Early morning after burying the truck up to the axles, we heard vehicle rolling by on the dirt road a quarter mile away. Andy knew some Spanish, and we got busy making cardboard signs we hung between the Juniper pines across the road. I wish I had pictures of the guys that helped us. Farmers, Caballeros; they parked where the road was still dry and approached us. There was not much talking at the start, but they got out their machetes and a big bumper jack and went to work. A roadbed was built in the mud of hacked down sage scrub, and my truck was jacked up and under each wheel the men stacked the scrub to give us a launching platform. When it looked good, I fired up the truck and put her in reverse, and these guys pushed on the hood like fiends to help us out of the mud. Back on the hard, we couldn't believe how good it felt and we gave them all our beer, plus some firewood. Andy was telling the caballeros they could use the 1" dowels to roll tortillas. After a beer or two, it became clear they wanted to know what we were doing there. Andy got the "rocas grandes" idea across, and one of the men pantomimed a mighty toss of a grappling hook, and a strenuous hand-over-hand routine to get up the rope. "Si, bueno!" A discussion of free vs. aid climbing would have pushed the limits of our cultural exchange. I don't think those guys went back to work that day. We found our way into main camp at Canon Tajo, and have since enjoyed years and years of climbing with friends, without a guidebook.
