:00 AM day two. We are back at the start of the route. Cooler air and a more limber body make the first pitch feel easier than it is. This time, my climbing partner doesn’t struggle nearly as much on the first pitch. I reclimb the now familiar two-inch crack. Yesterday it felt 5.11, but today if feels like 5.9+. It’s amazing what a good night sleep and some shade will do for your climbing. It continues to go smoothly and so does the third. Finishing the third pitch, we rappel down and begin our return trip home.

At the trailhead, we flag down a local bus, fully equipped with geese, chicken, and animal parts. Initially the bus is empty, but soon we are fully loaded with over 30 passengers. Our new bus comes equipped with natural air conditioning. Actually, the system is quite good. Open the window and drive fast; the faster you go, the cooler the bus’s interior. Also, the bodily fluids on the floor aren’t as pungent and the hacking and coughing is more tolerable with gales of wind blowing in your face. We spend about one and a half hours on this bus and transfer to another mobile meat-locker. Once again, my partner uses his down jacket while I freeze. After An hour in cold storage, we arrive back in the downtown bus depot and take the subway home.

I ask my partner his impressions. He shrugs, smiles. Evidently, he’s used to scenic transportation, luxury accommodations, and the festive air of a Chinese climbing destination.