Colorado Day Nine: Getting Shelved

We were supposed to go to the Black Canyon this weekend, but not all worked out as planned. We decided instead to do a couple of day trips in the area, and one of those trips was to Shelf Road, a sport climbing area with a dozen cliffs, a few dozen crags, and hundreds of bolted, sharp, limestone routes just waiting to be pulled by the two studs that "Jello" and I are.

Shelf Road - Cannon City, Colorado
Dark Side Wall

Other than climbing in Garden of the Gods this past week and at Farley Ledge in Massachusetts, I haven't done much sport this season. In fact, I haven't even made the short trek up to Rumney this year to tackle my only tick up there: Hammond Organ (5.10d). I was looking forward to clipping bolts and pushing my grades for the first time all year (well, except for my attempt on Hold the Mayo (5.9) in the 'Gunks). I'm sure most people will tell you that sport offers an opportunity to bump the grades up over the typical trad grades. This is almost exclusively because with sport all one has to do is clip the bolt, whereas with trad one must find the right gear, set it, and then clip it. Of course, all of this trad gear also weighs more than sport draws, too.

Anyway, I'm not sure where I was going with that, except that maybe I was trying to say that I just wanted to try something hard outside for once. While I've led 5.10 outside before, I've never actually flashed or onsighted a 5.10. "Jello" told me that the grades at Shelf Road were a bit soft, so this was a perfect opportunity for me to meet that goal, even if I didn't set that out as a goal this summer. I would have been happy to lead 5.10c/d today, too, and that opportunity did come later in the day. But this day was really about three different events, two of which damn near killed me (OK, so I'm being a little over dramatic about one of the events, but still, if you know me then you know why).

The drive to Canon City was uneventful, and the ride to the Shelf Road area was also without any excitement. We wanted to get to the Dark Side Wall in order to hit the shade on what we figured would be a warm day in the sun. Shelf Road is spread out a bit, with a few different parking lots for the various crags. It is possible to park in one location and walk to all the cliffs, but that is inconvenient because walking from one cliff to the next would take about 30 minutes. As you could expect, the parking lots are also spread out and closer to each cliff. This is somewhat important to note because: 1) we were using a rather crappy map in the guidebook to find the parking lot for the Dark Side Wall and; 2) I can't read a map.

We were supposed to be looking for the Bank Camping lot, and apparently we drove right past it on our way in. The road to the Bank is pretty easy and safe, but once past that point the road becomes narrow, dirt, and enclosed with a rising cliff on the left and steep 200-foot drop into a shallow canyon on the right... without a guardrail. The road is barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass by each other, and it is as winding as any famous mountain road in Italy - with the road ahead blinded out of sight by weaving turns that bend around the opaque cliff. You can't see what you're heading at nor what's heading at you. It's a scary thing to think of when you know cars are coming the other way, but thankfully we couldn't see any cars on the road ahead of us (where we could see, anyway) and it felt as if we were the only car on the road. Not a spec of dust thrust up by uncoming cars was to be seen. The low-lying air was as crystal clear as any at the break of an uncoming rain storm. I was on the passenger's side of the car, which had a much clearer view of the bottom of the canyon than the driver's side. "Jello" is known for his driving... ... ... and I'll just leave it at that.

Not seeing any cars, "Jello" barelled ahead at my direction. He wanted to see the map, but I refused. Despite the map's lack of clarity, I was certain that I could figure out where we were supposed to go. Of course, he had been there before, and so he kind of knew the area. A quick look at the map for him would have easily solved our problem. But no, he was stuck driving for the vast majority of the trip and I felt the need to hold my otherwise carried weight. Our climbing partnership is an interesting dynamic. To start, we're friends. Our sense of humor is at least understood, and when we're on there's no stopping the laugh tracks. Yet, when we're often dropping jokes we don't really laugh so much as we smile and get the joke. It's as if it isn't about the laughing but about the appreciation of the moment instead. I think we get along so well because we cope in similar fashion: it's best to get whatever is on the inside on the outside before it eats up the soul. I'm glad that we at least understand that we each have quirks, and that those don't really play a role in our character. But where we separate is in our approach. I'm an eternal optimist. I'm not sure if "Jello" is truly and optimist or pessimist at heart, but I definitely deal with my optimism by communicating my pessimism very loudly and clearly. It's how I cope. It's how I know that I'm going to be OK in the end, because I've already cleaned the bad out of me by displaying it for the world to see - almost as if I'm allowing the whole world, as an army, to tackle my pessimism at once. Call it dilution if you will, but it works. "Jello", on the other hand, is much more likely to speak honestly about his experiences and to use that openness to build the internal strength to push him onward. In short, he's a fighter who storms the beach with a plan whereas I'm the guy who is willing to wait for his heart to tell him when to shoot. I'm careful about picking my battles. He just picks them and goes. As a result, he tends to be the one who carries the heavy pack during the descent (my weakest moments). He's the one who forges ahead quickly when the rain is coming. He reads the guidebook more than me. He cooks, he drives, he takes control of the road, the seemingly empty road that - AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

It lasted only a mere few seconds, but it was one when nearly every memory of my childhood raced back to the forefront of my eyeballs: when I realized Dad didn't live with us anymore, getting my first pet (a rabbit named Rudolph-the-Snoopy because I didn't want to upset my two favorite cartoon characters by choosing one over the other), having my Christmas present taken away from me and sold one year due to my misbehaving, and getting the game ball in the local Farm League championship baseball game. All these memories flashed as soon as I saw the driver's side edge of the car scream around the corner. We both yelped, but as I saw us slowly moving into the other car the memories faded. "At least we aren't heading over the edge," I thought to myself while I watched "Jello" do the right thing and steer into the accident. But then, just as soon as that final word popped into my head, instinct grappled with his hands and foot and he slammed on the brake, sending us into a dirt-screaching skid all the while turning away from the car and, yup, you guessed it, toward the soft edge of the road on the canyon side. I didn't have a chance to get through my high school years with the first flashback, but within a matter of split seconds I was moving from my sophomore to junior year and was suddenly thinking of college all over again. The irony of that moment was that I had no place to go but up in high school, and now I was watching the right, front tire of "Jello"'s car for the instant it began it dangle over the edge. The braking didn't help soothe my fears. After all, it was a dirt road and he didn't have anti-lock brakes. All eyes in both cars stared widely at us. Would we go over? How many times would we flip when we did? Did I remember to change my underwear this morning?

The skid lasted a few feet, and the tire I had so steadily watched finally came to a halt only a few inches from the edge. We all stopped, breathed a few deep breaths, looked at each other, smiled, laughed, and carefully went on our way. A hundred yards later we hit a small rut in the road that sent us into another skid, but because "Jello" had learned the hard way how to drive in snow (which is similar to dirt in how you react to it), he was able to turn out of it. Unfortunately, at this point, we were well beyond where we were supposed to be and "Jello" demanded that I give him the map. I sheepishly handed it over to him and he confidently said, "It's back there." He tossed the book in my lap, turned the car around, spied the car we almost hit several hundred yards away and declared with an evil grin, "Wouldn't it be funny if we caught up to them?" I gulped, and he spun off back to our intended destination. (count: two near death experiences, thus far)

Approach / Descent Info: Park in the parking lot for the Bank area camping. In between the two day use parking lots is a road that heads down into the canyon. Follow this road to the first path on your right, and then take the next path again on your right toward Dark Side. Once on this path, you will cross through a thin cave and you should see the path continue down the hill. It is ill-advised to go down the hill if you want to climb at Dark Wall. I suggest that you look closely to the rock pile that is to your right and search for a faint trail that goes through the rocks and meets another dirt path on the other side. This path will lead you to all the climbs on the wall. Taking the main path downhill will only send you well below the cliff and make getting back up not only difficult but dangerous (Rattlesnakes do live here and I've got the picture to prove it). It is also important to note that this path leads you to the higher-numbered climbs in the guidebook, and that the lower-numbered climbs are about 15 minutes down the path.

As for descending, all the routes listed below could be lowered or rapped off the chained anchors with a 50m rope if needed. We had a 60m rope, so please be aware that I may be a bit off on my estimates regarding lowering or rapping (but I'm pretty sure it's all good).

I don't have much to say about each of these climbs. They were all fun and we got to the top of them all (me with several hangs on one climb in particular), but there wasn't anything peticular about each climb to have a story. Most of the below text will be guide-like info, but there will be one story mixed in that nearly ended my life a second time, so be on the lookout for it. And by the way, my apologies if the beta photos don't like up as well as they usually do. That is a direct result of there not being enough text. It is important to note that we walked from the main path all the down to the end, and then worked our way back toward the path.

Beginner's Outing (5.8) - six bolts

We got a little lost due to us not finding the path to the wall, but eventually we found this route. It was nearly all the way down at the end of path. It tooks us about 20 minutes to get there, so I imagine it would have been closer to 15 minutes if you took the proper path and knew where you were going. Essentially, though, walk all the way down until you see a dirty descent gully / trail up to the right. The route has a black, right-facing corner with a flake at the top. There is a rounded, white prow at the left. Climb the face to the corner, and then follow the corner to the flake at the top (crux). This felt more like 5.6 than 5.8.

Black and Dicey (5.10a) - six bolts

I enjoyed this route, even though it was a one-star route in the book. In fact, I thought it was better than the three-star next to it (next climb below). It was thin and technical, with a gutsy traverse just below the mid-way point. Head right from Beginner's Outing. Climb the black face between a large right-facing corner with a squarish / triangular roof midway up to the left and a black arrete with a triangular roof about the same height up as the left-side roof. Sorry, I thought I had a photo for this, but I guess I don't.

27 Tons (5.10a) - eight bolts

Again, head right from Black and Dicey and find the black and white face below a right-facing corner that is high up. It is between a right-arching, overhanging corner high up to the left and a chimney and large roof up to the right. Again, sorry for the lack of photo.

This was supposedly a three-star route, but it wasn't as fun as the Black and Dicey, which is right next to it to the left.

Shelf Road Virgin (5.10a) - three bolts

Find the shelf / ledge about 10 feet off the ground and just right from where the path goes steeply up to the left. Belay just above a square boulder-step in the path and climb the pockets on the left of this particular cliff face. We both found this to be sequency and fun despite it being so short.

It was at this point in the day where I had my second adventure. I really had to drop a load, but there didn't seem to be a good place to go because of the way the path around where we were was shaped (or, to put it a better way, the way the cliff was shaped). I won't describe it much, but let's just say that anyone walking from either direction would have easily been able to see me squatting and bearing my ass to the world. But I just couldn't let it go, and so I had to walk off the trail to find a nice quite spot. However, I'm afraid of snakes. I've had my days at the 'Gunks where snakes were by far and away the biggest mental obstacle of the day. The guidebook to Shelf Road says that rattlesnake bites are not that uncommon here, and that most of the bites happen on the back of the leg as one steps over a log or boulder. "Great," I thought, "not only are they aggressive, but you don't see them coming." We had been lucky, in my estimation, earlier in the day because of the bushwhacking we had to do to get back to the main path (ever hear that before? Yup, every time I climb with this guy there is definitely a bushwhacking adventure. Just click here, and here, and here for proof). I feel that we were lucky because rattlesnakes are apparently not that dissimilar in color from brown dirt and brush. But no strikes happened, and so I was a little more confident walking down what appeared to be a normal animal path. In other words, I wouldn't be stepping over any logs or boulders, but down an easy-to-read path instead. And so I stepped on to the path when - AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

There it was, no more than three feet in front of me. I damn near stepped on it. "Jello" ran over to see what had startled me and, without hesitation, sent a few more shivers up my spine when he said, "Yup, that's a rattler." I froze and stared at its coiled state. It was docile, for the moment, but I didn't want to move anywhere out of the fear that another one would be nearby. "Jello" warned me to back away, though, as he had heard that they can strike at twice their length in distance. I did as I was told, but the sad thing was that now I desperately needed to lighten my load and I had no where to go but around this snake, and over the logs and boulders that surrounded it. I backed up and walked about 10 feet away. There was only one place I could go, and that was toward a large boulder that would shield me from public view. The problem was that there was no path anymore in this area. I couldn't walk down the main path in either direction either due to other parties being nearby in both directions. I had to bushwhack to the large boulder, and I was nearly as afraid as I've ever been in my entire life. It took me about 20 minutes to walk 15 feet. I'm not kidding. I would take one step and look around me to see if there were any snakes. And then, before taking another other steps, I double checked just to make sure I didn't miss something. I would then take another step and repeat the sequence. "Jello" thought this was hilarious. I was not only worrying about getting to the boulder safely but about dropping by pants and not seeing the rattler that was about to bite me in the ass. Everything turned out OK (we didn't see another reptile the entire day), and "Jello" was happy in the end because, and I will quote his great sympathy, "I didn't want to get stuck carrying your ass out of here." Once the load was dropped, climbing subsequently became much easier. (count: three near death experiences)

Puddle of Holes (5.10a R)- three bolts

This route is on the other side of the tree on the same cliff face as Shelf Road Virgin (see above). Climb the route right of the tree. I'm saying this is R-rated because of the fall potential at one particular spot. Despite the fact that this is a sport route, it isn't bolted well. Any fall between the first and second bolts will result in a swing into a small tree and down to a ledge below the first bolt. Despite this climb being well within our limits, we both felt the stress of this particular section. It wasn't hard, but any screw up here is going to hurt.

Lou Raven's Nest (5.10c/d) - nine bolts

Find a large, right-facing corner with a tree on a ledge about 30 feet up. Walk left, past another tree at the base to a ledge about six feet above the path. Climb the shallow right-facing corner to its top, then step left and climb the upper, right-facing corner, and then head left on very thin and slopey holds to the chains.

One of my goals for this year was to lead 5.10d clean. This grade is really pushing my limits outside, and I had a particular route set aside for this potential accomplishment: Hammond Organ (5.10d) at Rumney. I chose Hammond Organ because after toproping it a few years ago I felt as if it was within my grade range and definitely within the style of climbing that I prefer: thin and slabby. As noted above, our goal was to start at the far end of the cliff and work back toward the path and claim all the 5.10s that we could get on, and it had been a successful day thus far. Unfortunately, this route shut me down.

I took several times at the crux, and even fell at the same spot on TR. There was just one move that had no feet and required a bit of a lunge for me that I couldn't get. I tried it several times on lead before I decided to come down. Falling at the same spot on TR confirmed my thoughts that this was less of a fear issue than it was a physical obstacle. I was even more glad that I hadn't managed to get through this section on lead when I finally got to the top on TR. It was very slopey and that is absolutely against my preferred style.

We left after I got to the top and the thunder claps that were coming over the mountains behind us pushed their early light rain upon our bodies and tired souls. We thought about continuing to climb after the rain passed, but it ended up dropping buckets, and we had a long drive home anyway. Still, it was a good day despite our adventures. I will definitely buy cowboy boots for the next time I go back there, though. I'm damn sure not getting bit by one of those things. No. Eff'n. Way.

Click here for all 2008 Shelf Road Pics

Colorado Day Eight: Rain, rain go away...

With the near miss that we had the day before, and with the rain that dumped brief buckets down upon the region's sandstone, we decided to head out for a small hike around one of the newly developed climbing areas in Colorado Springs: Red Rocks (not the concert venue, just to be clear).

This was an unintended day off. In fact, when "Jello" and I first planned this trip we had no days off planned. We knew then, of course, that there would likely be a few days off here and there due to his work schedule, but we honestly hoped there wouldn't be any days where the weather kept us from climbing. Unfortunately, this day was going to be the second out of three that we didn't climb, and on the day we did climb, we only managed one route. So after climbing pretty steadily for five straight days, we were in our official lull of the trip.

Still, it wasn't without some fun. We had a lazy morning and, after mid-afternoon refreshments, we decided to head out to take a look at the new outdoor gym-like climbing locale in the Springs. We hiked around Red Rocks for about an hour, never really getting lost but also not managing to hike or walk where we wanted to at the same time. "Jello" explained that Red Rocks was closed to climbers for a bit while route development was in progress. The decision to develop it before allowing most climbers in was to avoid the bolting nightmare at Garden of the Gods. The result was a well-planned recreation area with a bunch of single or two-pitch climbs. But I have to say, despite its occasional aesthetics, it really wasn't that interesting of a place. I certainly wasn't inspired, but that didn't mean I wouldn't climb there either. I don't know, maybe it's just the desert in general. I've tried to give various desert locations the benefit of the doubt, and I've made efforts to see the beauty, but I just can't find where it touches my heart. Sure, I've seen spots in the desert where I've really enjoyed what I was looking at, but there hasn't been anything captivating and endless like the sea. Even the desolation isn't that pretty, at least for me after seeing Scotland. I don't know, there's just something about the colors blue and green, even if they have no distinct features dramatically rising out of the ground like mountains in the desert do. Endless blue and rolling green just seem more appealing to me. Now if I could only find a place like that with thousands of climbs like Colorado (and the desert) offer, then maybe I'd be in heaven. Of course, that would mean I'd be there with everyone else, so maybe that would be too bittersweet for me in the end. Oh well, life goes on.

Colorado Day Seven: Back to the Garden, Nearly the Original One

"Jello"'s comments in Italics

And so it was back to the Garden for one of our final days of the trip. Our plan was to hit New Era (5.7) in the morning, a route that "Jello" had free-soloed earlier this summer, and one of two other options that we had also planned for that afternoon or early evening. It turned out that we got ahead of ourselves.

Garden of the Gods
Grey Wall or Kindergarten Rock

New Era (5.7) - Three Pitches - Trad - Bolted Anchors - Greg and "Jello" led

Approach: From the South Main Lot (#10), walk up the path near the info signs until you get to the top of the hill. Move to the road where the path and road meet, and follow it downhill to the second path on the left (first one is marked and the second is not). Take the path up until you're at the large boulder across from the path. Look up and you should see a right-facing crack /flake / chimney and a wide open book up and to the right.

Making our way up to one of my favorite climbs in the Garden of the Gods, I was happy. It had been good climbing for the past couple of days and for me this climb would be relaxing because I do it all the time and, as Greg mentioned, I had done this particular climb without a rope. The sun shining brightly above us would make it a somewhat sweatier ascent, but it was going to be a great day of climbing.

Pitch One (5.7) - 80 feet - Greg led: Climb the face or short crack to the right of the flake / chimney into the dihedral. Climb up to the bolted anchor. I combined the first and second pitch, so the story starts below.

Pitch Two (5.7) - 75 feet - Greg led: Stay in the dihedral to the ledge with bolted anchors.

Climbing at Red Rocks in Vegas was totally different than at the Garden. Sure, when I first got to Red Rocks I was pounding every hold in sight to ensure the rock's stability. But when I got to the Garden, I quickly learned that doing anything to the rock, even to test it, was potentially detrimental to the ascent. So when "Jello" told me that he wanted me to not only link the first two pitches, but that just below the anchors at the top of the second pitch, where I'd be most tired without a proper warm up on an easier to climb beforehand, was a lieback on slick and sketchy feet without great gear, well, let's just say that I was more than a bit nervous. He had already been up this without a rope, so I couldn't back down, not on a 5.7 that should have been well within my range. But I've never liked climbs with slick feet, and I was just as nervous about the rock holding my gear as I was about not falling. Still, "Jello" has frequently lectured me on being a better climber than I let on, to myself in particular, and so I trusted his confidence in me and I headed up.

I wanted Greg to combine the first two pitches for several reasons. The first being that I wanted him to have the crux pitch. The other reason was speed. If he combined the pitches we'd probably have time to do another climb nearby before it got too hot. As Greg made his way up he asked about gear and looked at me several times, inquiring if he should really combine the pitches. Continuing to look at me for reassurance, I encouraged him further. I knew exactly what was in front of him and that he really wanted to know where the crux was. As climbers we have that dichotomy where we want to know where the crux is and what it's like, but we also don't want to know. We want to push through it gloriously because it makes us feel like it wasn't so bad, as if we're a better climber for having done so.

I have to say that I found this to be a rather fun route, even though the crux had me scared out of my wits for a few brief moments. The initial face was fun (and run out) and full of large, cavernous pockets leading the way up to the book. Some of the pockets were actually pods, and I felt the urge to grab a sitting rest in a couple of them, but that would have been foolish fun on what I needed to treat as a serious climb.

It wasn't long until I came to the book, and I found the climbing to be a little more challenging than before. But there was nothing up to that point that made me feel as if I was getting myself into trouble. As I worked up the book, and as my forearms began to tire from the over-stressing (out of a slight fear that I was going to run into the crux at any moment and not realize it), I yelled down that the route wasn't so bad after all. Don't worry, you aren't at the crux yet, "Jello" shouted back up at me. I pressed on and wondered where the first set of anchors were.

As he made his way past the first pitch belay, I let him know he was getting close. The crux is interesting. It's not extremely hard but it requires a lot of reliance on feet in a somewhat insecure position. It's a layback, so placing gear is difficult although there are places to do it. I just never think of them as existing since I tend to burn through the crux to the anchors.

When I finally got to the first pitch anchor, I clipped the bolt and took a few deep breaths before checking out the moves above. I could see where the feet blanked out as "Jello" had told me, but he made the sequence sound as if it was several moves long. All I could see was a brief section of about four or five feet; that was maybe one move on slick feet and that was it. If the rock could hold my weight on a lieback, then I'd be OK. But the other thing that was worrying me was that he had also mentioned that the gear was sparse, and that I should save my #1 and #2 Camalots to build a small anchor below the crux. It wasn't so much the possible runout that he was describing that scared me, but more to the fact that I could see possible gear placements most of the way up. What scared me was that I would think I was at the crux too soon and not have enough gear once I actually got there. I seriously thought for a few good moments that I should split the pitches in two just so I could have the extra gear that he would've brought up to the anchor, but I told myself that I was going to put aside my fears this time and go for it. "He'd never put me in a spot he didn't think I could handle," I told myself, and off I went.

I found decent gear for the first 10 feet or so. The climbing wasn't so difficult, and I knew that I was going strong due to "Jello"'s shouts of encouragement from below. He certainly knew where the crux was, too, as he kept encouraging me to stay calm just as I approached the blank section. I was happy with this because it meant two things: 1) that I was looking at the correct blank face from below and; 2) there really was more gear than he suggested. I plugged two quick cams, stuck my foot out, breathed a couple quick breaths, complained a bit, listened to "Jello" cheer me on, counted "one, two, three," and went. Boom...boom...boom - I planted my foot and bumped each hand over the other. Before I knew it, I was at the anchor and bringing my partner up.

Greg moved through the crux like it wasn't even there and as he called off belay I was glad to see him confident in his climbing. Greg is a climber of greater ability than I, but where I lack his ability I surpass him in confidence, so it's a decent match for pushing ourselves. Since we were on a relaxing climb, I decided I would try to climb it fast. I reached Greg's belay pretty quickly, and I started up the last pitch. It's a fun pitch - pretty relaxing - so I cruised up it and belayed off the large boulder at the top.

Pitch Three (5.6) - 75 feet - Greg led: Climb the steep crack to the face. Then follow the ridge as it fades left to the top. Either sling the pancake boulder to belay (preferred) or continue left and down to the bolted anchor (not preferred due to potential rope damage to the rock and rope drag). This pitch is a bit run out at the top, so be fairly competent climbing 5.6 without gear, particularly considering how brittle this rock is. "Jello" sailed right up and I had a fun time bringing up the rear. It was the end of a good climb, and I was ready for more.

Descent: But then there was the descent. Ah yes, the descent. Well, let's just say what is supposed to happen first: one can rap down from the top anchors on two 60m ropes. It is also possible to rap with one 60m rope at least twice (there's enough anchors for three raps if that is what you need), or one can walk off on a long, fourth-class scramble off to the left. But this isn't what happened.

One of my personal rules when climbing is that no one gets hurt because of me. If somone wants to do something crazy then I'm not going to stop them, but I don't like the idea that I helped in the process of someone coming to injury or worse.

We decided to trail a static rope that "Jello" had purchased at a recent AMGA course behind us so that we could rap down in one go.

I didn't remember it's length, just that I had bought the cheapest and lightest one.

All that was fine and dandy, so we tied the two together near the ends and sent them down. The blue rope (static) went down straight and easy, while the red rope (dynamic) got hung up on a couple of chicken heads on the way down. That was OK because I knew that I would be able to free it as I rapped down. This happens a lot when rapping, even if it is not desirable. It is particularly problematic on sandstone, though, so folks don't even tie knots on the ends out of the fear of not getting the rope back when at the bottom. It turned out that the rope was caught in a couple of different places, and on one of the occasions I merely picked the rope up off the chicken head and the entire chunk of rock (about as long as my forearm) fell off.

As Greg rappelled away I didn't think anything out of the ordinary. I watched him slide down the thin, fibrous life lines. He yelled "rock," and I watched a large chunk of the cliff fall away to the ground. Again, nothing out of the ordinary here.

Seriously, I didn't even tap the rock and it snapped off as if I shot it with laser beams from my eyes. Considering how nervous I was about the loose rock going up, and how easily that chunk of rock had fallen off, I was worried about the anchors. "Jello" had assured me that the rock was solid at the top. He had even told me that he would take a trad fall in this particular section of the Garden, so putting weight on the bolts was not something to worry about. Still, as I noted above, I kept my eyes both above and below me, worrying about the anchors, the rope running over sharp edges, and how quickly the ground was coming up below me. I was also continuing free the rope from being caught on the chicken heads as I made my way down. On the final attempt of freeing the rope, I looked and saw that the red rope had finally hit the ground after being cleared and that the blue rope was hanging solidly below me, which I expected because it wasn't hung up on anything. With both ropes clear of the chicken heads, I refocused my attention to ensuring the rope wasn't running over any sharp edges. My mind also wandered toward what would happen if the bolts did, indeed, pop. Why I had this stuck in my head, I don't know, but I just felt that - ZZZZIP!!! A blue flash flew past my eyes and I noticed myself dropping faster than before.

As Greg slid closer to the ground I heard/felt/saw the blue static rope ping and go loose.

"Friction, FRICTION!" I pulled the ropes down to arrest my fall and felt them running through my hands faster and faster. I expected to feel my hands burn, but it turned out that it was a minor miracle that I had decided to use my new rap gloves for the first time.

Instinctively I grabbed both ropes below the rappel anchor and muttered an expletive to myself.

Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about burning my hands because of the gloves, but that didn't stop the fact that the ground was approaching at a much faster pace than I wanted. As I zipped lower I pulled tighter on the ropes and it was then that I realized I was only pulling on the red rope.

"What the fuck?" I thought to myself. I looked up and saw the yellow tip of the blue rope shooting up above me, bouncing back into shape after the static had reclaimed its dominance over the stretch. My weight was now completely on the red rope and it was stretching such that I thought the blue rope was now running through the anchors above. My fear was no longer about the anchors popping, but about me plummeting 40 feet to the deck as I watched the blue rope rapidly fly upward beyond my reach. I tried reaching for it, as if by some miracle I could snag it and somehow reattach it to my rappel device for a safe attempt at bumping myself back up to what I hoped would be anchors nearby and above me. For some reason, however, I wasn't falling as fast as I expected. I mean, I was moving much more quickly, but I wasn't dropping like a sack of stones, which is what should have happened if I had rapped through my ends.

The rope wasn't moving but I held it anyway. What happened? Was Greg OK? I asked what was going on but I didn't hear anything. I noticed the knot was cinched tight against the rap rings keeping the ropes from pulling through.

Thankfully, the knot at the top was on the blue rope's side, and so when I rapped off the blue end the knot at the top snugged against the anchor and didn't slip through. That meant that I was able to put my weight entirely on the red rope without having it run down on me. I didn't take any chances, though, that I was correct in my assessment that the knot was holding steady. I've never been confident in rapping, just because the guy who introduced me to climbing died as a result of a rapping accident (well, that and I just don't feel as if there is any recourse if the anchors pop or if the rope severs over a sharp edge, etc), so I got down as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, the carabiner that I've been using to belay and rap with (the DMM Belay Master) gets really hot very easily when rappelling. So when I finally made it to the ground, I had to wait a few minutes for it to cool off. I wanted to shout up to "Jello" to let him know that he had to make two raps, but I couldn't see him and couldn't walk to where I would be able to see him without taking myself off rappel. I was also out of breath.

Eventually the rope went slack and I hooked into the rappel.

When the biner cooled down, I took myself off and walked uphill so that I could see him. When I looked up, he was about two feet down on his own rappel. I was worried that he was going to make the same mistake. I knew he wasn't going to fall, because the knot had stopped me, but I also knew that there was no way for us to get the rope back down if he did rap all the to the ground without hiking back up.

- "Jello", you have to make two raps!
- Why?
- Let's just say the knot saved my ass.
- They're both supposed to be 60m!
- Well, the blue one isn't.
- What the fuck? Holy shit!

Slightly horrified at my mistake and dissapointed that I had not remembered the actual length of the rope, I made my way down to an intermediate rap station: an old Garden anchor with rusty hardware hanging halfway out of the rock - not recommended.

He rapped down to the next anchor and made the transition to a second rap within a few minutes. He was soon down and the ground and immediately apologized for not knowing that the static rope was only 46m long.

I apologized profusely and looked at the blue rope as I pulled it down. The small plastic tag held the unfavorable answer that the rope was in fact 46m and not 60m long. Despite Greg taking responsibility I still feel the situation could have been avoided had I simply double checked the length of the unfamiliar rope.

He really felt badly and couldn't believe that he had nearly broken his first rule of "no one gets hurt." However, I have to say that while knowing the rope wasn't 60m would have helped save a potentially dangerous situation, the blame absolutely falls onto me. Simply put, I wasn't paying attention as I was rapping down. Even without knowing the length of the static rope, I could have prevented this completely by paying attention. In any case, it was a lesson learned, and a funny one, too, because I've had the Warrant song Heaven Isn't Too Far Away stuck in my head all week long.

Despite it being fairly early in a nice day we decided to call it a day for now. I was a little shaken but Greg was surprisingly pretty calm. We went back to the house and decided that relaxation was in order.

Is it needless to say that we decided this was the end of our day? Yeah, we didn't climb for the rest of the day after that, and it's kind of weird as to why we didn't. What is odd is that I've had some scary falls before that should have completely taken me out of the game mentally, but I've always felt fine after those incidents. Sure, I've been sketched out, but after the damage is done, after the fall is over, my confidence typically goes up and not down. "Jello", on the other hand, is full of confidence on the way up and has been haunted more than me, despite the falls happening to me, after the fact each time (though I have to admit that I can't remember the other time when this bothered him - it may have been on Paralysis in the Adirondacks, but I didn't document it on the blog). I've never understood this about me. I think his reaction is totally reasonable, but mine? No way. But for some reason, at the moment of stress, just as the shit is hitting the fan, for as long as I've remembered and regardless of the activity or situation, time has always slowed down for me and I've always been able to focus and see things clearly as if I have a super-human ability to pick apart the landscape and see everything happening at once. It's a weird feeling that I honestly wished I had before I started to rap down.

Click here for all 2008 Garden of the Gods photos (newest are first)

Colorado Day Six

And on the sixth day, we rested. But here's some photos from the week anyway. Enjoy...


The Gods following "Jello"


Greg learns about sandstone


"Jello" on New Era


Our mascot "Jacque"


The warm sun


A storm brewing at Shelf Road


SMILE!

Colorado Day Five: Taking our Lumps

OEEEEEEEYA!!!

EHEHEHEHEH...

OEEEEYAAAA!!!

Thud, thud, thud EEEEYOOOOOONNNKKK!!!

NEHNEHNENENEH...

Thud, thump, THUD

"Jello's" comments in italics

We arrived in Estes Park late, and had little idea as to where we were going. I remember arriving in town and thinking two completely opposite things: 1) that Estes Park was a quaint little town, not unlike the one I grew up in and; 2) the causeway (North Saint Vrain Ave) that cuts across Estes Lake seemed to be one of the most wasteful public project I had seen in quite some time, and I live in Boston. Seriously, the lake isn't so large that it needed to be split by a causeway in order to get from one side to the other. My first impression of driving over the land bridge was one of skepticism - it seemed so unnecessary, but I tempered my thoughts because we were driving in the dead of the night and I couldn't see the edges of the lake very well. It wasn't until we left later the next day with enough sunlight that I started giggling at the road. Seriously, they couldn't have found a way to make Fish Creek Road and Brodie Ave a little more traffic friendly in order to avoid dumping dirt into what appears to be a rather pretty lake? I can understand not connecting Route 36 to Big Thompson Ave because that's on the other side of the lake. But still, it's not like this is a big town (that was rant #1 of three). Anyway...

We made a few wrong turns downtown in Estes Park in search for the entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park (and Moraine Park, where we were going to camp), and I'm kind of glad that we did. I really liked what I saw downtown. It seemed loaded with life and character of the small town sort: with independently owned businesses lining the street and catering to the outdoor playground that sat to its west. I could have envisioned myself living here, and I asked "Jello" why he guided out of Colorado Springs when he could be guiding up here, in Rocky Mountain National Park, year-round.

- Can't. Only one company is allowed to guide in the park and I don't work for them.
- Huh?
- What do mean, huh?
- I'm confused.
- What is there to be confused about?
- One company?
- One company.
- As in, less than anything two and above?
- One company
- What the hell is up with that?
- Don't know, but that's the way it is

You know what, I'm calling bullshit on this. Hey, I don't want to slander the company that is benefiting from such an outrageous agreement (Colorado Mountain School - I'm not linking it, so find it yourself!), as I'm sure that they offer a very high quality product and do their utmost to respect the park. But let's face it, they are able to exclusively use a public park, a resource intended for all the public to enjoy, without so much as a blink of any other private company's resources. Let's not fool ourselves here, because we know that no other company is even remotely capable off offering such a high quality service as CMS is (editor's note: the past sentence was written with rolling eyes), but let's put this into perspective: I grew up in Bar Harbor, Maine and my hometown is spooned by Acadia National Park. It's so close that, well, I could've mistaken Estes Park with Bar Harbor (in fact, this is what I liked so much about Estes Park), and one can walk from the Village Green at the center of downtown to the Park Loop Road (the road that drives around the bulk of Acadia) in about 10 minutes. Bar Harbor, along with the town of Mt Desert (Northeast Harbor), Southwest Harbor, and Tremont, make up the outer edges of what is the third largest island on the east coast of the United States (sixth largest in the US - OK, OK, I'm bragging, but there is a point en route). Nearly the entire center of the island, along with the famed Ocean Drive from Sand Beach to Seal Harbor, is home to Acadia: just shy of 46,000 acres, and one of the smallest national parks in the system. In comparison, Rocky Mountain National Park weighs in at just under 266,000 acres... ... ...and Acadia is big enough to have TWO climbing guide companies. And climbing in Acadia is an afterthought in relation to all the other activities (unlike, I presume, RMNP where climbing is very likely an important activity). This is simply insane! And for those who think that the park is better able to manage one company then my comment is that you're lazy. Yes, that's right, you're a fat-ass sitting on the couch with a bag potato chips in one hand, a two-liter bottle of Coke in the other and the remote control between your thighs. At least I put the bag of chips on the coffee table in front of me when I'm not chowing down! If I ever become a mega millionaire, then I'm going to contest this monopoly out of spite. A monopoly in our national parks? Shoot, I could probably sell the National Park Service logo on the street and not get sued. Look, I'm not foolish enough to think that this doesn't exist in other parks, but there should be at least a bidding process (e.g. - how concessions are managed) and a contract that expires every so many years (three years sounds fair to me). By allowing one company to dominate the industry, well, that's just plain un-American, and while there's a great many more serious things to get under my skin out there, this one still boils my blood.

After finding our way to Moraine Park, we nestled into our cool sleeping bags with the hope that we'd be up and out of the tent early enough to head over to Lumpy Ridge before the crowds showed up. Little did we know at the time that Lumpy doesn't get crowds like Eldorado and Boulder Canyons do.

EEEOOOOOOOAHH

MEH MEH MEH MEH

OEEEEEEEEYAAAAEHEHEHEH

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

- What the hell is that?
- I guess we know what elk sounds like now.
- Where the heck is this thing? It sounds like it's right on top of us.
- Why don't you stick your head out and find out?
- What, and discover that it's actually a mountain lion instead? No thanks.
- Wimp.
- Jerk.
- Weak.
- Ass munch.
- Coward.
- Shit stain.
- Your mother's leg.

I kicked "Jello" in the head and we both tried to get a few more winks in before we realized that the on-coming daylight was proving to be too strong of a force against sleeping. The only thing keeping us in our sleeping bags then was the cool, late-September mountain air. We tried to guess how many feet the elk were from our tent. I guessed 10 feet to "Jello"'s 100. To our amazement, the elk turned out to be several hundred yards away, and so we wandered over to the bathrooms to both relieve ourselves and join the crowd of tourists already snapping photos of the worriless animals.

After taking care of some daily business we packed up and tried to decide what to do about our camping fees. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fee skimper but we honestly slept there overnight on the ground, and if we paid the fees we were supposed to it would cost us about $30 - not too much considering it was a national park, but we weren't planning on visiting the rest of it and so I didn't want to pay to have my car in the park when I wasn't going to be there, and I wasn't really to keen on paying just to sleep there, either. Ok, I'm lying; it really pisses me off to pay park fees in a national park. What the hell, the tax payers put money into it, why only do people with the extra cash get to enjoy it? People wonder why certain parks are so crowded and why they cost so much. My answer: infrastructure. If Yosemite didn't have a highway through it, if RMNP didn't have RV dump stations then there would be a lot fewer people there. Want to decrease the costs of parks? Don't build so much crap in them and fewer people will be interested in going as opposed to it being out of price range. I would rather a park be inaccessible to those without 4WD (that includes me) or working body parts than overrun with hotels and RV's. All that ease of access only means more maintenance and more personnel. Not necessary, it's the backcountry; leave it the way it was.

In any case, I was excited, with butterflies in my stomach. Lumpy has some of the longest climbs in Colorado outside of the Black Canyon, and I wanted to climb it all. So while we drove - at a high rate of speed of course (my personal modus operandi when on the free road), we discussed the climbs we wanted to do. We decided to be optimistic in what we actually could do. Kor's Flake was a must - a classic of historical proportions. But what else? We decided to keep it 5.8 and below with that many pitches, the longer the better. The folly; how could we know what lay ahead?

We left after paying and headed to the other side of town, toward MacGregor Ranch and the new parking lot built for Lumpy Ridge just a bit up the road from the ranch. We were a little disappointed that the ranch was no longer the parking area for access to Lumpy, mainly because we were heading to Sundance Buttress, the western-most section of Lumpy Ridge. The new parking lot is closer to the eastern-most section and the ranch is right in the middle of the two. But that was fine. Neither one of us have any beefs with property owners protecting themselves against the government. In fact, I was kind of happy to see that they had won some sort of concession against what will likely be a long-term eminent domain battle over their land.

Lumpy Ridge: Rocky Mountain National Park
Sundance Buttress: Guillotine Wall

Kor's Flake (5.7+) - Five Pitches - Trad - Gear Anchors - Greg and "Jello" led

Approach: We realized quickly that, despite our early arrival, crowds were not going to be an issue. I might even go as far as saying that maybe the parking lot is a bit too big for the area, but hey, I don't know what the traffic is like on any other day, and so I'll stop digressing and get to the point: the hike took us about two hours from the car to the start of the first pitch, with half of that time on the shortest section at the end where all the switchbacks lead up to the buttress. It could probably be done in half the time if you were in strong hiking shape, which I am only marginally so, but it is a long walk despite the easy nature of it. I would say the first two-thirds are fairly flat on a well-groomed trail with the final third being on equally groomed ground but much steeper.

From the car at the Gem Lake Trailhead, follow the signs to either Sundance or Black Canyon (not the same Black Canyon with the long climbs "Jello" notes above) until the final approach trail (will say "Sundance"). Follow the switchbacks until near the base and then begin to fade up left when you see a massive boulder leaning against the cliff. Look for two arching flakes that converge into a roof about 25 feet up with a wide chimney up to the left from there. By looking even further to the left you'll see a left-arching flake / roof. Kor's Flake goes over this, and starts to the left of the wide chimney noted above. Hike up and around to the left, past the wide chimney, to a narrow chimney that is right of a fir tree and a right-facing corner.

We walked out of the parking lot at a high rate of speed. What can I say? I want to get things done. I was there to climb, not walk around all day. We knew it was a bit of a hike to Sundance Buttress. A little over two miles according to the map. So we walked...and we walked, and walked, and then we took a break. Then we walked some more and some more, and after walking for more than an hour we came to the fence that signals the uphill portion of the hike to Sundance Buttress. So we took a little break and after catching our breath we began the long, slow, switchback progression up the hill. It's always kind of a kick in the pants when you are walking towards something large. You never seem to be getting any closer. Kind of like the time Greg thought it was OK to walk from the Brooklyn Bridge to the Empire State Building in New York City. The stupid shit even did it with boat shoes on. He told me later that he could barely walk the entire next week as a result. After walking for another hour or so we were finally able to see the bottom of the buttress. A good two and a half hours or more after we left the car and we were finally at the bottom of Kor's Flake.

Pitch One (5.6) - 130 feet - "Jello" led

We had decided that "Jello" would take the odd pitches and I would take the even ones, and I have to say that this was a difficult decision for me. Neither combination set me up to climb what I wanted to climb. While the odd pitches had a beautiful roof on the fifth pitch that I knew could easily handle, the first pitch was an awkward chimney and I just wasn't ready to lead something that seemed so unprotectable that was not within my bag of skills. On the other hand, the even pitches had not only the hardest pitch grade-wise (pitch two) but also a hand crack on the fourth pitch. The decision came down to whether or not we would take the pack with us. I swear that the pack was easily 50 lbs, but "Jello" insists it was no more than 20. Still, I didn't want to lug the bag after the last time we had decided to take a bag up a route with us (and for good reason). On that occasion, "Jello" had to have the other end of the rope tossed down to him so that he could get over the crux without the weight on his back. I didn't want a repeat of that, especially if I was going to take the even pitches and leave the crack to him near the top. But he had concerns about where the walk-off took us, and whether we'd have to hike a distance back in the wrong direction to retrieve it at the end of the day.

The line seemed enjoyable. Nothing too intimidating. A nice enjoyable five pitch climb. How foolish we were. While Greg stretched, I looked at the guidebook again to further memorize the route description and to check out the descent. The more I looked at the picture the more I got the feeling that the descent would put us on the other side of the ridge at the top, and far from our bag. After convincing Greg that it would be a huge pain in the ass to hike back up to the bag from the other side, he agreed that taking the bag would probably be less work (to be clear, it was not easy to convince him of this). So we split up the pitches that gave me the squeeze chimneys and Greg the more hand size cracks. With neither of us playing to our strengths, we decided to get started. After racking up, I waited for Greg to finish stretching (I really should stretch more).

Climb the chimney and escape out to the right at the top. Then climb up to the base of the long, left-leaning ramp that is the second pitch.

Looking up, I couldn't quite see how to attack the chimney. The more featured looking face to the left looked like a more enjoyable path but I wasn't here for enjoyment. This is rock climbing, leave your whining at the door ya big baby. So I started into the chimney. A few easy moves and I was standing inside the base of the chimney. It was nice and cool and I looked around. The unpleasantness was yet to come, so I thought that I might as well get it over with and squeezed and thrutched, bitched and moaned. After a while I looked for a gear placement and found an old sling on a chockstone. I decided to clip it and not fall. Not like falling out of a chimney is easy anyway, despite the fact that in two pitches I was to learn just how easy it could be. Noticing that I had only moved about ten feet from the ledge at the base of the chimney, I wondered how much longer I could hang on before claustrophobia set in and so I dove from the maw of that hateful menace. As the chimney pinched down I started to search around for something else to grab. Do I jam the crack? Are there face holds? Where do I go? After searching for a few minutes, I found the jug I needed to pull around the corner. The rest of the pitch was barely fifth class and as the belay ledge surrounded me rather comfortably I thought to myself, what's Greg going to do with that stupid pack?

I really had mixed emotions about this. I mean, I watched and heard "Jello" struggle up through the chimney and was glad that I wasn't leading it. However, all the while I watched him press his back and feet against the opposing walls with little or no protection most of the way up, I kept wondering how I was going to squeeze my way up this narrow space with a pack attached to me. It was obvious that I couldn't wear it on my back, and "Jello" didn't want to haul it because, well, he's poor and didn't want to destroy what was likely one of his better bags (I can't say as though I blame him). So I had to attach it to my belay loop via a sling, allowing it to swing between my legs, and I made one key mistake that turned out to be a major pain in the ass: the sling wasn't long enough and, thus, the bag was always at such a height in relation to my body that it always got in the way of whichever foot I was trying to bring up to the next foot hold. This was great. Seriously, it made for a fantastic first pitch. Not only did I struggle on the chimney itself (I swear to God that I was this close to having my entire, stiff body break into shards over the unnatural tension I was placing on it), but I also battled a 50 pound bag dangling beneath my crotch that had a great knack for continually getting in the way of my feet (I put in on my shoulders after exiting the chimney, and all that did was make my arms that much more tired from having to keep the pack from pulling me backward). This sucker was heavy, and it took all my strength to climb that first pitch. It was to the point that I was genuinely worried about my stamina for the remaining pitches. Still, I'd say that without the pack, this probably wouldn't be a bad pitch to climb. Looking back, I think I could have led it easily.

- Whose idea was it to take this heavy pack?
- I believe that was your idea.
- Bullshit.

Pitch Two (5.7+) - 80 feet - Greg led

Finally, I took the damn thing off and started up the short second pitch. I kind of wanted to link the second and third pitches together, but we didn't have a long enough rope (we were using a single rope) and the two combined did curve enough to make us think that maybe linking the two together would be troublesome. Still, I think you could link the first two pitches together, particularly with two ropes taking up the rope drag despite the total distance being 210 feet between them. There are plenty of belay options leading up to the highest belay point on the second pitch, and belaying lower than expected on the second pitch isn't such a bad idea. By the way, I don't think this pitch is 5.7+, but hey, maybe I was feeling stronger than I realized after lifting that bag over the first 130 feet.

Climb the ramp about 80 feet, and stop before the belay options run out. I stopped just as the ramp turned into the flake at a blue sling that was attached to the final set of blocks just below where it becomes wide. Make sure you stop here. Just trust me, you don't want to go any higher than this without bringing up your second first.

The ramp/flake looked pretty straight forward, and I felt a slight bit of envy that I would have to second with the damned pack. Seemingly refreshed, Greg made his way away from our comfortable ledge into the unknown granite above. Lucky bastard. Watching him make his way along the ramp I looked ahead of him. From my vantage point the rest of the ramp/flake didn't look like anything to worry about. Another miscalculation on my part. Greg called off belay and I quickly worked to get ready to climb. A few moments later and I was off. What can I say? The pitch was pure fun. Even with the pack and fiddling with gear it was highly enjoyable. If it would have been a single pitch near my home I would solo it ten times a day. Despite the weight of the pack, I quickly met Greg at a much less substantial belay spot than the last one. The wideness of the crack was fully evident now I wondered, "Why hadn't we brought the #6?"

Pitch Three (5.7) - 120 feet - "Jello" led

I think I can safely call this the "swearing pitch." Good ol' Layton Kor never heard his name used in vain as it was on this day. First off, this is a long pitch that is terribly run out without a #5 or #6 Camalot (which we did not have). Secondly, we were both tired after having hiked in for two hours and each getting a shot at climbing with the stupid pack on our backs. Thirdly, well, I'll just let "Jello" tell you about this pitch, but I have to get the essentials out first: follow the wide lieback / chimney to the top and set up the anchor right of the face that leads to the right-facing corner that is the start of the fourth pitch.

Still feeling good about the last pitch, I quickly exchanged gear with Greg and made my way higher. The first ten feet were relatively easy and I plugged in a few easy cam placements. As I came to the wide portion of the crack I saw a mess of slings and tat that looked to be twenty feet long. I wondered, "How did they get that in there?" Slipping into the slot, I looked for a gear placement. With nothing available I squeezed inside the chimney and slowly inched my way upward. I squirmed and squeezed with my inner caterpillar calling forth. Now a good twenty feet above my last gear, I looked for something, anything to sling, give me a twig, a crystal, just something. I couldn't fall out; gravity prevented me from tumbling out of the crack. Instead, I was worried I might tumble down inside and the great heaves of the mountain would swallow me whole, never to be seen again. Anyway, how would Greg get down if most of the rope remained tied to my crushed, battered body? I continued anyway, cursing Layton Kor all the way. Maybe if I could get out of the damned squeeze then the plunge wouldn't be so bad. Better the quick, painful breaking of skull and bones as opposed to the battering, bruising, and slow starvation of being stuck in that dark hole below.

After a few more moves, I could almost see the end of it. It pinched down and finally I was able to clip something. Beforehand a fall would have been at least eighty feet. Who knows how deep that would be? I put a nut into a small dirty seam and made my way out of those malicious granite jaws. From here I climbed quickly, plugging #1 and #2 cams the rest of the way. The hard climbing was done, and as I came to the end of the crack I looked around at my options. I knew we followed a crack and somewhere there was a roof. So my choices were the leftmost roof, crack system, and a right-hand crack that seemed rather small and difficult. After messing around with them and asking Greg for some route finding help I realized I was supposed to stop climbing and belay him up. So after fixing an anchor I waited, hoping that he'd be able to manage the pack on what I considered to be a longer and much more technical chimney - all with that pack strapped between his legs.

I knew the pack would be trouble. It was only about twenty pounds but the climbing wasn't so easy that it didn't make much of a difference. Besides that I didn't know how he would get in and out of the crack. As he started climbing, I worried that he might get stuck. How would SAR deal with that? Amazingly enough he was moving rather quickly and, a lot sooner than I expected, he peaked his head above the crack with the pack not dangling between his legs but strapped to his shoulders instead.

- That was pretty fast, how'd you do that with the pack on?
- I laybacked the whole thing.
- What?
- Yeah, it wasn't actually that bad.

After all the bitching I had done, and with the huge runout, I couldn't believe he just laybacked the whole thing. The crack is at least a foot away from the opposing wall for about twenty feet. It would have been ridiculously hard to do, but he did it anyway and with that stinking pack, too!

Pitch Four (5.7) - 90 feet - Greg led

I was exhausted. This day had possibly been one of the hardest days that I had ever done as a climber. Sure, "Jello" and I had two massively long days on Cannon (and I had one with "Ratherbe", too), but this was turning into more of a brute strength kind of day with little or no rest available for the taking. We were fighting the pack's weight, time, and our own ability to get up a must-do climb because there was no way down. The hike in had nearly sapped my endurance while the pack had stripped me of my strength, and now I was about to face the real unknown: how to disregard the lack of those two major physical assets and climb what is likely my weakest skill - crack. The route goes left from the anchors to the right-facing corners and then steps left to the exposed crack. Climb the crack to the small ledge below the roof.

Greg looked at me, thoroughly exhausted.

- I don't know if I can do this.

I knew he was tired. I also knew he was physically capable of finishing the climb. The question in my head was if he would push himself to do so.

- Give yourself a little break. I don't think we're going to get any other climbs in today.

We'd been climbing for about three hours, which in addition to the two-and-a-half-hour hike in, put us at around three in the afternoon. We still had another two pitches before the descent, and the sun was setting earlier these days. After a few minutes of peace, Greg decided to go ahead.

I think the first 20 feet of this route took me about 20 minutes to complete. It's not that it was hard, but I was tired and scared. The corners looked OK, and they were climbed easily enough, but the lack of strength and fear of the unknown was keeping me from committing. I kept looking back at "Jello" and telling him that I wasn't sure if I was going to get up through this pitch. He kept looking back at me both encouraging me to continue and letting me know that it was my decision in the end. I guess it came down to what was worse: climbing my weakest skill on the sharp end on exposed terrain while exhausted or climbing it as the second with a heavy pack on my back. I remembered why I chose to lead this pitch to begin with, and decided, after several minutes of catching my breath, that it was my job to do this pitch, and so I went.

Gaining the upper part of the corner was scary at first because there wasn't much gear and I wasn't sure if I was moving toward good or bad holds. Remember, a good hold in a crack isn't necessarily one that I'm going to feel comfortable on. I could tell, too, that the crack around the corner was slightly overhanging. That meant that I was going to need every bit of technique that I could muster, because I couldn't see myself holding my heavy body in with brute strength alone. So as I looked up at the top of the corner, and as I wondered what I was getting myself into, I finally said to myself, "Fuck it, Greg. Just do it. Just go. Seriously, this is part of the reason why you climb. You lack the courage to commit to the unknown, and this is a perfect opportunity to forge ahead." And so I committed. It was one hand over the other, one foot after the other, and one move at a time. I grabbed, secured, moved, scoped, and started all over again. Each time was a little more committing that the last time, and with each move a little more pressure was added to my physical constraints while a little less pressure weighed down my mind. I finally came to the moment of truth, stepping around the corner and entering the crack system, when I stopped, breathed three quick breaths and shot my left foot out onto the exposed small ledge that I needed to gain in order to pull around the corner. This left my body in a specific position that I couldn't have easily retreated from had I wanted to. I needed for there to be a specific hold in a specific spot to make this work, and so I blindly reached around the bulge in search of my saviour. It didn't take long to find the hold, because it turned out to be a massive jug. I pulled myself up straight, plugged a cam, and looked back at "Jello" as he said to me, "Nice job. I knew you could do it. Well done." He was right, and I was even more grateful for what I saw above me. The crack was just my size, and the only over-hanging section on the pitch turned out to be the bulge that I had just passed through. For the first time as far back as I can remember, I happily plugged one jam after the other all the way to the top of the pitch.

After he called me off belay, I got ready with the pack. Whose stupid idea was it to bring this thing? It must have been Greg's. A few moments later and I was climbing. The slab was not as bad as I thought it would be and getting into the corner was even a little fun but as I came to the roof I realized why Greg had paused. It's hard to see where you're going and the position feels slightly insecure. The pack throwing me around didn't really help, but I steadily moved around the corner and was soon cruising up the crack. When I reached the belay I was immediately astounded by what I saw, a huge roof. This pitch would be spectacular.

Pitch Five (5.7) - 50 feet - "Jello" led

I never felt better on my Colorado trip than I had after that last pitch, and I was both super bummed and happy that I wasn't climbing the next one. I was bummed because my confidence was sky high and I wanted to crush the roof as a symbol of how far I had come this climbing season after being so leery of roofs at the 'Gunks. I was happy, however, because "Jello" gave me a shot at the crack and I was giving him a shot at the roof. Plus, it was almost over. We'd be at the top in no time and down at the bottom in even less time than that (or so I thought). The sun was out, the wind was light, and there was no one within view of us (and we could see for miles). It was so peaceful that I actually enjoyed watching what appeared to be sparrow hawks (don't quote me on that) buzz the both of us as we neared the summit. "What the hell," I thought to myself. "I had my glory and now he can hammer home his own."

I took a moment to just look at it. It's such a beautiful pitch to see, and the climbing is everything you hope. So I started up; the moves were fairly easy. Hanging out on the roof for Greg to take a picture, I enjoyed the exposure - several hundred feet off the ground. One more move and it was easy ground. I didn't bother placing a lot of gear because the angle was less steep and the moves easy. We needed to get going anyway, and the sun was low in the sky. After a while of climbing I decided to set up a belay because I knew there wasn't much rope left. As Greg came up, he commented on how lucky I was to end up with that pitch. I felt lucky. The climb had been fantastic.

This is an easy pitch to follow. Simply climb up the right of the roof, pull out to the left of it, and finish in a gully not too far away. "Jello" hung for a great photo and then he was gone. It was then my turn, and it was difficult with the pack, but nothing that me and a few loud grunts couldn't handle. We were at the top soon enough (after scrambling through gullys for about 100 feet to the summit), and sat back and relaxed in the silent air before packing up to head down to the car.

Descent:

The descent was, well, not quite what we expected. After we sat near the summit for about ten minutes we looked for the saddle (the low point between the two peaks on either side), and headed in that direction. We knew that the descent was going to go on the back side, but we figured it would be more of a walk-off with a couple of easy scrambles than anything else. It turned out to be much more difficult than that. The scrambling at the top was pretty scary for a while because we couldn't really see where we were descending to. For all we knew we were moving down in the wrong direction because we couldn't see past the boulders that were right in front of us. We moved up and down a few times, with one of us at a time scouting ahead so both didn't make the same mistake. Eventually, after scrambling down about 50 or 60 feet or so, "Jello" spied a stout tree with rap slings and rings on it to our left. We made the dicey walk over to the tree and then made the easy rap down to the small and loose descent trail that would eventually take us back to the base. The frustrating thing is that it is very easy to lose the trail once near the base, thus making it difficult to find the original approach trail that leads back toward the parking lot. But there were two good things to note: 1) while it was easy to lose the descent trail, it was easy to wander and, eventually, find the approach trail and; 2) the descent trail took us back to about 100 yards from the base of the climb. Let that sink in for a few seconds... ... ... Do you know what that means? Yeah, it means we could have left the stupid pack at the base and saved ourselves a whole hell of a lot of pain and suffering (mostly me because I'm both older and the one who had to carry it the most going up - "Jello", God bless his soul, carried it down the descent trail for my benefit).

Once we found the main trail, we stopped for a few minutes and watched the sky slowly begin to darken. We figured that we'd be getting back to the car just as daylight ended, and so we decided not to rest much on the way back. I complained about not being able to see the mountain turn purple, and "Jello" made it back to the car a few minutes before I did. But that was only because he's a good sport and always waits for me when he gets too far ahead. I suppose that's the right thing to do, just in case something bad happens to the guy bringing up the rear (always me, regardless of partner). Our timing was spot on, as we needed the headlights to pull out of the parking lot. It was nine hours car to car, and we had another several hours of driving back to Colorado Springs ahead of us. Thank God for rest days. We both needed one.

Despite the minor painfulness of the descent we were able to get back to the fence a lot quicker than we made it to the rock from the same fence. From there we were practically running. The sun was setting and I didn't want to be stuck in the dark. As I made it back to the car I could feel the twilight creeping into everything. I waited for Greg. Our long week was over and Kor's Flake was a good end. When Greg came over the hill and arrived at the car, we threw our stuff into the backseat and made our way for Colorado Springs - at a high rate of speed, of course.

Click here for all 2008 Lumpy Ridge Photos

Angry Mountain

I was numb watching the mitten slide away down the steep coulior. "Please stop...come on stop...stop you piece of shit. Fuck you...fuck you fucking mountain from hell." I don't generally personify mountains because part of the reason I like them is due to their indifference, but whole trip had been a struggle from top to bottom and here I was less than five hundred feet from the top watching one of my mittens slide to the bottom of the Y Coulior. I couldn't help but think the mountain had it in for me this time.

I didn't start the week out on the best of feet. I had to move into an apartment because my boss rented his house out to someone who could actually cover his mortgage until it sold. I hate moving, which would be hard to believe since for the past two years I've moved almost twice a year. This time, though, I was keeping the same job and simply moving because I didn't have a choice. So after going to work I packed the rest of my gear and went to bed by myself. My girlfriend had left to visit family in Wyoming and I wasn't super excited to be sleeping by myself again.

I awoke early the next morning and had planned on doing the Y Coulior as a warm up for possible solo ice climbs later on. Arriving at the parking lot in full winter gear, I drove around the parking lot looking vainly for a parking spot. Finding nothing, I sat. Then I sat for a little while longer. I got there around eight and ended up sitting until half past eight when I finally found a spot. Slightly annoyed at this point, I stepped out of the car in full winter regalia and into the sixty degree weather before heading up past the joggers and fitness freaks. Few workouts compare to walking up The Incline, except of course if you're doing it with five pounds of shoes on your feet and thirty pounds on your back. In addition to the hard physical labor I was undergoing, I got plenty of weird looks from people who didn't realize it was a good forty degrees colder at the summit. That and I was sweating like a beast in heat.

I took a rest near the top of The Incline before deciding to move on. I decided to take the path that headed toward the summit as opposed to the path that met Barr Trail on it's way down the hill. After taking one wrong turn, I backtracked and made the correct choice until I came to another junction where I once again made the wrong choice and had to frustratingly backtrack a second time. I pushed on. The miles were slowly grinding underneath my heavy boots. I chatted with the caretaker when I eventually arrived there. For some reason it seems like there's always someone different there when I go. We talked about some of the accidents that had recently happened on the Y Coulior. I had heard of the gentleman who slid down and split his skull. I had not heard that he did not bring crampons or an ice axe and had apparently slipped when he went to turn around. He was also part of the military, so they made their mark on the mountain by flying helicopters all over the place. Someone also tried to kill himself by driving off the summit. Not the first time it's happened.

Rested and satisfied with the mountain's gossip, I moved on. A group of hikers passed by and wished me good luck on my objective. I knew I would find more solitude as I approached the Bottomless Pit junction. I also noticed a few footprints and began thinking of the accident the caretaker had described. I was prepared though. I had everything I might need. Conditions were supposed to be ideal so I pushed forward. Near tree-line, I was surprised by someone behind me dressed in light jogging clothes. They apparently wanted to check out the Bottomless Pit and decided she could catch up with me when the caretaker told her I headed this way. I felt a little bad for her following me because she was in tennis shoes and her feet had to be getting wet, but I didn't feel the need to make safety decisions for her due to her being ten years older than me and likely informed enough to know what the deal was. After a while of light conversation and increasingly difficult snow traverses, she decided to head back down the mountain and I continued on.

The path becomes very difficult to follow near the boulder field. The increasing wind was not helpful either. As I finally rounded the corner I was nearly knocked down by the full brunt of that wind. Leaning into the wind, I headed straight for a boulder that looked to be decent shelter. I checked my watch as I listened to the wind howl past me. It wasn't even three yet. If the wind died down then I could still keep my plan of sleeping on the summit. However, After about twenty minutes of waiting for the wind to die down, I decided my plan was blown and I should make camp. Funny thing about light fabrics and wind and being by oneself: It sucks! The bivy fabric flapped in the wind while I tried to hammer the stakes into the rocky, frozen ground. With the bivy finally stable, I went to find rocks to set on the stakes to make sure it didn't blow away. Continuing with my nightly winter ritual of cooking dinner and melting snow, it became increasingly difficult to keep the stove lit even behind the rock and protected by the wind screen. Eventually dinner was served and I was able to fill my water bottles with much needed water.

Earlier that month I had broken both the plastic straps on my water bottles so I decided to buy some new ones. I bought some made by Camelback because of the fancy hooks that looked like they'd do well for clipping to my pack without breaking. I was partially right. The straps didn't fit very well, but they were on there and not breaking and so that was OK. The problem came when I was boiling water and decided to put that water in my sleeping bag. It seems that the valve meant to let the air in and water to flow through the straw is not a one way valve. The wet suprise was not the least bit fun when I slid my feet into the sleeping bag. Luckily it's a synthetic bag and so it was more uncomfortable than dangerous. It dried up after a while. Unfortunately, it made the night a bit colder for my feet. I already have problems sleeping at altitude with the drier air and the hypoxia, but the cold feet made it near impossible to sleep. Did I mention the eighty mile an hour gusts of wind that sought to rip my bivy sack from it's small corner of the mountain?

Lying there, and listening to the howling wind, I tried to sleep. I sipped my water, shifted in the claustrophobic bag of fabric and looked for the first signs of the day. I must have finally fallen asleep because when I looked up the lighter color of the fabric belied the coming of the sun. I also noticed that the wind had turned to a mild growl.

Breaking down camp, I made some oatmeal and filled my water bottles again. I hate oatmeal so bad. It can be good when you add some maple syrup, some raisins, but this oatmeal had some peanut butter in it and that was it. Belly full and gear packed, I decided to get moving. The conditions were supposed to be ideal. A nice fifteen hundred foot gully full of ice and snow should prove to fall quickly under my crampons and ice tools. Shouldering my pack, I started through the boulder field towards the seemingly close snow gully. I tripped through the sugary snow for an hour and I felt as if I was running in place. Another hour of trying to pick the easiest path through the snow and I was finally at the base of the coulior. Now begins the fun...so I thought. I sat down to put on my crampons and finally get out my ice axe.

The snow, continuing to be sugary crap, provided time for me to practice my uphill swimming technique. The thing is that it's a general pain in the ass to deal with all the boulders when you can see them. It's torture when you can't. Eventually I reached some icey snow and began to make better time. I was also another couple thousand feet higher at this point and sucking wind like a fat man in aerobics class. It felt like I was in a huge fight. I was fighting the pack and gravity's pull on it. I was fighting the lack of oxygen. I was fighting the cold. I was tired and I just felt completely out of it. This was supposed to be fun but for some reason I just wanted it to be over. As I came to the crux rock band, I stopped to rest. The small amount of ice looked like a nice easy path but as I swung my tool I watched large pieces of ice shatter and slide down the gully. Perhaps this was a sign to climb the rock band. I was looking forward to swinging my tools into ice for the first time this winter but it wasn't meant to be, and so I traversed over to the rocks.

Nothing inspires confidence like climbing vertical gravel in your crampons all by yourself up a fifteen hundred foot frozen snow gully after hearing the last person there died when they slid to the bottom, bouncing off boulders all the way down. I haven't done any climbing in my crampons, so I was less than confident in my foot placements and doing this all with the pack on my back made it a wee bit difficult. In all honesty I thought I was gonna have a hernia. The holds were big but somewhat loose, and I felt the pull of gravity beckoning me to the abyss. Working my feet up, I peaked my head over the lip, grabbed my tool, and swung it into the snow. Ding....thunk..thunk...after several tries I found a nice spot in the snow that felt as if it would hold my weight, and pulled over the top. Safe at last, sort of.

Resting a minute, I stood up to take my pack off and get my mittens. Laying my pack on the snow. I slowly opened the top loader and pulled out one mitten, but then watched in horror as the other one slipped through my grasp and slid down the gully. Should I go get it? It cost more than I make in a day of work. It had taken me several hours to get to this point. I had just passed the crux. Maybe someone would find it and return it to me if I posted on some forums. Donning a single glove, I made my way up the last five hundred feet of the slightly less steep gully. I reached the rim at the end and sprawled on a large rock to enjoy the warmth of the sun. That warmth was soon replaced by a cold, blowing wind, so I made my way to the summit house.

Having not brought any money the last few times I summited the peak, I was prepared with two dollars just so I could get something to eat at the summit. Making my way inside I grabbed two candy bars thinking the final cost would be two dollars. I was wrong, they were more than two dollars each. Totally disappointed, I sat for a while resting before deciding it was time to leave. I felt completely uninterested in climbing anymore. I decided I didn't wish to stay another night, so I started the long hard trip to the bottom of the mountain. It is over seven thousand feet from the summit to the trailhead. That, and the climbing up the gully totalled almost ten thousand feet of elevation gained and lost. There was nothing for me to do but go, and so I went. The sun was warm and the snow was minimal while I headed down the Barr Trail. Passing the overlook into the south cirque, I saw a few bits of ice but there was not enough snow to make anything worthwhile so I continued on to Barr Camp. I was happy to know that they sold food at a reasonable price when I got there, and was able to purchase a candy bar.

I sat and talked with the caretaker again, and that made me feel better. I asked him to keep an eye out for my mitten if he headed out there and let him know that the conditions were not as ideal as thought. The bottom third was swimming, the middle was good, and the top third was thin with mostly rocks instead of snow. Then I got up. I knew that if I didn't get up I would not be able to convince myself to leave. I walked and I walked and I couldn't help but feel pitiful as my legs burned and my knees felt weaker and weaker. But I kept walking, and eventually I made it to the top of The Incline right after the sun set. I sat down and rested, looking out onto the city lights, and I couldn't think of anything but pain. Then I got up and walked down. One step at a time. I don't remember much of the rest until I got to the car except the pep talking I was giving myself willing my body down the hill. "Don't stop, don't sit down, keep moving, don't even think of sitting down, don't you fucking stop, walk, move, go, one step at a time." After more than an hour, I reached the side trail that led to the parking lot. I slumped into my car and drove home feeling defeated.

I want to climb big mountains. Alaska, Patagonia, the Himilayas. I want to do huge multi-day, committing climbs of high technical difficulty. How could I ever pull off something like the Cassin Ridge on Denali if I couldn't even climb a relatively easy snow coulior without dropping things and more or less becoming a gigantic cry baby. The weather was bad for a day and it put me off. The bad weather on Pikes Peak would be a summit opportunity in Patagonia and here I was wrecked to the core mentally and physically, practically crying as I made the last steps to the car.

It wasn't over yet. I received no sympathy from my girlfriend as I lay there shivering in pain. It wasn't her fault having never done anything like that. She asked me to help her carry some things for her, which seemed like a death sentence. My heart rate was already almost double while laying still. My breathing was like someone on a long jog. I was completely wiped. After taking a shower and laying for a while, I felt like I could get up and move around a little bit. This wouldn't prepare me for the next day however.

The next day I had to work, and so when I woke up and went to get out of bed...I realized it was going to be a horrible day. Every muscle spasmed while I turned and rolled onto the floor. When I say every muscle, I mean all of them. My feet felt like hamburger, my neck and head throbbed with dull pain. It was like the gift that keeps on giving as the week went on. Not only was I in horrible pain for the rest of the week but as we went to do some light hiking over the weekend I could not find my camera.

A few weeks later, after scouring the apartment and my things for the camera I decided to call on my warranty which I had purchased because of the condition advertised: "You say oops, we say no problem." I figured oops pretty much covered anything, but apparently I forgot to read the fine print. As I walked into the Circuit City store the counter person asked me to produce the camera. When I explained I did not have any pieces she said there was nothing she could do. Ever resolute and having faith in the system I went home and broke another camera which didn't work. After removing any identifying marks I went to another store and lied, telling them I dropped it down the mountain. They then told me that I would have to call the warranty. The warranty company said that they needed a piece with either the serial or the model number on it. Unable to produce such evidence, I asked for them to refund me the cost of the warranty which they said I would receive in six weeks. Take note, if you drop your warrantied camera into a crevasse, a lake, or somebody snatches it from you just suck it up because no one will replace it for you, at least not if you bought it from Circuit City.

In the end I lost about $250 worth of gear, returned $30 worth of gear (Mountain Chalet was great). Worse than that I lost my motivation and a little bit of my confidence. It's been over a month and the only climbing I've done is in the gym. I finally went to Rocky Mountain National Park to check out some ice and snow but that's another post for another day.