An account of an ascent of Castleton Tower, Utah, by Mark Kemball and Russ Eyles on 5th July 1981, this was published in "Grot Rag", the M.U.M.C. and U.M.I.S.T.C.C. mini-journal, 1982. Reprinted with permission from the author.

Driving west from Boulder, Yosemite bound on July 4th; we stopped in the late afternoon at Grand Junction, a one-horse town surrounded by desert, just inside Colorado. "4th July fireworks?" The gas station didn't know - try the fire station. "Fireworks?" "Yes, we had them last night" Most un-American, Russ, my climbing partner and the owner of the car, complained. There was nothing to keep us so after a couple of cokes we carried on west.

Thirst, ever-present even in a car, was our good fortune. We halted for free coffee at a "Highway Patrol Rest Stop", their contribution to keeping death off the roads on a national holiday. Hidden in a corner was a map of Utah and in small red letters was marked "Castleton Tower". That settled the next days objective - we'd plenty of time to reach Yosemite, so the odd side excursion didn't matter. We bivvied on the ground beside the car next to the Colorado River, then up at first light, strong coffee, peanut-butter sandwiches and on our way.

By 7:30 we were standing beside the car looking across the desert at a monstrous red phallus sitting on top of a talus cone - the Tower. There were other cliffs and towers all around the valley but nothing so compelling, such an obvious challenge. We knew that Kor had climbed it, at 5.9 with an off-width crux (vague memories of fifty classic climbs), but we didn't know the route. So, reasoning that Kor would first try the obvious, we chose the continuous corner system in the shade on the right of the tower.

An hour-and a half and much sweat later, we were at its base, glad that the heat of the day was not yet on us, but worried about what was to come. The corner was still in the shade but we had a pitch to reach its base. I led off, a couple of faint chalk marks were reassuring but then nothing until, at the end of the rope, I found a belay bolt with a tatty abseil sling attached-we were on route.

The next pitch looked more ferocious. The corner overhung impossibly but on the left wall was a nasty looking off-width (the crux?) with a traverse right above it leading back into the main line. Russ set off; layaways inside the crack made the whole thing sane, and soon I found myself looking up at the corner. The line was obvious - the crack was wide enough to get into, just. Thankful for my practice on Monolith Crack so many wet Welsh Dinners ago, I started. The technique, get in and grovel, worked for a while. Then, inexorably, the crack began to narrow the helmet began to jam. I parted company with most of the skin on my knees, and the sweat ran. (Thank goodness the corner was still in the shade.) I soldiered on, reaching a smallish foothold where I could rest. Above, the crack was even narrower, my left shoulder and leg would just fit in. So this was off-widths? I thanked the man who'd placed the bolts in the right wall (Kor's original solution to this section) and fought on. Off-widths are fundamentally insecure or so it seems to me. Somehow I don't trust elbow and leg jams; particularly when you only have one of each and must move at least one to get anywhere. It took me two or three wimps to manage the ten-foot section to the belay ledge. Then I could relax, and watch Russ struggle. His training in the marines, and too many pull-ups, were no use. His shoulders were too wide to fit into the off-width. In the end he solved it as Layton had originally done.

Russ's pitch: a few jugs and a VS hand-jamming crack led to the summit. But what a summit! Desert and Towers all around, mountains in the distance. We ignored the noon sun, sipped our tepid water and luxuriated.

Soaking In the atmosphere, Ruse spotted a cairn and in it a plastic container with a summit book. We added our names ours being the 200th and something accent according to the book. Was mine the first British? I leafed back through the pages; a catalogue of top American climbers, assorted nobodies like ourselves, and just before us, a party of seven Russians. Further back, Doug Scott, and before him, Rab Carrington. The third British ascent? I didn't really care, but there was nothing wrong with the company.

Abseils led down into-the heat of midsummer afternoon in the desert. A long and thirsty drag back to the oven of a car, trainers full of sand; then a drive into Moab, cold beer in a cool bar and a swim in the lukewarm slow muddy waters of the Colorado.