Let’s not even bring a second rope. That way we have to climb the whole route — no bailing.” He said it, Joe, my climbing partner. But I agreed, providing the next step in a downward spiral of events. It was early in the morning on a clear day, and we were both optimistic. Today we would climb Mountain Momma, a six-pitch climb (5.10c), and one of the finest 5.10 routes in New Mexico.

Our enthusiasm was intact as we pulled into the parking lot high in the Sandia Mountains, a dramatic little mountain range rising approximately 6,000 feet above the Rio Grande valley where it forms the eastern border of Albuquerque. This parking lot is the beginning and end to many “epic” days on the granite cliffs of the Sandia Mountain Wilderness. A frequent climber here, I’ve learned that the Sandias produce epics indiscriminately — ropes chopped by falling rocks, blizzards sweeping in despite the weatherman’s promise of sunshine, broken bones from falls, wounded pride from high expectations (like ours) — but we weren’t thinking misadventure. We were certain of success.

On the hike to Mountain Momma, the sounds and smells of early spring were inspiring, and visually we could see that life was about to erupt from the dark granite canyons filled with drifts of untracked snow. In hindsight, trudging down the gulley, postholing knee-deep snow with our tennies soaking wet, fingers and toes getting colder by the step, the signs were there to let us know that turning around would have been prudent. But it was just easier to keep going downhill.

We arrived at the base of the climb with our extremities frozen. But before either of us thought to reconsider, we were roped up and off Joe went, taking the first pitch of5.10 face and crack climbing. By the time I reached him at the first belay, the screaming barfies (that painful thawing of frozen fingers and toes that makes you want to scream and barf) were in full effect. Joe responded to my shrieks and complaints with violent shivering and those funny little noises that only the nearly hypothermic can make. I re-racked the gear and took the lead, climbing out of the dreary shadows toward cliffs where we hoped to find sunny warmth.

The second pitch climbs slightly overhanging rock with great holds and continues up a corner. It is fantastic 5.10 climbing. In fact, I was enjoying the climbing so much I cruised up the dihedral adventitiously passing the “move left” line described in theSandia Rock guidebook. Nearing the end of my rope (in every way), I knew I was off route. Worse, just below I had climbed a bulge protected by a precarious old bolt. A twinge of fear hit me, and thoughts of a dangerous fall mobilized to paralyze me. Trying to ignore the fear, I took a deep breath and then climbed on, finding (finally!) a solid bolt. I clipped in and took the opportunity to rest physically, but mentally I was wrecked. I belayed Joe up to where I’d missed the “move left” turn. When he was anchored to the rock, I rappelled down to him, arriving with the emotional fortitude of a toddler.

“Joe, why don’t we just bail and come back tomorrow?” I tried to make my plea sound casual yet irresistible.

“Nah, you just need to climb up there to the next belay ledge. Go for it!” he prodded.

“I’m not sure . . .”

“You got it. Here, have some water first.” I took a swig from our meager supply hoping to delay the inevitable. Joe was right, though — there was no reason but my fear to think about going home. For a descent, we needed that second rope anyway, so I needed to clear my head and climb.

I began climbing the next pitch of easy rock. Before I climbed past ear-shot of Joe, who knew the route best, I asked what I should be looking for.

“I think you’ll see a pin and then a roof. The belay ledge should be just above that,” he shouted up.

I looked above and spied a pin 15 feet up the rock face. About 25 feet above that was a roof big enough for me to curse out loud and climb back down to Joe.

“I can’t do it, Joe. It’s way the hell up there. And that roof is HUGE.”

“You got it. Here, have a sandwich.”   Joe is a master of ignoring the fear in others.

Finally, I relaxed, enough to climb a few feet above my last highpoint and found our belay ledge. From the ledge beneath the intimidating roof, we were looking up at pitch three, the crux pitch.

Joe led, face climbing past two fixed pins and over a challenging 5.10 bulge, through a beautiful hand crack, and pulled through the 10.c roof to our next belay.Still shivering and moving at a snails pace, at least we were making progress. Then, as I was following Joe up the crux pitch, my work cell phone started ringing. This meant it was after 5:30 p.m., and my boss was calling to see where I was. When that phone rang, I knew without doubt that on this day we held a top spot among the slowest 5.10 climbers on earth. It had taken us eight hours to climb three pitches, and we still had three to go.

In the Sandia’s, everything but riding the Sandia Peak Tramway (the world’s longest at 2.7 miles) is challenging. The mountain range is small, less than 30 miles long and 10 miles wide on the map. When someone does get turned around on the western slope — “lost” — theoretically all he has to do is walk downhill until eventually bumping into civilization. In spite of its proximity to Albuquerque, the largest city in New Mexico, every year rescue teams are called to pluck out hikers and climbers. Often the reason for rescue is not that folks are really “lost” in the true sense of the word, it’s just that they can’t muster the willpower to get out of the rugged Sandia wilderness. Towering canyons with thick undergrowth, granite scree and bear and lion scat criss-cross the western slope. It’s a wonderful place to climb and explore but an intimidating place to get stuck without food, water or shelter.

On our adventure — OK, misadventure — the last three pitches were entirely uneventful. Pitch four is fun 5.9 climbing over a face with a lot of prominent features but without much protection besides a few fixed pins. From the top of pitch four, climbers have the choice of a 5.10 pitch to the top or a short 5.9 pitch with a 5.7 pitch to the top. Since our average was roughly 2.7 hours per 5.10 pitch, we switched from ambitious to conservative and finished on the more moderate line.

As I sat on the top of the final pitch and belayed Joe to the top, dusk was settling into the valley. I watched the lights of Albuquerque grow brighter and brighter, and the New Mexico sunset brush the western skyline. In contrast to our time on the climb, I felt no urgency, only contentment.

Our epic did not end there, in bliss. Finding the rappel down and route out to the parking lot provided new challenges, all fodder for a campfire story. But you get the picture. All the Sandia guidebooks say it, any article written about climbing in the Sandias affirms it, and I’m here to tell you that it’s absolutely true — climbing in the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico is adventure climbing. Until you’ve had a good misadventure in them, you haven’t fully experienced what they have to offer.

Sam Glaser resides in Albuquerque, N.M. After Joe, his climbing partner, moved from the area, Sam began working with his 6-month-old daughter, Myla, to take his place. So far, they have had no serious misadventures.