They thought briefly about the Cirque of the Unclimbables, but realized that it was in another county, and would require far more than the $16 that they possessed between them. A quick review of their resources, and a dim memory of a nearly forgotten axiom provided the answer. "If you have never climbed the Boar's Tusk, you have never climbed in Wyoming" went the saying.
$16 would buy enough gas to get them to the Red Desert, and maybe part way back, so it was decided. They loaded their battered packs into Mickey's broken down van and set off down the road, black smoke billowing from the exhaust from the burned rings. The busted shocks rattled with every bump on the highway.
After several hours of pushing the van at its top speed of 43 mph, a poorly marked turn lead East into the heart of the Red Desert. Mickey turned left onto the washboard road and the van crept along rattling and squeaking with every minute ripple.
Gill, sick of the noise, plucked a single cassette from his pack and stuck it into the ancient cassette player. The gentle refrains of Black Flag neutralized the sounds from the battered van, just as effective, and much cheaper than a white noise generator, and the rolled deeper and deeper into the Desert.
There were no signs, just a battered copy of the Gazetteer, and dozens of spur roads, but the general trend led deeper, so they continued on. After cresting a small rise Mickey stopped the van and they stepped out for a look. Off in the distance, barely visible in the haze, a dark thumb of rock thrust itself skyward.
With the objective in sight all question of its existence disappeared and they renewed their approach with Gill at the wheel. The tape played through, but no one moved to stop it. The tower grew larger as they grew closer, and finally they reached a final intersection, and a decision. Should they take the direct looking route, or would the longer, more circuitous one be better. Dropping the shift lever into 2nd Gill punched it, throwing a roostertail of dust that could be seen in Kemmerer, on the straight track. Not so far, but not so close either, a patch of soft sand barred the way. Gill floored it and the van floated over the soft sand, and then settled axle deep 50' from the edge.
"Were kind of fucked now: Gill said. The only thing to be seen was sagebrush and the lone tower a short distance away. The other road could clearly be seen approaching on firmer ground, perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been a better choice.
Not the first time I've been stuck said Mickey, as he opened the back and pulled out a shovel, some empty bags and an old climbing rope. Mickey walked out 50' and dug a hole as Gill watched, then he filled the bags with sand and wrapped a sling around them before burying the whole deal. He rigged a pulley to the sling, and doubled the rope through it before walking back to the van. After securing the rope to the frame of the van, Mickey rigged a 12:1 haul system using pulleys and ascenders and then started taking up the slack.
By now both were dripping sweat. Mickey dug in the van to find a hat and when he turned back saw that Gill was just pulling a tshirt on. What Mickey also saw, was that Gill had breasts! That's interesting thought Mickey, that guy always did seem a bit different!
