The Worst Debauchery

Last weekend, I traveled with my wife and two teacher friends to Las Vegas, Nevada. The reason was simple: Bridget had a conference to attend in the basement of the Flamingo Casino, and us teachers had a three-day weekend and the prospect of a free hotel room.

I hadn't been to Las Vegas since grad school, and I have never really been impressed with it. Who cares about gambling, Cirque du Soleil, cigar smoke, the Osmonds, strippers, Celine Dion, and hookers? My idea of a vacation is a high mountain pass in the Tetons or Wallowas, not the meretricious Turkish delights of idiotic mainstream America. Normally, I'd let Bridget enjoy this conference on her own and wish her well. But I'd heard good things about the rock climbing just west of town, and school was entering its seventh week, and it was a sunny ninety degrees in Nevada, so we went.

Somehow, Las Vegas became even more gaudy and horrible than the last time I was there. This is a city for people that watch big-budget summer blockbusters and cheer on the silvery Oregon Ducks. It's loud, brash, crowded, and abrasive. I took a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Hunter S. Thompson stayed in our hotel) and marveled at how accurate it still was. Huge beams of light climb into the smoggy night sky. Garish clusters of slot machines line the insides of gas stations and supermarkets. Enormous water shows spray the remnant of the Colorado River into the baking desert air. Armies of migrant workers descend on the Strip and hand out pornographic coupon books.

This last detail was the most troubling: Las Vegas represents the physical embodiment of America's collective id. The sex industry is impossible to avoid. Whether it's our hotel assuring us that adult pay-per-view films wouldn't show up on our billing statement or the seven-story tall billboards for gentleman's clubs (these are not subtle), it became difficult to find reprieve from the onslaught. The Treasure Island Casino's nightly pirate show has turned into a burlesque act featuring sexy female "sirens" enslaving male pirates, all out in the open, facing the street. Even the city's slogan (What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas) is an invitation to adultery. I imagine that there was once a time when families with children could happily walk down Las Vegas Boulevard and enjoy the casino displays and architecture. That time has passed.

The worst debauchery, though, was the climbing. I don't mean to write that I had an awful time in Nevada, because I didn't. I spent most of my daylight hours in the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, a beautiful tract of land just 17 miles west of the Strip. Here, gigantic piles of reddish sandstone flank a dramatic fault and seem to explode out of the desert floor. We did quite a bit of hiking here, marveling at the cactus, stone formations, wild burros, and esoteric lizards all along the path. It was hot and we drank quarts of water, but the stark desert beauty was satisfying and rejuvenating. Unfortunately, what should have been a great climbing trip was ruined by the magnetic vortex of Las Vegas.

Rock climbing, as I'm finding out, is a communal sport. It needs a group of people to maintain a natural climbing area, because unless you are so hardcore that you can bag first ascents of rock faces, you need things like "bolts" and "anchors" to, you know, keep you from dying. Red Rock Canyon is monstrous. It has climbs that are well over nine pitches high. (A pitch is a regular rope length. Smith Rock, the behemoth in central Oregon, is rarely more than three pitches.) And yet, Red Rocks has almost no fixed anchors for even the closest climbs to the highway. The trails are primitive--we were lost a good deal of the time in creek beds and underbrush. Because we had crippling time constraints (a conference ending, a plane back to Oregon), we were never able to actually get on a safe rock. The one climb we did was at the end of a three-hour hike through a desert and the anchor was so old and shabby that my buddy did it once and said he wouldn't belay anyone else: it was too dangerous. Essentially, we wandered through a scalding desert carrying rope and gear, only to be turned away at the actual rocks.

If Red Rock Canyon was in Oregon, there would be hundreds of people there every weekend. It would have well-maintained trails and clear lines of bolts to solid anchors. There would be campgrounds and public bathrooms. Essentially, it would be Smith Rock, only much larger. But Las Vegas isn't Portland. People don't go to this part of Nevada to ascend pristine rock. Greater America is too busy gambling or drinking or cheating on their wife or watching Barry Manilow to take notice of this otherwise excellent natural resource. And we're all a little worse for it.

Reflecting on all of this, here in chilly Corvallis, I realize that I'll return to southern Nevada. I need to allow more time to explore Red Rock Canyon: it truly was a gorgeous, magical place. But for the same reason that I don't like the screaming glitter of the Oregon Ducks, I'll probably ignore the Las Vegas city limits.