Excerpted from Collages of Rock & Desire: Re-imagining Climbing in Red Rock, Risk in the Andes & Running into Dreams by Joanne Urioste (November 2025). Published by Wild Turkeys Press. All rights reserved. Used with permission from the publisher.
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From Chapter 19: Epinephrine
Collages of Rock & Desire: Re-imagining Climbing in Red Rock, Risk in the Andes & Running into Dreams
By Joanne Urioste
Although Joe continued to be ambivalent about our idea of a direct Velvet Wall line, Jorge and I set up camp in the canyon in August of 1978. How could we put up a 2000-foot route in 110-degree heat? We decided we’d need to “fix lines”—to attach a series of ropes to our anchors—to be able to ascend them rapidly on subsequent days to reach our high points and push our route. We suspected that hand-drilling many bolts in hot weather would take a long time, but this method of fixing ropes would spread our work over many days. We could ascend them rapidly and safely with Jumars. When the route was finished, we planned to remove the fixed lines as we rappelled down, and then return later to complete the entire route in one push, from bottom to top—hopefully free—with no aid, tension, or falls.
We would place absolutely no bolts on the pitches that Joe had already climbed on his Original Route. This has always been a standard ethical protocol for climbers—do not bolt other people’s climbs, unless they give permission. But on the virgin rock straight above the Black Tower, any bolting we did was “our call”—and we believed that we’d need an unprecedented number of them.
Jorge had already scoped-out a direct two-pitch start, to avoid the dirty ledge of the Original Route which came in from the right. Our new first pitch was beautiful face climbing, which he led in impeccable style, on the lead, hand-drilling two protection bolts. The second pitch was also lovely, with three protection bolts. Our high point that day joined The Original Route, which we would follow to the top of the Black Tower. In this “no-bolting zone,” we planned to establish gear anchors for our fixed ropes. We rapped off as night fell, building a tiny fire in the canyon below, with high-resin drift wood from the gravelly wash—which we called “magic wood” because we could light a chunk of it directly with a match, as if we were lighting a candle. Then we cooked our dinner of ramen and soup.
Joanne jumaring upper face pitches of Epinephrine, ferrying loads of water and hardware, on the first ascent in August, 1978. Photo courtesy of the author.
In the morning, the sun felt like a physical assault. We hid in pockets of shade to nibble our breakfast, waiting for afternoon when we knew this thuggery would stop. In the meantime, Jorge gave me the run-down on safely ascending our fixed ropes, a skill which he’d mastered during his winter ascents of Cannon Mountain ten years ago. I had sewn custom foot-loops for our ascenders, along with elastic ties to prevent our feet from slipping out. We would do so much jumaring in the next two weeks, it would become second nature for me.
When midday shade swept over the wall, we ascended our two fixed lines. The effort was draining because we were laden with additional ropes, water, and gear for fixing in the chimneys above. The challenge was the heat, which was sucking the fluids right out of me, making me feel dizzy, and encrusting my arms with a layer of salt. As I stared up at the ominous off-widths and chimneys above, memories of the high-risk run-outs were fresh from having led them recently. This game was nuts-only. No bolts. No pins. No cams. But despite the worry, I knew precisely where protection could be found and I knew how to execute the cruxes. Because the heat made things more serious, we decided to share the burden by swinging leads up the chimneys. We worked hard pushing up the flares. We pressed on methodically, establishing gear anchors atop each pitch, to which we attached our fixed ropes—and this subsequently lightened our loads. Arriving on top of the Black Tower, where we stashed our water, was a great relief but we had no desire to dally. Immediately, we turned around and zipped down to the welcoming fluids and dinner at camp.
The next day, we repeated the cycle. Morning sun—hide and relax. Midday shade—get to work. Jug the lines with heavy packs—more ropes, more water, and lots of cut angle iron—homemade bolt hangers crafted by Jorge and painted by me in our garage. After reaching our stash atop the Black Tower, he led the two face pitches directly above—which were now nicely shaded—and I seconded, carrying a burden of gear. It was heavy, but I fixed ropes as I proceeded. On a good ledge 200 feet above The Black Tower, we made a higher stash—which we knew we’d eventually need—and then we looked up to examine what lay ahead. The iconic corner pitches were less than a rope-length away—and they seemed to float like a mirage. We turned to one another with looks that said, I can’t believe we’re this close to the jackpot! I led to the right, reached a detached formation that we named The Elephant’s Trunk, and set up a belay, bringing Jorge across. After this, he led moderate cracks to the top of the “trunk,” and reached high to touch the beginning of the mythical corners. He yelled down to me, “They’re as solid as steel!” Then he began hammering-in a belay bolt. I sighed and relaxed, assuming that this would be the end of today’s efforts—but I was wrong.
Jorge’s drilling went—toc, toc, toc—but suddenly he started hollering, “I can’t breathe!” Midway through the placement things had been perfect, but then, with such terrible abruptness, everything changed. What’s going on? Come down! I yelled. But he kept whacking with his hammer, amid gasps, until the bolt was finished. As I lowered him to my ledge, he was moaning and clutching his neck. He opened his mouth, and I saw that his throat was swollen half-shut.
This must be an allergic reaction. I didn’t want to voice my worries, because I knew quite well—from my physiology coursework—that anaphylaxis can be fatal. Maybe an insect bite? Maybe a plant allergy? Or ancient bat-shit dust in one of the cracks we’d passed? Whatever—we both knew we had to get to town as fast as possible. But I worried he might collapse before we could get there. We shifted into low gear—slow and steady—to rap down the fixed lines, which—thankfully—are so much easier to descend than setting and pulling each rappel in the normal way.
Upon reaching the ground, it was twilight and I peered into his throat again, now using a flashlight. The swelling had worsened to the point where he was struggling to breath. I supported him with my arm for almost an hour as we marched through the trailless desert to our truck. Then I drove out the bumpy road, where the ruts—maddeningly—stopped me from driving fast. But once we gained the pavement, I floored it. Upon reaching town, I charged down the Strip, racing for the nearest hospital, amid the neon lights which blinked dispassionately.
As we entered the ER, Jorge was still clutching his throat, his face now blue. The doctor injected epinephrine into his thigh. Long minutes passed, and then he relaxed. His breathing eased. Then, he said he was ready to roll. Not so fast! They wanted to hold him an hour, but he said he felt so good that he wanted to leave—NOW. And he did! As we walked to our truck, he begged me to go back to Black Velvet Canyon and hike in by moonlight. In semi-disbelief, I acquiesced. The tawdry facades of the strip clubs receded in the rearview mirror as the black desert swallowed us up.
Jorge Urioste leading pitch 16 of Epinephrine during the first ascent in August, 1978, with temperatures reaching 110 degrees F. Photo courtesy of the author.
We hiked beneath a waning moon, packing-in more ropes to fix. All the while Jorge exclaimed, “The corners above the Elephant’s Trunk are fantastic!” The next day, we began earlier than usual, because we couldn’t contain our curiosity. We jumared 1000 feet in 110-degree sun, carrying loads of water, iron, and extra rope. It was a relief to arrive at the ledge atop the Elephant’s Trunk, at which point, we made our stash. When Jorge began leading the golden dihedral above, the shade had just enveloped us. From my angle, it looked pretty blank, but he kept reaching up and finding surprising face holds in the corner. He slotted nut after nut into the crack, as well. “Bomber!” he exclaimed after each one of them, and continued free climbing up the wall. Higher on the pitch, some of his placements were poor, so he decided to drill a bolt, taking tension from a sketchy nut because he couldn’t stand in balance to hammer. I riveted my eyes on him because, if the nut popped, he’d zipper out a few pieces, and take a 20-footer. But the sketchy piece held and he clipped his new bolt. After that, I shook out my neck tension and glanced down through 1000 feet of air to the wash below. There sat the large green pool where we—and the bighorn sheep—drank. Had any rams been there, they would have looked like dots. Jorge continued free climbing steadily, placing one more bolt, before reaching a flat ledge where he drilled his belay anchor. As he brought me up, I felt the usual pressure to climb this on the first try without falling—to strive for those ethical standards which resonated deeply in my brain. The exposure was simply unreal, making me tense. As I moved upward, I couldn’t believe how the pitch unfolded. Nature had created so many tiny holds—all in-cut and solid—in just the right places. Each move was a joy and I flashed the pitch—with no falls and no rests on the rope. The next pitch had fewer places for good nuts, and thus looked more bolt-intensive and more time-consuming. To decrease tomorrow’s workload, Jorge led a portion of it and lowered-off. After hugging and rejoicing for this incredible success, we zoomed down to the wash.
Our excitement continued to build. Would the climbing stay at this grade of difficulty, or would it blank-out? We could hardly wait for the next day’s session, as we prepared piles of gear, and then went to sleep beneath the brilliant stars.
The fixed ropes seemed like a never-ending beanpole extending into the sky. We went to work, as if we were day-laborers and this was our job. Slide-step, slide-step—a thousand times. We always roped up as we ascended the fixed lines—clipping to gear occasionally. This method was a “running belay,” in case a fixed rope snapped from fraying. Potential falls would be long, but it was better than falling to the wash. Jorge—ever the gentleman—always insisted on going first to give me less risk. That day, we reached our high point exactly when the shade arrived.
Jorge tediously inched up the half-done pitch, drilling five more protection bolts above his previous high point, but the rock thankfully remained featured enough for free-climbing. I seconded it at a 5.9 grade, with no falls, just like the prior pitch. Then there was an easy lead that we ran up, followed by a 5.8 pitch with only two bolts that was pure fun. We could see the dihedral snaking upward, continuing to beckon us. Would it go or would it blank-out? Our obsession was building, but we’d have to wait a few days to find out because we were out of food. We rapped our 1400 feet of fixed ropes and hiked out of the canyon in the starlight, to re-supply in Vegas.
While at home, I picked up the phone. “Hey, Joe, you won’t believe how the corners are opening up. The whole thing is going free! Wanna join us on our final push tomorrow? We got a lot of fixed rope and it looks like we can make it to the upper ramp in one more push.”
At that time in climbing history, when fixed ropes and bolts were mostly forbidden, Jorge and I knew we were breaking rules. Bolts placed with tension or aid were also forbidden, unless done by an alpha climber—someone who’d impressed the climbing community so much, that he was regarded as a demi-god. Only at that point, could he dictate rules to the climbing community—or shame others for not complying. Coincidentally, at this moment in history, there were no females in the position of defining ethics for the community—only males.
Joanne leading in the main chimney system of Epinephrine's Black Tower during the first ascent in August, 1978, using zero bolts, zero cams, and carrying a rack of nuts, only. Photo courtesy of the author.
It was a very heavy moment for Joe. There was a long silence before he answered. He said he’d sleep on it. So, we drove back to Black Velvet the next morning, soaked our shirts in the spring, and humped our loads into the canyon. Prior to leaving town, we had not heard from Joe.
Same scenario. We jugged the lines, shade came, and—at our high point—we stacked our ropes for climbing. The corners above were unbearably tantalizing and we wanted to jump on them immediately. But suddenly Jorge pointed down and said, “Hey, there’s someone in the canyon!” We both looked down. It must be Joe! We yelled and he yelled back. The air magically carried our voices across a quarter mile of space. Come up—finish the climb with us! He clamped his jumars to the fixed ropes and began racing upward. Meanwhile, Jorge put me on belay to lead the next pitch, which opened up easily, and by the time I’d set up a belay atop my pitch, Joe had arrived.
At that moment, we all simply—and methodically—got to work to facilitate Jorge’s next lead up the final hard pitch, which kept the same grade of aesthetics as the 1500 feet below. Then Joe led a long enjoyable pitch to complete the new route. At the top, we hollered in every direction—with our whoops ricocheting off every canyon wall. It was a celebration—because we had crossed a threshold of change—together. The name for this route had to be Epinephrine.
However, Epinephrine came close to being our last first ascent in Red Rock, and that’s the story I’ll tell next.
Joanne Urioste has put up hundreds of first ascents in the mountains surrounding Las Vegas, including Epinephrine, Crimson Chrysalis, Dream of Wild Turkeys, and Levitation 29, some of Red Rock's most famous and popular climbs. Together with her husband, Jorge, they helped usher in new standards for climbing in Red Rock, including judicious use of bolts to link grand natural features. Joanne published the very first guidebook to technical climbing in Red Rock in 1984. She has continued to establish high-quality first ascents in Red Rock up until the present day.
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Feature Image: Joanne Urioste leading the lower chimney during the first ascent of Epinephrine in August 1978. Photo courtesy of the author.