It was one of those days.  The weather was warming and clear in Boulder, and I was suffering from a strained bicep tendon (from the previous week’s Tangen Tunnel adventure) and an Achilles tendon (that started complaining the day before for no discernible reason).  I wanted to do a bike ride to protect my sore bits.  Brian was determined to get to the high country, and while he preferred skiing, he would settle for a hike in RMNP to Black Lake or Sky Pond.

As the more reasonable of the two, I agreed to go to RMNP.  And, it was a great adventure, even if it was a bit on the quick side.

We left my house at 8:30am, after waiting for Susan to return from her predawn hike.  On the drive in, the clear skies allowed us to see that the mountains were socked in above treeline.  We started hiking at 10am and made quick time to the Black Lake – Loch Vale junction (Glacier Junction?).  Based on a previous day review of the RMNP weather report, I was worried about how solid the lakes would be for hiking on.  I wanted to head to Sky Pond to minimize the hassle of thawing lakes.  Brian thought we might be getting into bad weather at Sky Pond, but I convinced him we would be fine so far below the Continental Divide (where we have experienced numerous freezing hurricanes).

The Cathedral Spires seen from Loch Vale

We made quick work of the trail to Loch Vale, and discovered the lake as frozen as we’ve ever seen.  We continued up over and then past the lake, following a well-beaten trail in the snow.  The trail was surprising populated with a dozen or so of hikers, skiers, and ice climbers, but still empty compared to a summer day.

As we approached the waterfall below Glass Lake, the weather began to reveal its unfriendly nature.  We worked up to the right of the waterfall area and then back left to avoid the rocky summer scramble which was covered in ice and snow.  We found 3 fellow adventurers doing an ice climb on some beautiful waterfall ice, in the bitterly cold wind and blowing snow;  the belayer must have been suffering in the seriously cold and strong wind.

Brian climbing past the sign pointing to Sky Pond

We crossed the frozen pond beneath the climbers despite their warnings of  falling ice, and then we started up the steep snow covering the frozen waterfall.  There were enough firm patches for us to make it up the 30 foot slope, albeit with some difficulty.  When we crested over the top, we were greeted by a blast of constant 50 mph wind.  I hid behind a boulder as I endured a bit of suffering to add a down layer to my clothing.  It was either that or just go home.

Properly insulated, I could focus all my energies on route finding and stable footing over the icy boulders and frozen standing water.  As we crossed Glass Lake, we encountered a 2-man party heading toward safety.  The lead fellow looked official (read:  guide) while the fellow behind looked frozen and afraid.  The official looking fellow asked if we were okay, and admonished us to “make good decisions”.  He then told us roughly the location of a snow cave he had built and then left for better conditions.

The visibility was very poor, with the snow fall and blowing snow, but the air cleared periodically to allow us to find our way.  We hoped to find the snow cave for some shelter while we ate our lunch, but the directions were a bit vague, the area large, and the conditions did not encourage exploration.  After reaching Sky Pond and hiking along the Petite side for about 1/2 the length of the lake, we turned back to avoid freezing to death.  Brian said he was shivering already.

The Cathedral Spires seen in a brief moment of visibility. Taken from Sky Pond.

We backtracked to a hollow between the two lake where we’d found some windless air on the way in.  The wind was again muted in the low-lying hollow, and we found further shelter in a snow well beside a large boulder.  There, we stopped for lunch around 1pm, which also allowed us to enjoy the accomplishment of the day while extending the sense of adventure.

I quickly ate my frozen food and finished my water (in an insulated bottle holder).  And, before long, even my down layer wasn’t enough.

We started back and quickly lost our bearings in the near whiteout.  But we knew the area and a 15 degree adjustment put us back on our old tracks.

Crossing Glass Lake was challenging as the wind turned our bodies into sails, pushing us while we had near zero friction on the ground.  I managed to find my way and maintain my footing by traversing the lake perimeter.  The waterfall area descent was a fun glissade after I was able to catch a glimpse of the bottom and know that I wouldn’t hit rocks or go over a cliff.

Self portrait taken during a lull in the wind.

And then it was just a matter of slogging back to the parking lot.  Before heading for Boulder, I stopped to use the latrine and looking down into the pit, with immediate regret, I was reminded of the quote from the movie, Wall Street:

… if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

It is an exhilarating experience, the living for a while so close to the edge where the slightest miscalculation could result in death.  It is even fun when you know you can get out whenever you want to go home and get warm.

The news headline the next day about the fatal avalanche on Ypsilon Peak, several miles to the north of Sky Pond, was a grim reminder of the risks we all take when we venture onto dangerous ground.

Estes Park man presumed dead, hiking guide author rescued after avalanche in RMNP – Boulder Daily Camera

The Bear Peak Loop route map – 12/1/2012

Oh, the joy of a warm December day stolen from a frozen Winter season.  On a 70F December 1st,  Brian wanted to shift from cycling to hiking.  While I was reluctant to abandon a fantastic cycling season, I agreed to be agreeable.  My only proviso was to start small and gradually build up our fitness level, since I hadn’t done a serious hike in over a year.  In fact, it has been two years.  Brian agreed and we chose South Boulder Mountain with an option on Bear Peak.  It was a good plan.

Brian and The Maiden

We started up the Mesa Trail (TH at 5,641′)at 8:45am trying to remember how to hike and remember what we used to bring.  Before we could get too far into the laughing about how long it had been, we noticed a sign that indicated that the trails to South Boulder Peak were closed and there was no access to Bear Peak without hiking over to NCAR (about 5 miles) to ascend the Fern Canyon trail.

It is always a challenge navigating the arbitrary rules of the Boulder Open Space Tyrants.  I have come to feel that their rules should be broken out of principle.

I asked Brian if he wanted to drive over to NCAR or just head out to see if we could find enough adventure despite the closed trails.  He hated the thought of getting back in the vehicle and wanted to proceed.  The main idea would be to hike to The Maiden, with an option on climbing the ridge to Bear Peak (8,461′).

Brian below the Devil’s Thumb

We took the standard route toward Shadow Canyon only to find that  the Homestead trail was also closed.  Brian’s comment was ‘I’m glad I don’t live here.’  I couldn’t blame him.  We backtracked and took the Towhee trail to link up to the Mesa trail, hoping that it would lead to Shadow Canyon but prepared to simply scramble up the front side of The Maiden.

It all worked out and we eventually came to the bottom of The Maiden, I believe near the present end of the Shadow Canyon trail.  We turned uphill and enjoyed reliving the scramble that we’d done so many times before.  We arrived at the ridge line near Jamcrack Spire flatiron and traversed over to the start of The Maiden’s Standard route at around 10:30am.  We stopped for a drink and for a change of clothes to combat the suddenly brutal wind.

The great Flying Flatiron seen on a scramble from The Maiden to the Bear Peak summit

Brian was feeling strong, apparently, and wanted to opt for the ridge bushwhack to the summit of Bear Peak.  We’d done it a couple times before, so we knew it went without too much technical difficulty, but with significant physical exertion.  We weren’t in shape for such an effort, but the thrill of high places and the thought of one last day of good weather allowed us to ignore the damned consequences….and there would be consequences.

Up we went.  The first thing was to scramble back up to the ridge line.

Then, carefully creeping along the ridge line with serious falls awaiting the ‘Uncareful’ (read: other people), we progressed toward the Bear Peak summit.

The initial going was easy and allowed us to stay on the ridge to pass over the top of the Fat Iron (a very good climb, by the way, which has a spectacular view of The Maiden).

We then approached the Devil’s Thumb which is merely the highest of several impassable pinnacles on the ridge.  We dropped down to the east to traverse the low angle, east-facing rock face.  The route-finding became tricky for a short section due to exposure.  I told Brian that I didn’t know where it would lead us, but at least it was going somewhere.  Brian replied, “Good enough.”  It did in fact feel familiar; it was probably the route we’d taken to climb the Devil’s Thumb some years ago.

South Boulder Mountain burn damage from June 2012 fire, seen from near Devil’s Thumb

We exited the steep face into the less steep rock below the Devil’s Thumb  (a good but short climb).  The ridge was still impassable, so we continued traversing the eastern rocks until we could enter the gully below the Devil’s Thumb and the Flying Flatiron.  Aiming for the junction of the Flying Flatiron and the primary ridge line was a good route that worked and also allowed us to reminisce about the impressive and terrifying Flying Flatiron summit.  The ‘terrifying’ aspect related to the temporary nature of the pile of rock comprising the arch summit.  When it goes down someday, you don’t want to be on it.

At that point, we were able to scramble back to the ridge where we could see the an impressive view of the Devil’s Thumb, and we could also begin to see the fire damage from the June 2012 “Flagstaff fire”.

Then we hit a section of ridge that we had some memory about…it was a bad memory.

Looking back down the ridge toward Devil’s Thumb and the Plains below

The ridge line looked impassable  but we recalled it was just barely passable for the distance required to reach the next milestone, the Angle Wings.  And ‘barely passable’ was good enough as there was no other way to proceed, either via the east face or by descending to the west.  We slowly crept along the cliff face just west of the ridge line, taking care not to fall to our deaths or get into a jam that would require serious risk-taking to escape

Brian was back in his old form, moving without hesitation and finding the least risky path.  By the time we reached the Angel Wings, we were able to descend to the ground to hike up to the north end of the Angel Wings Flatiron.

We stopped for a drink on the crest of the south end of the Bear Peak ridge.  It was a wonderful 50′x50′ spot that was begging for a tent.  And, it was 11:45am…and I was getting very hungry.  I said out loud that we had 15 minutes to reach the summit.

After the enjoyable pause, we started back up toward the summit, but now we were on the edge of the burn area.  We moved even more carefully as we tried to avoid becoming covered in charcoal   After about 50′ Brian said, “I’ve been wondering about the orange color that seems to only be on the tops of the branches and logs…do you think it is fire retardant?”  Of course that was the answer.  Heck, I hadn’t even noticed.  With now another thing to avoid, we were happy to leave the edge of the burn area after only a few minutes.

Brian resting on the edge of the burn zone from the ‘Flagstaff Fire’ of 6/2012. Bear Peak is visible in the distance.

The rest of the way was uneventful except for the increasing hunger.  I managed to get us lost again on the final climb up to the summit block.  We ended up taking the exact same path as we did in 8/2011 when I crawled through a tree infested with ladybugs and inadvertently carried away one million of the little gals.

We reached the summit at 12:30pm.

It is always true, the hungrier I am, the better my food tastes.  My two peanut butter Cliff’s Bars were the best food I’d eaten in months.

After such a hard effort to reach the summit, we are always reluctant to leave.  I suppose there are many reasons.  But the cold and wind was persistent and I was losing the body temperature battle, so we left after 30 minutes.

Joe insists on a summit shot…Bear Peak

And now we would pay the price of stubbornness   Since Shadow Canyon was closed from the top and we didn’t move the vehicle to NCAR, we’d have to hike down the Fern Canyon trail and then hike 5 miles back to the South Mesa trail head   Yuck.  At least our biking fitness was holding up to the hiking/scrambling effort.

We quickly worked our way down the exposed summit ridge, like two mountain goats who had never taken a break from hiking.  I felt true pleasure from the overdue exercise of skills long in the making.

And then, down the Fern Canyon trail.  Down, down, down.

After about 0.25 mile, I could feel that my legs were getting tired.  It was a bad feeling, since I was so many miles from my 4-Runner…and had so many feet of elevation yet to lose.

After another 0.25 mile, I begged for a rest.  I hoped that a short reprieve would revitalize my muscles…but no.  It was then that I knew I was in trouble.

A look back at the ridge line we traversed (left to right) to reach Bear Peak and then descend the opposite direction to complete the Bear Peak Loop.

Heck, I knew I’d make it home, but I KNEW I was going to suffer for days for my brazen disregard for the laws of physics.

Down, down, down.  My legs were mere noodles.  I was just trying to control the fall as I resisted gravity with every muscle, ligament and bone at my disposal.

After an eternity, we reached the cut-off for Shanahan Trail, which we took to reach the Mesa Trail.  And then only another 4 miles to reach the car.  We made it, naturally, and, I only twisted my ankle twice in the process.

6.25 hours, 8.5 miles RT and 2951′ of elevation gained (and lost!).  What happened to the ‘start small and gradually build up our fitness level’ plan?  My legs were getting stiff before I got into my 4-Runner.  I was in for a rough recovery.

Post-Script (12/3/12):  I have barely moved in the last 36 hours, and have little hope of improvement for another 36.  (12/5/12):  I am still too sore to move correctly but am now certain that I have not permanently crippled myself.  I expect to be ready to go again by the weekend, but no sooner.

Brian’s comment via email on 12/3/12:

Joe:
Our basement staircase took on a malevolent side yesterday, bringing fear every time I went down.  Like the Amityville Horror.  The stair rail got more use than it had all year.
Brian

If you’ve been paying attention, you’d know that Brian and I failed on an attempt on the 4th earlier this year (see 4th Flatiron Slowfest).  Now, climbing the 4th in March is plain crazy, but in January is flat out stupid; let’s just say I didn’t feel too badly about not finishing on the earlier effort.  But now, since the weather has been in the 70′s for 2 weeks and the snow is essentially gone,  we had to finish it.  We just had to.

We started up at 8am, which was strange since that was the plan (I was on time).  We hiked up the trail at a brisk pace and made ready to climb at the base of the 4th by 9am.

Brian announced that he’d like to do the ‘chimney pitch’ which required me to take the first pitch. I accepted.

Pitch 1

I scrambled up the 1st pitch, which is only 75 feet long to a nice ledge.  I remembered to bring my rock shoes, and I enjoyed the security at every step.

The squeeze chimney at the back of the 4th Flatiron cave

Pitch 2

Brian took off toward the cave with a grim determination to crawl out the hole in the top.  He pulled through and setup an awkward belay to bring me up.  I scrambled up to the opening of the cave, handed up the packs, and then barely fit through.  And, I mean barely.  It was a near thing, and I nearly had my harness pulled off as I ssssqqqqquuuuueeeeezzzzeeeeddddd through.  I most certainly would not have fit through 20 lbs ago.

Brian put it well:  the chimney was worth doing…once.  He named it the Commoner’s Cave (a corollary to the Royal Arch)

Joe pulling his body through the narrow slot on the 4th Flatiron chimney

Pitch 3

I stretched out the 200 foot rope to make a nice ledge.  I even got in a few pieces of pro.

Pitch 4

Brian took the entire rope length to reach the only nice ledge in the vicinity.

Pitch 5

I took the finish to the 1st piece and continued on to the start of the next pitch on the 2nd piece of the flatiron.  We stopped for a brief snack at approximately 11am. We paused long enough to fully appreciate what a beautiful day we had to enjoy….and once again appreciate how lucky we are to live in Colorado.

Pitch 6

4th Flatiron East Face Route

Brian took the sharp end into the gully and stopped quickly after finding a good belay spot.  He had learned a hard lesson the last time, when he couldn’t find a belay and had to simulclimb over terribly exposed and slippery rock to reach the hanging garden.  I didn’t blame him one bit.

Pitch 7

I could not find much pro along this entire stretch that nearly reached to the Hanging Garden.  It was a bit unnerving.  I was forced to setup a belay in a a sea of thorn bushes.  I got a hundred tiny thorns imbedded in my flesh for my trouble.  I also froze to death as the wind picked up in the natural wind tunnel.  I luckily remembered to bring a jacket, which I wore for the rest of the day.

8 – Scramble to Garden

Brian finished the scramble to the garden and then we walked to the backend of the garden…. and then out to the 3rd and final piece of the 4th Flatiron. Unfortunately, neither of us could remember how to finish this damned route.  I remembered descending a bit and then taking a right curving line to get back into the big gully.  Brian remembered nothing. Note:  I read later that the ‘official’ route is to walk directly across from the Hanging Garden and head up and left.  I’ll try to remember that.

Pitch 9

But Brian doesn’t scare off; he accepted the challenge and took off.  He didn’t get any pro for a while, but eventually made it to the base of the wide portion of the big gully.

Pitch 10

This was hard, for a mere 5.4 route.  Water polished rock with no pro.  I didn’t let myself think about it too much and just kept moving up.  Eventually I did start finding pro, but the slick difficulty did not relent until I reached a nice ledge below the exit to the final crack.  A part of the problem was the wet mess leftover from the snowpack in the center of the gully where otherwise there might be better footing.

Brian on the summit of the 4th Flatiron

Pitch 11

Brian flew up the final pitch.  I remembered thinking that this was the crux pitch on previous climbs, but not this time.  It was 3rd hardest, at most.  We arrived at 3pm.

Descent

The descent off the overhanging ledge is always tricky.  I didn’t hesitate this time and just downclimnbed until I could jump.  Brian remarked, “always anticlimactic”.  I responded, “it felt climactic to me”.  It really did.  Be ready.

We then followed our line from our earlier Tangen Tunnel climb (see Winter Tangen Tunnel), staying on the ridge line as we climbed and passed a series of ribs to reach the descent trail from Green mountain.

Joe on the 4th Flatiron summit with Bear Peak in the background

At 5pm, we arrived at the parking lot.  I was surprised that we managed to do a 9-hour day without much difficulty.  Not too old, I guess.

Keys to climb:

1. Do the chimney once, then not again
2. Watch the rope drag on the 3rd pitch
3. The 2nd piece of the 4th is only 40 feet from the top of the 1st piece
4. Be prepared for stemming in the big gullies
5. Go straight across from the Handing Garden to start the 3rd piece
6. From the summit of the 4th, it’s just under 2 hours to the car
7. On the hike to Green Mountain trails, stay on the ridge crest and find the line of least resistance

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On St. Patrick’s Day 2012, the day before my 11th wedding anniversary, I had only a short time slot available for adventure.  Brian and I eventually decided to spend it bushwacking up the northeastern slope of Green Mountain with a twofold goal:  (1) stay out of the raptor closure area and (2) work our way up and around the 5th Flatiron from the Skunk Canyon area.  These were actually Brian’s goals that seemed strange to me, but I agreed to be agreeable.  And, I was pleasantly surprised how well it worked out despite a lengthy work-related phone delay, some of the worst terrain I’ve ever traversed, and a tricky (icy) descent from the backside of the 5th Flatiron.  In fact, aside from innumerable cuts and scratches that will haunt me for the next two weeks, it was quite fun.

I’m delighted that a bit of open-mindedness allowed me to participate in Brian’s screwball idea that was only partially ruined by a bit of poor mental mapping on my part (the local expert!), which I’ll explain later.

Green Mountain Wander Route Map

The Setup

Due to my insane work schedule, Sunday was ruled out and I couldn’t start on Saturday until 11am…oh, and I had to be home by 4:30pm.  At least the ski conditions continued to be poor enough for me to avoid feeling miserable about missing another day of skiing.  We planned to start at the Mesa trail parking lot near Eldo for a scramble up the East side of the Maiden followed by a ridge climb to the Bear Mountain summit, but we couldn’t find parking.  We then backtracked to highway 93 and then moved south a few miles to NCAR, which always has parking, and started hiking around 11:30am.

Once we hiked to where we could see the rocks, the Maiden looked too far away for such a time constrained day.  Brian then suggested Skunk Canyon where we’d take one of the gullies near Satan’s Slab toward the top of Hippo Head and a descent past the 5th Flatiron.  It was a very ambitious idea, but I had committed to being agreeable on this day since my restricted schedule had limited Brian’s options severely.

Step 1

We started east toward the green water tank and then down and north toward the Mesa trail which we followed a north short distance to Skunk Canyon.  At the cutoff for Skunk Canyon, Brian paused to look at the stupid Raptor Closure sign posted on the fence I had stepped over.  He noted aloud that our route would trespass on the closure area.  I paused for a moment and then asked if he wanted to do something else merely because of a sign nailed to a split rail fence.  Brian said he had a new idea.

Step 2

Brian’s new idea was to hike up to and then along the raptor closure and work our way around to the 5th Flatiron.  Then we’d hike up the south side of the 5th and descend to north side down to the Royal Arch trail.  I contributed the idea of going north on the Mesa trail for a 100 yards or so to get a better view of our options.  This turned out to be a waste of hiking unless you count the extra exercise as a bonus, which I did.

Step 3

We worked our way up the grassy slope to the first slight ridge before the rocky ridges within the Raptor Closure.  At approximately 12:30pm my phone rang, and I had to stop for a work related phone call for 30 minutes.  I called it a lunch break.  I actually ate a bit while I chatted on the phone; Brian just sat quietly in the shade, probably thinking that I was either an ass or an idiot.

Step 4

The Royal Arch, from the south side. The City of Boulder is in the distance.

We followed the ridge north and then east as it disappeared into the rim of a basin with the Royal Arch on the other side.  This was some of the worst scramble/hiking terrain I’ve ever encountered.  I remarked that it looked haunted, as it was full of dead, twisted trees and logs with large and small lichen covered boulders everywhere.  And dark!

We also found a new flatiron to climb someday…I’ll have to figure out what it is called at some point that has not yet come to pass.

Step 5

Weaving through and around the various bits of Flatironettes sprinkled across the slope, we eventually reached the climbers trail connecting the Royal Arch trail to the south end of the 5th Flatiron, which we followed to the base of the 5th.

Continuing with Brian’s plan, we ascended the improbable line up the south side of the 5th that seems to be impassable at every step except for a single, improbable escape that allowed us to continue until, finally, we reached the top.

Step 6 

Brian was finally ready for his lunch and so we stopped at the top of the 5th to eat a snack and change into our snow gear (long pants and gaiters)

After a short rest, we descended the always steep and treacherous climbers trail down the north side of the 5th Flatiron.  I managed to bruise my ass by falling on a sharp rock when a dead branch I trusted broke; it still pains me as I write this trip report 2 & 5 days later.

The descent from the 5th Flatiron and our escape down the Tangen Tunnel Route

Step 7

We were stopped by the most tricky part of the 5th descent, a delicate downclimb which was made worse by the remaining snow and ice.  I believe many people rappel this part, but we didn’t bring any ropes.  After watching Brian struggle to wriggle down a rabbit hole, I announced that I was going to look for a way to move further north for easier descent ground.  Brian said that sounded like ‘Chickening out’…I replied that I’m all over that.  ’Discretion’ is the hallmark of my personal climbing philosophy.

Step 8

Brian starting down Tangen Tunnel #2 (numbering from #1 at bottom of route)

Brian agreed and found a slot in the northern rock (Tangen Tower) that we could slither through.  It was a genius maneuver that took us directly to the Tangen Tunnel route.

The snow cover was still sufficient to protect our descent of the generally impossible, without ice gear, section above the 2nd cave, and then both caves were essentially free of snow and ice.  It was perfect!

Brian posing in front of Tangen Tunnel #1. With the snow gone, the Tangen Tunnels are no longer dangerous, just pure fun.

Once we reached the Royal Arch trail, we changed back into our dry, hot weather gear.  Brian wanted to go up to the Royal Arch and then bushwack down to the Mesa Trail directly.  I was worried about the time and assured him that the Royal Arch trail would descend must faster as it was a very well established trail and would not take us too far out of the way.  I was even so bold as to proclaim that he’d be surprised to see how far south the Bluebell shelter actually was…it was beneath the Royal Arch more than beneath the 3rd Flatiron.  He agreed and we made very fast time down the great trail.

And since the chance of getting lost was zero, I could just enjoy the great outdoors and views as I got a last bit of exercise.

Step 9

Once we reached the Bluebell shelter, I turned to show Brian what I meant about the direct descent path only to find that I was completely wrong.  We were actually on the north side of the 3rd Flatiron.  The Royal Arch trail wanders all over hell and back.

Crap.

The Finish

Oh well.  It was only 1.5 miles back to the turnoff to NCAR, just a short bit of walking.  But we should have tried Brian’s idea for the finish, especially since now looking at the map, I believe we descended in that general vicinity last year when descending, a bit lost, from Angel’s Way (approximate path noted on map).

Heck, we didn’t even break any laws, but it was fun anyway.

And, it was the start to a great St. Patrick’s Day / Anniversary celebration that my wife and I finished off with an evening at the Boulderado for its St. Patrick’s Day party.  I couldn’t get the Irish beer I wanted and was forced to discover that a Black & Tan is one of the great pleasures in life.

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Ah, sweet success.  After many years of trying the Tangen Tunnel route in winter, Brian and I finally succeeded.  And it came on a day when neither of us expected to succeed due to a late start (my fault) and the highest amount of snow we’d ever seen in the Flatirons.  But once we neared the top, the prospect of retreating down that snowing, icy hell hole was so horrifying that we continued to push on and finally made it.  Heck, we got back to the parking lot with over 30 minutes of daylight.  What a great day!

We came, we saw, we tried like hell, we barely made it.

The start to the Tangel Tunnel route in winter

We started planning the weekend to be our first ski day of the season despite the continuing poor ski conditions (historically low snowbase).  But I had a problem with a toe and couldn’t risk death by ski boot. So I left the choice to Brian with a suggestion of the Tangen Tunnel as an “aggressive” alternative.  I also indicated, unhelpfully, that I could not do an early start due to a commitment.  I suppose I knew that this ruled out success on the Tangen Tunnel route which takes a long time even in good conditions, but that is what came to my mind at that moment. The real problem is that the Flatirons have had so much snow that I just didn’t know what to suggest.

Brian picked Tangen Tunnel route.  (Me and my big mouth, eh?… at least we’d get some exercise, and be outside).

Start

I spent much of my time-constrained morning digging around for my snow gear not seen since the previous spring, and I just couldn’t get to Chautauqua park before 10:15am; but I was better prepared than usual.

We set a good pace up toward the Royal Arch and reached the bottom of the Tangen Tunnel route a bit after 11am.  We could see that we’d be swimming up the route, so we took time to get on all the gear:  insulating liner jacket, gators, warm hat, helmet, and harness, and then we set off.

I made it 10 feet before being stopped by a 6 foot tall boulder covered by soft snow.  Slipping and sliding, and failing to find purchase on snow flavored air, I eventually resorted to stemming on the icy rock face of Tangen Tower and hooking rock overhead with my ice axe to inch my way over the first obstacle.  During the summer, this obstacle represents a barely noticeable, small scramble; on this day it was a 15 minute puzzle.

Now we knew for certain it was going to be at least an adventure (but hopefully not an epic one).

Epic (climbing slang word)

A climber’s slang term that refers to a big climbing adventure and all the bad stuff that happens on it, like ropes getting stuck, being benighted on a ledge, getting caught in a bad storm, or wandering off route.

~(http://climbing.about.com/od/climbersslang/a/EpicDef.htm)

(1) The 1st Cave/Tunnel

Rabbit Hole #1: the escape hole from tunnel #1 on the Tangen Tunnel route

The rest of the swim to the 1st cave / tunnel was easier, but once inside the cave it was not clear if we would get through it.  When I stopped to look around to remember the path upward, Brian started climbing.  From 10 feet up, he announced that the obvious path didn’t go all the way; but he did think he could wriggle through a slot to get out.  As I watched, he slithered like a snake and was gone.  My turn.

I followed his path and found I could just squeeze under a hanging boulder to reach the exit hole, but once through I could not safely turn around to crawl out.  As I layed there pondering my next move, a rope with a loop tied on the end fell down into the hole.  Good ‘ol Brian to the rescue!

With a secure belay, I managed to maneuver my body around to get a grip on the rock above.  I pulled up and then risked weighting a dead branch wedged in the hole.  The last required move was a high step onto a packed snow cornice that was supported by naught but air.  It held.

I glanced at my watch at saw that it was 12:15pm; we had already burned 45 minutes…to travel about 100 feet.

Joe contemplating his future while looking at the next section of snowy, icy rock.

I then turned and followed Brian uphill, losing a step in the knee to thigh deep soft snow for every two taken.

We quickly learned to stay near the 4th Flatiron rock face where the snow was firmer, perhaps due to snow melt dripping down during the sunny days since the big dump.  Of course, this was also where we faced the risk of falling icicles, which were falling more and more as the sunshine did its work high above us.

As a side note, I always have a mental image of the Tangen Tunnel route as a narrow gully with rocky obstacles.  But somehow I am always surprised on each visit of the wide possible path and the myriad of choices that must be made correctly to stay on route.  At least I remembered that the key was to ‘bear left’…a lesson learned by trial and error over the years.

Post Script:  having just returned to the Tangen Tunnel route (2 months later) I can report that it is a narrow gully with rocky obstacles that appears to be a wide open space when all the rocky obstacles are covered by a thick blanket of white, white snow.  There are few options for completing the Tangen Tunnel route; perseverance is required in all cases.

The entrance to tunnel #2

Just past the start of the 2nd piece of the 4th Flatiron, we came upon a tiny cave entrance.

(2) The 2nd Cave/Tunnel

Brian ducked into the small entrance as I approached.  By the time I crawled to the back of the cave, Brian had crawled out of the 2nd rabbit hole, leaving his pack behind to make his escape.  I handed up his pack and then mine, and then it was my turn to slither skyward.

I found that a layer of clear ice covered much of the rock, and snow falling from above covered the rest.  I got Brian to give me another belay and then made the slippery moves to crawl out.

Looking up at Brian from inside tunnel #2

As I pulled my head above the snow surface, I saw a block of ice the size of a soccer ball plunged from the rock above into the snow 4 feet from Brian. It was an off-target kill shot.  All Brian heard was a muffled but insistent, ‘WHOMP’, as the deep snow cushioned the impact.

The sun was warming and now sufficiently loosened the ice on the exposed rock above; it was time for extreme caution.  And, not wanting to stand in any one place too long, we quickly packed everything away and then continued our ascent.  It was 1pm, and time for a lunch break…if only we could find a safe & dryish place to stop.

We continued up the soft snow, overcoming many snow-covered rock obstacles along the way.  Before long we could see another cave in the distance, in a section of rock that seemed to block our path.

From a distance, the 3rd cave looked much better than the 2nd cave, but we didn’t recall crawling out the back of this one before.  As we got close, it became clear that the cave was not a part of the path as it wasn’t a ‘tunnel’.  But we could skirt it by taking a steep ramp to the left, and it did look like a dry place to sit without fear of falling icicles.  After a bit of deft icy rock scrambling and rock hooking, we settled down for a rest and lunch.  It was 1:30pm.

Brian approaching ‘Lunch Cave’…a surprisingly dry and safe spot to rest and refuel.

(3) The ‘Lunch Cave’ 

Finally, we could add some fuel to the fire.  I had purposely brought no more food than I thought I needed to keep from eating extra for no reason.  Unfortunately, I didn’t leave room for a ‘need more food’ scenario.  I ate my 2 bars and drank a liter.  Now it was just a race to the top (and then bottom) with the sun, hoping not to bonk along the way.

I mentioned that I hoped we could make it to the top to avoid the ugly series of rappels we were doomed to take on the retreat.  Brian reluctantly admitted a lack of confidence in our chances.  I had to admit that the late start didn’t help.

And, just at that moment, as I was looking out of the cave entrance, facing down the mountain, a 100 lbs collection of icicles I had admired (and photographed) over my head a few minutes earlier came crashing down…right onto our tracks in the snow.  Wow.

100 lbs chandelier hanging above the Tangen Tunnel trail

Despite the excitement, sitting on a cold rock, even a dry one with overhead shelter, doesn’t work for long on a cold day.  We left after 10 minutes.

Crawling up and over the escape ramp turned out to be very hard.  We succeeded only by discovering that we could sink our ice axes into the rotting wood of fallen trees and then pull up to gain a bit of altitude. Thunk, thunk, thunk, and then we were past the ‘Lunch Cave’.  I think it is fair to say that this technique plus the ability to hook rocks beyond arm’s reach made all the difference between success and slippery futility.

The next milestone would be the end of the 2nd piece of the 4th Flatiron.

Old Bivy Cave

As we approached the end of the 2nd piece of the 4th Flatiron, I recognized another cave that Brian and I had used several years ago on a failed winter attempt.  We used the cave to rest and light a small campfire for a bit of warmth while we ate our lunch.  At that time we had been lost and decided to turn around to avoid a disaster (‘epic’ adventures make for great stories, but no rational person purposely seeks to experience such days).  It was interesting to discover that we were right on route except for the last decision to head right, which we eventually abandoned before returning to the cave.  This was also the day when we learned to ‘bear left’ on earlier decisions.  It was also the correct choice on this particular route-finding decision.

The objective: Green Mountain summit.

Passing underneath the start of the 3rd piece of the 4th Flatiron was a challenge.  The open space beneath contained thigh deep snow that was too soft to stand on.  I suppose it collected all the snow rolling off the steep section of the Flatiron.  Whatever the reason, it was the worst struggle of the day; but at least we were safe from falling ice or slipping off icy rock.

We could tell that we were nearing the top, but it was after 2pm and daylight was expiring (2-3 hours remaining, at best).  Our current plan was to get to the top and see if we could tell where we were, and figure out the best and fastest way down.  I mentioned that we had several options if we couldn’t find a path to Green Mountain.  I said we could drop down into Skunk Canyon or we could head down toward the 3rd Flatiron.  I felt that we could make it down those paths easier than we could our ascent path; but it was clear that the best way was to prevail in finding a way to Green Mountain’s Greenman trail just below its summit, and then follow that trail down to take the Saddle Rock trail to the bottom.

Joe posing at the high point along the 4th Flatiron ridge below the summit of Green Mountain…our escape is assured

The feeling of desperation was evident in our continuing high energy output. Higher and higher, and by finally by 2:30pm we could see down into Skunk Canyon.  We had made it to the top of the 4th Flatiron.  Naturally, nothing looked familiar. But we reasoned that all we needed to do was hike west, but from every past experience on this section of rock we knew it would be hard.  And with the amazing snow cover, it might be impossible.  Let’s just say that a high stress level was a reasonable reaction.

Now we had to bear to the right, just slightly.  And every break in the trees would lead to an examination of the possible paths down.  If we couldn’t find our way to the Green Mountain trails, it was going to be a hard night.

We kept getting cliff-ed out, and then barely finding a scramble down, we continued making progress toward our goal.

Post Script:  the key is to stay on the ridgeline and find a line of least resistance (which is sometimes the only possible path forward)

(4) The Top (of the ridge)

And suddenly, everything seemed to be below us.  One final outcropping of rock and then it would be an easy stroll to Green Mountain’s Greenman trail.  It was only 3pm!  And we could see the Green Mountain summit!

We were going to make it and with time to spare.  There would be no stumbling down in the dark this time.  I felt so good that I insisted that I get a ‘summit’ photo.

The rest of the route finding was merely an exercise in not losing much elevation, and not gaining much either.  I knew that if we looked to the right while we stayed near the ridge line, we’d see a split rail fence marking the trail.  And, at 3:15pm, we found it.

(5) The Green Mountain Trail

Brian pausing on the trek back to the parking lot for a posed shot behind the 1st Flatiron

The Greenman trail was in beautiful condition for an easy, snow cushioned descent.  We decided to skip the Green Mountain summit, discretion being the better part of valor.

I predicted a 4:15pm arrival at the parking lot and was only off by 5 minutes.  It was a 6 hour round trip.

I can remember when 6 hours was one-third of the hard day, but I was glad to be driving home.

10,000 high steps had taken their toll on an old man.  Carpe diem memento mori

P.S. – I was sore for 4 days.

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The Sharkstooth taken on approach in July 1992

 It sounded like just the thing (i.e., far away, complete different, somewhat stupid, brag-able material) and so I signed up. 

On July 10, 1992, the Sharkstooth was the very first alpine climb I ever did, using the Northeast Ridge (II, 5.6) route.  The Sharkstooth is the highest (12,630′) and farthest west in the Cathedral Spires and has the most elevation gain above any col. This adventure was an unexpected part of my week-long rock climbing course at Colorado Mountain School (CMS), which in itself was a last minute, spur-of-the-moment decision made while sitting comfortably in my air conditioned office in tropical Miami, Florida.

I had lived my entire adult life (albeit I was only 30) and my entire childhood since the age of 4 in Florida.  I loved the ocean and the adventures I found therein, but I had a sudden craving for some new kind of adventure. A co-worker, Bill, who had taken me to a climbing wall in the recent past suggested I take a class at CMS in Estes Park, Colorado. It sounded like just the thing (i.e., far away, complete different, somewhat stupid, brag-able material) and so I signed up. And, two weeks later, I was in Colorado and relying on every ounce of my Triathlon training fitness to survive the daily onslaught of hiking and climbing exertion.

It was a serious grind complicated by high altitude (I lived at 16′ elevation in Coconut Grove, Florida) and overwhelming fear (see Scared to Death on Pear Buttress).

Approach to the Sharkstooth

At the time, the 5 mile approach in darkness and 6 pitches of technical climbing for a total of 3350’ in elevation gain over snowy rock were far beyond anything I had ever experienced to that point in my life. Adding to the allure, I was told that Sharkstooth was the only officially named peak (i.e., name is on map) in RMNP that required a technical climb to stand on the summit. It seemed the perfect candidate to be the only peak I would ever summit, and I planned to brag about it for the rest of my life. It was too bad that I was wholly unprepared for such an adventure.

CMS 'Bunk House' 1992 (photo by Mark)

I had been told that the weather forecast was poor, and to expect chilly conditions in the low 30′s. Now that doesn’t sound so bad today, but 20 years ago, to a life-long Floridian, 30F sounded deadly. In fact, my biggest concern about the climb was the possibility of freezing to death. I brought extra food so I would have enough energy to stay warm, but I didn’t bring any hiking boots, long pants, hat or gloves. I didn’t even bring a flashlight.  But unlike every other moment of unpreparedness I’ve faced in the years since, I just didn’t know better. Twenty years later, I cannot recall if the equipment list provided to me was incomplete or I merely stubborn (all suspicions indicate my guilt), but I did not bring anything useful besides a rain suit and a ridiculous ski sweater I bought the night before in panic. Naturally, I did have the rock shoes (the newly introduced Five Ten), harness, stitch plate (an old fashioned belay/rappel device) and pack (think: rucksack) I rented at the beginning of the class.

My classmates, Mark and Jim (both from Chicago), and I slept badly in the CMS lodge until awoken by Mike Caldwell, our guide, at some ungodly hour.  It was so far before dawn that I wasn’t fully awake until after we started hiking. I didn’t have any idea why we’d start so early, but my only serious concern was a lack of light since I had no flashlight or headlamp. I asked what I should do, hoping someone had a spare light; I was told to follow behind someone and step where they did.

On the hike in, Mike Caldwell in the lead position

That sounded like a dumb idea to me, but what choice did I have. The trail turned out to be rather flat, so I was able to keep up without mishap for the first 1/2 mile.  About 100 feet past the first creek crossing, Mike abruptly stepped off the trail and headed uphill into the even darker forest.  He announced that this was a great climbers’ shortcut that would shave 1/2 mile from our hike, which was somehow our top priority.  Oh, it was a stumblefest for me. I had to resort to asking for the kindness of a light a number of times, but by the grace of youthfulness I survived with only minor ankle and knee twisting. What a great shortcut!

Our shortcut eventually reconnected with the main trail and then quickly took a fork to the right toward something called ‘Loch Vale’. It was still pitch dark, and the Sharkstooth was apparently still so far away that it didn’t seem manly to ask how much farther.

We continued to and then around Loch Vale, which turned out to be a very interesting, oblong lake that we couldn’t see very well.

Loch (/ˈlɒx/ or /ˈlɒk/) is the Irish and Scottish Gaelic (cognate with the Welsh llwch) word for a lake or a sea inlet.

Once

Loch Vale on approach to the Sharkstooth.

past the far side of the lake, we continued along the trail until we reached a small creek with a log bridge crossing. We crossed the slippery log carefully and then turned right to leave the path (again) and head toward Andrews Glacier. After a bit of steeper hiking through the forest on a faint path that quickly diverged from the creek, we emerged into a rocky and snowy valley that was the source of the creek water. At this point, the morning was dawning and I could finally see the impressive panorama. In the distance was Andrews Glacier bracketed by Mt. Taylor to the left and Mt Otis to the right. Below Otis and directly to our right was Zowie, a scary-looking tower that was described as similar to the Petit Grepon. To our left was a rocky buttress that we were told held the ‘Cathedral Peaks’ on the far side, including the Petit Grepon.  The Sharkstooth was not yet visible, but it was supposedly close.

The snow cover seemed truly Arctic to a Floridian, but no one else seemed to care so I didn’t mention it. And while the temperature and my feet (clad in running socks and shoes) were cold, it did dawn on me that I might not freeze to death. If the weather was not so socked in, I might have even felt happy. As it was, I was still afraid.  But I was not a quitter.  And think of the stories I would tell!

To tell the truth, I was willing to take a serious chance on death to finish this goal. My first climb, Pear Buttress, frightened me so badly that I was willing to quit climbing forever, but after another week of learning and overcoming fear, I was ready for ‘something massive’ (to quote The Eiger Sanction) … something that would really scratch the itch that led me to seek an adventure in the first place.

Nearing Andrews Glacier on approach to the Sharkstooth

As we approached Andrews Glacier, moving past the Cathedral Peaks buttress to our left, a massive, toothy pinnacle appeared in the gloom. Holy shit! We were going to climb that? Of all the unlikely things I had done during this past week as a part of my rock climbing class, this was the most unlikely.  But since everything seemed to go without a hitch, I had no reason to doubt the word of our excellent guide, Mike Caldwell.

We turned left and hiked directly toward the Sharkstooth, moving over massive boulders when possible and consolidated snow when necessary. I was carrying a ice axe that Mike had forced me to carry because I didn’t know how to do a self-arrest on snow. Hell, I didn’t know how to use an ice axe either, except as a hiking pole.  And on talus that demanded a 2 handed assist, the ice axe seemed more like a prank designed to get me skewered.

We made good speed, but we seemed to be ‘almost there’ for quite a while before we actually reached the base of the climb. It was hard to judge the scale of the Sharkstooth; but you can trust me, it’s big.

As we prepared to climb, the weather worsened. The sky started spitting hail and a snow/hail mix called graupel which quickly covered the ground.

Graupel forms when snow in the atmosphere encounters supercooled water. The size of graupel is typically under 5 millimeters, but some graupel can be the size of a quarter (coin). Graupel pellets typically fall apart when touched or when they hit the ground.  Also Known As: snow pellets, soft hail, small hail, tapioca snow, rimed snow, ice balls.

We put on our rain gear and then Mike started up the rock belayed by Mark.  My Florida conditioning (heat management) did not prepare me for the cold I began to feel as I cooled down from the morning exertions. I was not only lacking a tolerance for cold, I didn’t have any idea what to do to conserve heat or whether the symptoms I was feeling meant approaching death or merely discomfort.  You can believe that I was once again feeling stressed about the situation.  The intermittent thunder and lightning exacerbated my pervading sense of doom.

The belaying technique that Mike used to belay 3 climbers was to bring up Mark and I at the same time, and then I would belay Jim while Mike started up the next pitch, belayed by Mark.  I always tried to watch Mike carefully, to know where to climb; but inevitably, once I touched the rock I couldn’t remember a thing.  Mark started up a path of his choosing, but I didn’t like the look of it; I followed my nose. I couldn’t believe the amount of vegetation on the rock; it felt like my hand went into wet moss on every hold.  My hands were numb in a matter of minutes. And, I had climbed myself into a box I couldn’t get out of.

I yelled down to Jim, “Don’t follow me, I’m screwed. Take Mark’s route.”

Mark recalls:

I had just turned 30 and was looking for some adventure.  [Nearly 20 years later,] I remember one scary hanging belay, the fear and the lightning. The lightning was made worse by Mike’s story of the static electricity catching his wool hat on fire. I remember thinking “great, one more way to die up here”

Somehow I made it to the first belay.  As my hands thawed and gave me my first thawing agonies, I thought I was in trouble.  I worriedly asked Mark if such terrible pain was normal….he just looked at me without comment as if I had requested permission to mumble dogfish to the banana patch (Steve Martin, anyone?).  I soon found that I would live.

In the cold, the body reduces blood flow to the extremities to keep the vital organs — heart, lungs and brain — warm.  Reduced blood flow starves the extremities of oxygen, forcing them to use a less efficient type of metabolism, and in effect causing a mild injury. All of these factors together cause the release of a chemical soup that triggers inflammation and pain.  Cold can block the transmission of nerve signals, so you may feel no pain in your cold, numb fingers, but when you thaw out, the blood vessels dilate, increasing the blood flow. More oxygen gets delivered, and you get that throbbing feeling as the blood pulses into the oxygen-hungry areas. Oxygen wakes up the nerves, and you feel pain.  These changes are normal, and not harmful so long as the cold exposure is brief.

~from Wisconsin State Journal, Kristine Kwekkeboom, an assistant professor at the UW-Madison School of Nursing

Slowly the sky cleared as we progressed up the rock following the narrow buttress at the right edge of the east face.  Aside from the conditions and the exposure blowing my body and my mind, the climbing was easy (in the 5.5 to 5.6 range) and ended in a short scramble to the airy summit.

Me and my classmates on the Sharkstooth summit in 1992. From left to right, Mark, Jim, Joe

We did it!  We had reached the summit of the Sharkstooth. It was a supreme moment of achievement. We were all beaming.  And I was satisfied that my climbing career had reached a fitting pinnacle.

After a summit photo and a quick lunch we started down.  The rappel route we took seems different in my memory from the presently accepted rappel route even though the present route seems nearly the same as described in Fricke’s 1971 guide book.  I think the route we took was the route described in Rossiter’s 1997 guide book RMNP Rock & Ice Climbing:  The High Peaks.

Fricke (1971):  From the southeast corner rappel from one of several old pitons or a bolt into the “meadow”. Walk down to the very bottom of the meadow and find the lowest possible anchor on the left (north) side. Rappel (150′ plus a bit of fourth class) to the belay ledge which constitutes the top of the lead one of the Left Gully route.  From a spike of rock rappel 150′ down the gully.  Then scramble onto the small ridge to the left (north) and down it to the notch. 

Rossiter (1997):  Rappel down the east side from fixed anchors (pitons with slings). Rappel 150 feet to a grassy ledge, then walk north along the ledge about 100 feet to another anchor.  Rappel 150 feet to grassy ledge where an easy 300′ scramble (cl3) leads down to the East Col. 

On descent from the Sharkstooth, a view of The Saber with Thatchtop in the distance.

On the 2nd rappel, I set up my rappel device with the brake rope on the opposite side from all 3 other times in my life.  I didn’t think much of the situation and felt rushed, so I proceeded anyway with my right hand holding the brake rope instead of my left.  About 10′ down, the wind blew hard and my foot slipped, causing me to swing into the rock.  To protect myself I reached out with my hand to slow my impact speed.  Unfortunately I instinctively used my right hand, releasing my hold on my rappel brake….my life line.

But nothing happened.

Fortunately, the ropes we were using were worn 11mm ropes that were actually 13-15mm thick due to the frayed sheathing.  The stitch plate I was using just barely fit such ropes and did not require any friction from my brake hand to stay static.  At that moment I looked up at Mike Caldwell who was watching me rappel.  He shook his head and looked away.

At the bottom of the 2nd rappel, we were standing atop a large steeply sloping grassy area waiting for Mike to set up the next anchor.  When he arrived he told us to simply walk down the rest of the way.  We all looked at each other as the apparent death sentence worked its way into our mutual understanding.  No one moved.  Mike then offered to belay us if we felt unsecure; we all accepted.

Once at the base, I begged anyone to take the ice axe down…I pleaded that it was going to kill me to carry it. Jim took pity and carried it out, and let me enjoy the rest of the day.

I was delighted to have survived my adventure and be able to tell my Florida family and friends about it.  I had no intention of ever doing another climb….ever. I was so beat up afterward that while I was waiting for my flight home at the airport the next day, a man and his young son who were waiting nearby asked me if I was a boxer.

Such was the start to my Alpine climbing career and the beginning of my love for the Sharkstooth and RMNP.

On January 21, 2012, Brian and I chose to take advantage of an amazingly warm late January saturday by climbing the 4th Flatiron. While the mountain snowbase has recovered sufficiently to begin the ski season (just barely), circumstances beyond our control precluded that alternative.  Besides, I like climbing the Flatirons, and the 4th Flatiron with a finish over the top to the summit of Green Mountain is a favorite not done for 4-5 years.

4th Flatiron East Face route to Green Mountain summit

It had been warm long enough since the last snow fall that we simply assumed the conditions would be fine; we should have known better, especially on the 4th Flatiron East Face route (which could have been named, ‘the east face gully route’).

We started from the Chautauqua parking lot at 8:30am and hustled up the road toward the 4th Flatiron, enjoying our sunny, 30F morning. The temperature forecast was for a high of 61F much later in the day, but we had some sort of Chinook where the higher we got the warmer the breeze became.  About 1/2 way up, I had to stop to take off my jacket; I hiked the rest of the way in my t-shirt.

Chinook: A type of foehn wind. Refers to the warm downslope wind in the Rocky Mountains that may occur after an intense cold spell when the temperature could rise by 20 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit in a matter of minutes. Also known as the Snow Eater. 

Foehn Wind: A warm dry wind on the lee side of a mountain range, whose temperature is increased as the wind descends down the slope. It is created when air flows downhill from a high elevation, raising the temperature by adiabatic compression. Examples include the Chinook wind and the Santa Ana wind. Classified as a katabatic wind. (Weather Channel Glossary)

At the bottom of the route, we found snow covering the base of the climb. But the bottom pitch on the 4th Flatiron is such a non-event, even though protection-less, that we didn’t even discuss it. I asked Brian if he wanted me to take the first lead, since it was such a short, easy pitch. He hesitated to accept my offer since he likes to start fast, but after a few moments consideration he decided to let me take it so he could do the more interesting 2nd pitch. He handed me the gear and I took off.

1st Pitch (9:30am)

With a plan to head up to the summit of Green Mountain afterward, I was wearing my approach shoes instead of climbing shoes so that I didn’t have to carry 2 pairs.  To keep them dry, I chose to start up a snow-less, shallow gully 10 feet left of the normal start. I didn’t think about it much but figured I could traverse over after climbing up a few feet. I was so unconcerned about the climb that I didn’t even bother to remove my liner gloves.  And, for the first couple minutes, I climbed while finishing a work story that I had been telling Brian for the past 15 minutes.

Normal Start (left) vs. 'Dry' Start Taken (right). Photo taken on rappel.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had forgotten to do the traverse. Instead of quickly getting onto easy ground, the climbing was getting steep and wet (from snow melt above).  I looked across to the proper gully and saw that the intervening rock was too steep to traverse in my approach shoes.  My only options were to continue up and hope for the best or down climb to a better spot for a traverse. Since I didn’t have any protection in the rock and it didn’t look like I would find anything for another 25′, I decided to attempt the dreaded and always difficult down climb.

I managed to descend about 7′ but could go no further without a high chance of falling.

I decided to try the traverse, but couldn’t figure out how to make it work.  It just seemed too likely that I would end up sliding (or bouncing?) 10′ down the rock to the ground.  I looked back up the line I was on and could see that the holds got better as the rock got steeper.  I didn’t want to take a chance on falling just yet and so I figured my best bet was to climb up and hope to find a way out of my jamb.

Delayed Risk Preference Fallacy: the tendency to prefer solutions that eliminate a perceived likelihood of a bad outcome now in exchange for a likely worse outcome later.

This tendency is related to Wishful Thinking (making decisions based on what is pleasing to imagine instead of by appealing to evidence, rationality or reality) and Irrational Escalation (justifying an increased investment in a decision, based on the cumulative prior investment, despite new evidence suggesting that the decision was probably wrong.)…this tendency leads to the pattern of behavior so commonly referred to as “it isn’t the crime, it’s the cover-up” made notorious by Watergate.

Let me stop here and point out to myself and the world that this decision was horrendous.  It goes against everything I have learned over the last 15 years.  And this fact reveals just how treacherous the slippery slope of delayed risk preference is to human nature.  Clearly the primary mistake was not paying attention to the need to traverse.  But, once I realized that I couldn’t traverse without serious risk, I should have downclimbed as far as I could…even if I would eventually slip and fall to the ground.  It would only have been a 7′ fall.  But instead, I decided to continue up a path that was steep, wet, snow covered, never climbed (loose rock and a ton of lichen & moss), and with no chance for protection until after a fall would be fatal.  By not wanting to face the serious but non life-threatening consequences of my initial mistake, I forced a bad situation and created a strong opportunity to die that I only survived by luck.

Damn it!

I even said out loud after giving up on the traverse that I sure did screw up.  Brian shouted up that if I was really worried, I’d take off my gloves.  Right.  Where was my head?

I finally removed my gloves after reaching a set of bomber footholds and then continued up, one agonizingly slow move after another. I was able to reach the bottom of the snow cover without too much difficulty, but that ended any easy moves.  I tried to dig out the snow and ice to find a crack for a cam, but the ice was too strong and went too deep.  In the few minutes I invested in the effort, I only managed to tire myself out.

Brian recalls:

About 10 feet into the first pitch, I woke up and started paying attention to the rock.  I think Joe did, too, at that point, which was unfortunate for him because he was leading while I was just holding a useless rope.  I watched him try once or twice, then abandon traversing right to the standard groove. The face he was on had just a hint of northern exposure and the accompanying lichen.  But it was dry and the slope seemed to level off just above.  Another 10 feet, still no pro, and chunks of snow start getting tossed down. Lots of snow.  Where is he getting all that from?  At least it is adding to the crusty drift at the base, which is Joe’s sole protection if he slips. I guess I’ll drop the rope in that case and try to “spot” him into the drift.

I looked up to see that the rock above steeped significantly and the improved holds which tempted me from below were now clearly wet. And, I could see for certain that there was absolutely zero protection until I reached the top of the snow cover where a large boulder was wedged. At this point, a sense of doom came over me.  In my mind’s eye, and for the first time in my climbing life, I could foresee my failure and my body bouncing down the rock to my death. I would have given anything to be out of that situation, but there would be no rescue. Lacking alternatives to merely jumping to get it over with, I kept moving up.

Despite not have any issues with my approach shoes, I had to continue to bear in mind that I wasn’t wearing rock shoes that would give me enough sensitivity to the rock to feel the beginning of a slip.  I had to rely on my handholds to give me a 2nd chance if I had a slip; this caused me to grip extra hard and my fingers to get cold even faster than normal. And, the increasing lack of finger sensitivity forced me to grip even harder. I had to continue moving up by smearing the wet rock and could only stop to look around once more when I found two good footholds together.

A view of the Royal Arch from the top of the 1st pitch

Slowly I crept toward the large boulder at the top of the snow cover and marking the easing of the rock angle (and protection, I hoped).  Two more moves, and then only one more move to reach it. I was desperate to reach a bomber hold to save me…to let me recover.  Finally, I was there and I jammed my hand into the crack between the boulder and the rock face….but no joy. The shadows contained only icy, sloping spaces.

Tenuously perched upon cramping legs on one good but wet foothold and one poor foothold, I had only moments left to save myself.  I decided to place some rock gear in the icy shadows, hoping that something would catch somewhere, somehow.  That done, I noticed a small detached flake above my head to the left; surely I was saved.  And with a burst of adrenaline to energize my final effort to live, I placed a small Friend in the perfect crack.  Before clipping, I pulled on the piece, and nearly fell when the piece pulled out easily.  The flake was wobbly and would not hold gear.

I was down to my last chance.  I was tempted to pull on the loose flake, trusting to luck that it would hold just long enough.  But, I could not bring myself to risk it breaking off and sending me tumbling. Out of options, I stepped up onto the ice and reached high, above the big boulder and found a hole in which I jammed my now bleeding and numb hand. It was solid. I stepped up with my second foot and then both feet blew out, slipping out from under me on the ice.  But the hand jam held and I was able to haul my body higher to reach better holds and my escape.

I called back to Brian and apologized for forcing him to follow my terrible path in order to clear the gear.

A short time later I reached the top of the 1st pitch and brought Brian up.  It took him 10 minutes to climb the pitch that I had agonized on for 45 minutes.

2nd Pitch (10:30am)

Joe examining the route and decompressing from a close call

Brian took the 2nd pitch with a promise to check out the fun possibility of escaping from the back of the shallow cave along the way.  The cave route would only work without packs in Brian’s judgement, and so would have to wait for another day.

When Brian reached the 2nd belay, he yelled down to see if I had both cordalettes.  I announced that I had none (I had given no thought to the matter since I was used to not having one in recent days).  Brian then announced that both cordalettes were down at the base.

What a day!

In order to avoid losing both of our cordalettes, Brian untied from one of our double ropes so I could pull it down.  I then untied from the rope Brian retained and used the 2nd rope to setup a rappel that I used to return to the base of the climb. I found the cordelettes hanging on a tree near where the gear was hanging when Brian handed it to me 1.5 hours earlier.  I should have taken at least one of the cordalettes at that time, but it was that sort of day.  I grabbed them both and then used the rappel rope to batman my way back up, this time using the proper path…snow patch be damned. When I got back to the 1st belay, it was 11am. I put the rope away and tied back into the rope anchored to Brian.  I then followed the pitch quickly to join Brian at the 2nd belay.

3rd Pitch (11:30am)

I was my turn, and I needed to shake off the lack of confidence that hung on me like a bad smell. I mostly followed the ridge line as I worked up and right. I managed to not be too stressed despite not finding much gear. I reached the normal belay spot in a small alcove that separates the upper two pieces of the 1st section of the 4th Flatiron. Brian followed quickly.

Brian climbing above the 3rd pitch, on the 1st section of the 4th Flatiron

4th Pitch (12:00pm)

Brian didn’t think he could reach the end of the 1st section of the 4th Flatiron and enquired about the possibility of a simulclimb.  I told him that I had not felt secure all day in my approach shoes and not to push it.  As a result, Brian stopped on a good ledge with a nice big puddle.  I followed without incident.

5th Pitch (12:15pm)

I finished the last bit of the 1st section with a short sprint to the top and then a downclimb to the dirt and rocks between the 1st and 2nd sections of the 4th Flatiron.  Brian followed and then agreed to take a break for a late lunch.  Afterward, we speculated about where the 2nd section started.  We’d done the 4th several times over the years, but the memory wasn’t clear.  Several place looked right, but I thought we had to scramble up a ways to get to a ledge system that I saw from the top of the 1st section.  But after wandering around for 10 minutes, it finally dawned on me that the proper spot was only a few feet from where we ate lunch.

6th Pitch (1:00pm)

The traverse and climb to the Hanging Garden

Since it was my poor memory that resulted in us not being sure about the start, it was rightfully my risk to check it out. But Brian was chomping at the bit and grabbed the sharp end. It was his turn, after all.

Brian took off and I fed out the rope until it was gone.  I knew something must have gone wrong…we hadn’t simul-climbed here before. But I hurried to ready myself to give Brian more rope and was ready just as Brian yelled out for more rope.  I started the traverse with the knowledge that I must not fall.

Brian’s point of view:

The trench really didn’t seem wet at first.  Flaring, and deep enough to isolate climbers, it was dry except for the few slimy inches of parallel off-width in the center that normally would be the best feet.  Still, I thought I that with the low angle, I could stem across the flare on slopers while pinching the edges.  There was a little snow up above at the first chockstone, but surely it would be drier after that.  But it wasn’t.  The chockstone made a platform ideal for holding snow, and soon I was trying to jam soggy shoes, wishing the pro placements weren’t 15-20 feet apart.

I started looking for a belay perch, figuring that Joe would soon be simul-climbing in the wet stuff.  More snow patches came and went with no relief.  A lone scrawny tree passed by.  It had no backup and gave no hope that a belayer might keep the rope dry.   I reached the base of the crux section, got in a good cam, and knew that Joe must be standing in slime.  I was standing in postholes.  Another 8 feet of rock and I was actually sliding, just breaking even between forward and backward movement.  I could back off to the last cam, but then what?  Ask Joe to lead in his approach shoes with no pro until the next chockstone?

I leaned a shoulder into the flaring groove and stretched the opposite foot way out to some holds, then chimneyed and groveled my way for 15 dripping feet, hollering for rope slack.  That got me to the last chockstone where the grade eased up and the snow reappeared.  A dry, side-sloping ramp on the left was the final remaining section of the 4th’s middle tier.  It promised some cam placements, but it was all lies.   Its dry nature wilted under my wet feet.  When I finally sunk my fingers around a lip that formed a threshold to the hanging garden, I was beat and extremely thankful that Joe had remembered the classic climber’s mantra:  “the belayer must not fall”.

Back at the bottom of the pitch on simul-climb, I found at first that the climbing was no big deal; the traverse was barely technical.  Once I dropped into the gully, the situation became more interesting.

I made every effort to keep my approach shoes out of the snow and water; I didn’t want a slip.  Fortunately, once the conditions deteriorated to the point of ridiculousness, I could see Brian had setup a secure belay; a slip would no longer mean a permanent end to the Brian and Joe show.  The last section was so slippery I said out loud to Brian, “well, this couldn’t have been fun on simul-climb.”  Brian merely grunted in agreement.

4th Flatiron route taken vs. official

Decision to Bail (1:45pm)

Once in the Hanging Garden, it was clear we were done.  We only had 3 hours of light remaining to do 4 more pitches plus a long slog to the summit of Green Mountain and a 30 minute descent.  No way.  We’ve been down that path on this exact rock before; we wouldn’t do it again.  It just wasn’t our day.

The descent was nasty but at least non death-defying. I was glad to be alive.

I’ll do better.  I promise.  And I think I’ll be bring my rock shoes when I go rock climbing from now on.

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“Hurricane Andrew ripped through Dade County in August, 1992. Winds reaching up to 175 mph left a path of destruction. Andrew forced 50,000 residents from their homes and caused $25 Billion in damages”

Places I lived in South Florida over 25 years

I grew up in South Florida, moving to Plantation from Trenton, NJ when I was 4 years old. I lived in the South Florida area for 25 years before I experienced my first hurricane, Andrew, in the early morning hours of August 24, 1992.  My parents and their siblings were born and raised in South Florida, and their parents continued to live in the area along with most of my aunts and uncles and cousins for many years after I arrived.  I was raised on family stories of terrible storms and imagining what would necessitate the massive iron and steel hurricane shutters that had not bee used since before my Florida residence began.  Over such a long period of time, quite naturally there were a number of near misses; it happened just enough for hurricanes to feel like a myth…something to ignore.

Coconut Grove home

In the Summer of 1991, I purchased a home in Coconut Grove that had been built in the 1920′s.  The fact that the home had withstood multiple hurricanes over the years meant very little to me. Also irrelevant, except for the savings on flood insurance, was the fact that the home was built on the highest natural elevation point for the entire southern Florida geography (16 feet above sea level) despite being only 1 block west of Biscayne Bay.  On the other hand, it had no storm shutters, which was of no concern to me at all.

I loved that house, with the palm trees and wooded patches throughout the yard; it was a perfect shelter from my stressful professional life.

Dangerously Isolated (T-minus 36 hours)

It was August 22, 1992, and I was attending a pre-season football game of the Miami Dolphins in Joe Robbie stadium when I was asked what I planned to do about ‘the hurricane’.  My response was, “what?”  I had heard nothing about it at all.  It may seem hard to believe, but there was no internet news, and since I didn’t watch much TV or read the local newspaper, it was possible for me to be isolated.  Still, it made sense that something had kept the crowd lower than usual for a preseason game (42k vs. 60k); I just didn’t know.

Map of Hurricane Andrew location by date in August of 1992

Yet, when I checked the news later that day, I found that there was no hurricane.  Andrew was just a tropical storm that seemed to have recently shifted toward South Florida.  It wasn’t until 5:45 p.m. that evening (just 27 hours before the storm arrived and 36 hours prior to the eventual landfall) that a hurricane ‘watch’ went out (I made sure to watch TV news that night).

The Public was told that the storm, which was likely to become a hurricane, would most likely come ashore along the Dade and Broward county line, which would miss me by 20 miles to the north. And I had to believe that the storm could also change course again and miss the state entirely. I was relieved and satisfied that events would progress as they had many times before…once more, the storm warning would amount to nothing serious.

At this point, I was cautious but unmotivated to even begin to think about the ‘what-if’s’.

Contributing to my overly slow reaction were four historical facts:

1. No hurricanes hit south Florida since 1965 (28 years) and no serious threats since 1979 (14 years)
2. Andrew was the first tropical storm of 1992
3. Andrew had not threatened Florida at all until the evening on the 22nd (22 hours before the storm began)
4. Andrew was a fast hurricane, moving 17-18 miles per once it turned toward Florida; it came on very quickly

Looking Serious (T-minus 24 hours)

Once I awoke on the morning of August 23rd and found that the storm had intensified (officially a hurricane with a hurricane ‘warning’ issued) and was still heading toward the Dade/Broward border, I decided that it did seem likely that the storm would hit something.  But I’d seen that before.  I was willing to take some precautions, but I wasn’t going to do something stupidly unnecessary, like evacuating.  My thinking, which I still think is valid, was ‘where would I go to dodge the storm?’  I could only head north, and who was to say the storm wouldn’t push even farther north.  And besides, the southern end of the storm (where I was) is the least likely to cause serious damage. No.  I decided I would stay with my house.  And I would protect my property in whatever way I could at the last moment.

The Right Side of the Storm
As a general rule of thumb, the hurricane’s right side (relative to the direction it is travelling) is the most dangerous part of the storm because of the additive effect of the hurricane wind speed and speed of the larger atmospheric flow (the steering winds). The increased winds on the right side increase the storm surge. Tornadoes are also more common here.

~NOAA, Hurricane Basics

At this point, my emotions ran mostly toward irritation.  I was worried enough to apply myself to the situation, but I didn’t really expect anything serious to happen.

I drove to nearby stores and quickly found out that I was too late; all the wood for securing windows and the non-perishable food and bottled water had been bought out, everywhere.  I bought a trash can for water and tape for windows and returned home to do what I could.  I filled the trash can with water and left it in the central bathroom to protect it from more exposed areas of the house.  I then taped up all the windows and used whatever trash wood I had lying around to board up the biggest window I had….a big bay window overlooking my front lawn.  I took down my awnings and brought inside all patio furniture, and then there was nothing to do.

To make use of the time, I decided to get in my bike training ride.  I decided I would ride over to Key Biscayne to see how people were preparing on the island.  But once again, the preparation had already happened. The roads were empty as I had Rickenbacker Causeway all to myself for the first and only time.  The only vehicle I saw was a van filming a video from an open back, which had so little to see it decided to say with me to film my entire ride up and over the high point of the bridge.  I only rode for a couple hours; I might have been stupid, but I wasn’t crazy.

Once I got home, I didn’t have long to wait, so I watched TV, which was now broadcasting hurricane news full time.

Then It Got Dark (T-minus 9 hours)

The daylight was drawing to an end around 8pm when the winds started to pick up.  The radio said the edge of the storm had arrived, but to me it just looked a bit windy outside.  I was relieved that it wouldn’t be a big deal after all.

And then a massive tree across the street exploded as it twisted off its truck and fell to the ground onto the street in front of my house.  And then, in short order, everyone of my palm trees in the front yard just simply fell over.  Thump, thump, thump.

The winds were only 40-50 mph, about to go to over 100 mph.  And then it got dark.

At this point, my emotions began to shift from being annoyed about the mess the storm would make to being worried about the level of damage that might occur.  It seemed likely that I was going to lose some stuff.

The TV was on until about midnight when the power went out (it wouldn’t come back on for over a week). From then on, I listened to the newscasts on my portable radio that never left my pocket for 30 hours (I used a single earpiece ‘headphone’, if you can believe such a thing ever existed). My Motorola MicroTAC cell phone didn’t have internet access yet (nor an ability to place phone calls for quite a while).  The talk on the radio was all about where would the eye wall make landfall.  Would it come straight west or would it veer off a bit north or south….or even straight north with the Gulf Stream, and miss us all together.  In the meantime, all I could do was walk from window to window to see whatever horrific damage I could see happening to my property.

The power of Hurricane Andrew winds

The Wind was Unreal (Zero hour)

I could no longer see anything outside, except for my biggest palm tree on the north side of the house which had leaned over until it was leaning up against and banging the roof over the master bedroom.  It worried me enough that I felt I should go outside to see if the bedroom was dangerous.

I knew it was stupid to go outside, but I just had to know.  I just had to see what a hurricane was like.

I put on my bicycle helmet and the rain gear that I had purchased for my rock climbing trip to Colorado earlier that summer, grabbed my flashlight, and then I ventured outside.

The wind was unreal.  The trees were blowing around so violently that they seemed to be trying to reach down to kill me; it was like a horror movie.  The black sky was broken and streaked with green light, which seemed to be lightning shining through tons of water in the air.  The wind and lightning blended into a freight train like cacophony or a very angry god. If I had imagined that it was directed at me, I would have been terrified.

I was persistent in working my way around toward the other side of the house, but after I was thrown to the ground the second time I started to worry about being killed. I finally retreated to the house for shelter before being able to see the palm tree.

I abandoned the master bedroom just in case and sat in a central portion of the house.  I didn’t know what else to do.

A Terrible Mistake (The storm shifts to the south)

With nothing to do but listen for radio updates, I heard them all.  Mostly they didn’t have anything new to say other than how terrible the storm was and how people were certainly dying in large numbers.

Around 3am, the radio said that the storm seemed to be shifting to the south.  Instead of passing me 20 miles to the north, it was coming toward downtown Miami, which was only 1 mile to the north.  That left me with a very small margin; if the storm shifted just a bit further south, it would come directly toward me.

At 5am, the radio announced that the hurricane was passing over and destroying Key Biscayne (5 miles away) and would soon cross onto the mainland.  I sat in stunned silence as I realized that the storm was now heading directly for me.

My heart sank as I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. I didn’t believe my old wood frame house would stand up to the abuse, and being exposed to the elements and flying debris would certainly cost me my life.  And there was nothing I could do about it.  It was like piloting an airplane falling from high in the sky due to pilot error…no way to avoid the inevitable, terrible end and with too much time to regret the error.

I just sat and waited for the end.  I waited for the eye wall to reach me and tear my house down and kill me.  I didn’t know what else to do.  I could only hope that the central portion of my house would survive and protect me from collapsing and flying debris, and could only hope that the storm surge would not be high enough to reach me at 16 feel above sea level.

Hurricane Andrew (1992) - Map of Storm Path: Real & Imagined

But the radio broadcast was wrong….the broadcaster, and so I, didn’t know these 4 things:

1. The storm was destroying only the southern tip of Key Biscayne, which was 5 miles to the south of me (98% of trees were flattened)
2. The storm only seemed to be further north than it was because the damage on the north side of a hurricane is worse
3. The most destructive part of the storm, the eye wall, was actually much further south
4. The storm was moving so quickly that the storm surge was far below the normally expected level

Instead of getting worse, the winds started to die down after a few hours.  The full force of the storm has missed me.

Piecing together what really happened

It was strange to learn that the weather people really didn’t know what was happening or even where the storm was.  It actually took some work after the fact to establish where the storm had traveled.   While everyone had thought the storm was heading directly west, for the Dade/Broward border, it really was located much further south.  While I had thought it had shifted south to head directly for me, it was never aimed in my direction.  Still, a hurricane is a big storm, and I certainly learned to respect its power.

All that mattered to me at that moment was that I was going to live, at least for a while longer.  But ordeal wasn’t over by a long-shot.

When the victims of Andrew and their would-be rescuers emerged from shelter sometime between 7 and 8 in the morning, they found unimaginable damage. It took four months for the toll to be tallied. But that hot and soggy Monday no one could have known that 92 percent of the power grid in South Florida needed  reconstruction with 1.4 million or 84 percent of FP&L customers in Dade without power and not likely to get power for longer than a week. It would take 34 days before power was restored to 100 percent of the Dade County homes that could accept it.

Buildings on the Deering Estate (12 miles south of my house). Storm surge measured at 16.5 feet, which is higher than the elevation of my Coconut Grove house.

Something Awakens

When I walked out into the light the morning after, it felt great to be alive.  Oh, it was a terrible tragedy, but I lived.  And I felt alive in a way I had never felt before.  The fact that I lost some ‘stuff’ was completely irrelevant to me, emotionally.

I knew that I had some misery to endure to clean up the mess, but I didn’t really care.  My life was good and I was never going to be satisfied with the way I had been wasting my life before the storm.  Something had awakened in me; I wanted more adventure!  And it didn’t have to be in Florida!

Aftermath (+1 to 7 days)

The next week involved a mixture of cleanup work and awe-inspiring exploration of the damage just 1/2 a block toward the bay.

The first thing I did after the storm was walk (scramble over fallen trees, really) 1 block to the park between my house and Biscayne Bay to see what happened below the limestone ridge my house sat upon.  I only had to walk 1/2 a block to see that the storm surge would have reached me if I was 10 feet lower (vs. being at 16′ elevation).  Where the storm was strongest, the storm surge would have just barely reached me.

And once I could see the water, I could see boats up on land everywhere.  It was surreal.

At my house, the clean up involved removing all the fallen palm trees and picking up the massive volumes of debris that had come from everywhere.  But my house had survived intact.  My car didn’t even have any damage due to be hidden under a concrete carport.

The food in the refrigerator lasted a day before having to be thrown out onto the gigantic trash pile that would remain for many weeks.

I walked 5 blocks to the local grocery to find it had been looted.  Nothing was left except for the paper trash not worth stealing.

But I had water and supplies for peanut butter sandwiches to last me for three days, and then I lived on spoonfuls of peanut butter and the occasional gift from a neighbor.

Back to Work (+8 to 14 days)

Destruction of Homestead Air Force Base

Once I managed to get back to work, the company had mobilized into helping employees who had been hit the worst. I drove a truck for a week to pickup supplies and deliver them where needed.  The most amazing sights were when we delivered a fleet of trucks to Homestead Airforce Base.

On the drive down, it looked like the city had been bombed.  There was not a single leaf on a tree and every roof was destroyed to some extent.

And once we arrived in Homestead, we knew where the storm had wreaked its worst damage.  There were even f-16′s destroyed and laying, broken, on the ground.

It was a life changing experience, in many ways. And my love for Florida was permanently shaken.

Later that year, when I had a chance to relocate for work, I took it.

Click here to see my reports from adventures taken in the years since Hurricane Andrew

We’re in that ‘inbetween’ season where the weather can be sunny and cool, when it isn’t laying down a bizzard.  Ah, Fall.

As we do so often in this season, Brian and I settled on looking for something in the Flatirons to find some weekend fun. Brian had the idea to head into Skunk Canyon for a change. It has been a while since I did a new flatiron; my quest to climb all the flatirons has turned into a lifelong project.  I was excited to pick off another classic:  Achean Pronouncement (5.7+).  Yes, it is a Roach ‘classic climb’…a designation that is at least as good as the ‘Two Thumbs Up” used to be back in the Ebert & Roper days.

Approach

Our 1st view of the Achean Pronouncement provided a clear view of the route: up the crack to the right of the dihedral, follow the skyline, then pass underneath the summit block to mount on far side.

We started from the NCAR parking lot and made quick progress to the creek bed beneath Satan’s Slab and the Achean Pronouncement (“AP”).  Brian gazed longingly at Satan’s Slab, but we had done it many years ago. I insisted we add to the list and so we followed the climber’s trail up and left to reach the bottom of AP.

Roach indicated that the start was ’60 feet up and south of the low point’.  But that didn’t look right, so we hunted around a bit until settling on the bad news that the blank looking, dirty slabby path to the two trees was probably the path.  Holy cow….it looked like you’d have to jump for a tree, if you fell, in a desperate effort to live. Ugh.

But the more I looked at it, the more I could see pro and features.  The only thing I could not see what the last couple moves to escape the danger zone, but I decided I’d volunteer.

Pitch 1

Starting from the tree on the ground approx. 60 feet from the low point of the flatiron, I picked my way up and right toward the 2 trees that marked the bottom of the 2nd pitch. I moved high enough to place the gear that was possible but made sure to stay left of the Juniper bush that was flowing down the face.  After a moment of exposed difficulty, the short pitch was over.

As I sat in the shade, slowly getting cold, I realized that I’d dressed for a summer climb instead of a cooler, breezier fall climb.  I shouted down to Brian to bring up my sweater that I managed to bring in a spasm of thoughtfulness.  I couldn’t do anything about my short pants, but at least I’d have a jacket, even if it was only a light fleece.

Pitch 2

Heading up the obvious crack toward the next tree-based belay station, Brian moved a bit more slowly than I’ve come to expect of him. I noticed more than usual as I was very cold despite now wearing my sweater, and I wanted to move up into the sunshine as soon as possible.

When it was finally time for me to climb, I discovered the source of the slow pace:  lichen. The route was very dirty for a ‘classic’ Roach climb, and it was slick as snot.  And the pro was surprisingly sparse; I was able to forgive Brian for his careful pace.

I worked my way up, slipping 3 separate times before reaching the belay.

Brian belaying after leading the 4th pitch; photo taken while straddling the ridge

Pitch 3

The third pitch stayed close to the dihedral, which was more of a scramble than a rock climb, so the lack of pro wasn’t an issue.  As I neared the top of the ridge, I could tell that a mere fleece sweater would not be enough…the wind was really blowing.

The promised fixed pro was gone, but I was able to set a strong anchor before bringing up Brian.

Pitch 4

Brian took off over a blank slab, angling up and left, and placing questionable gear every now and again, for moral support, I suppose.

I followed quickly, only stopping once after regaining the ridge to snap a photo of brian below the summit block.

Once I was able to check the topo, I realized that Brian had taken most of the 6th pitch as well.  I figured the final and crux pitch would be mine, for a change.

Pitch 5

The climbing was much more pleasant than earlier. This was why Roach had picked this climb as a ‘Classic’.  It was a very nice finish.

I worked my way across the slab below the summit block, looking for a path upward.  I had to move fully past the summit block to find a good path upward, which I took to wind around to the south face where the pro was scheduled to disappear.

I hunted around for the right path to the top, first examining the SE corner and then settling on the south face 20 feet to the left.  I placed the last piece I could get in and started up only to find that the rope was dragging on something I had missed along the way.  After fiddling with it I surrendered and setup an anchor to belay Brian.  The 6th pitch would be his after all.

An impressive view of the four ridges to the north of the Achean Pronouncement: Ridges from right to left: 1 (Stairway to Heaven), 2 (Devil's Slab), 3 (Angel's Way) and 4 (Mohling Arete).

Pitch 6

Brian took about 1 minute to pass the crux above my head and then another 5 minutes to scramble to the top.

It was a nice climb to find and do for the first time after climbing in the Flatirons for 15 years.

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Brian and I knew the weather would be colder, as in the 40F area, and rainy. But Saturday was the only day we could get out, and since we’ve climbed the flatirons in the rain before, we decided it was no big deal. I remarked to Brian that the cooler weather would keep away the lightning, so we shouldn’t have any problems.

We met at the Chautauqua parking lot at 8:30am, both of us wisely with full waterproof shell gear.  I even had a light sweater and liner gloves, just in case.  I thought about bringing a heavier jacket but couldn’t fit it in my pack and didn’t want to wear anything hot on the hike in.  I also could not find any waterproof gloves, but I figured I would be okay with wet hands for only a few hours.

We started up toward the 3rd Flatiron (39.98760, -105.29163) in a light drizzle.  Along the way, we could see the snow dusting that had fallen and stuck to the trees up high on Green Mountain.  We didn’t think it would be too bad.

We were wrong.

A view of Chautauqua Park from the 3rd Flatiron on a snowy rock climb

Naturally, we were alone on the rock. We started up, taking the easiest possible path along the East Face of the 3rd Flatiron.  On a normal day, it would be easy enough to skip a rope (only a few spots as hard as 5.4).  But lichen-covered rock dripping wet in a steady light snow, we knew it wouldn’t take much bad luck to create serious problems. Let’s just say that our progress was justifiably slow.

Within the first 10 minutes, I was very sorry not to have brought more clothes. I was thinking, what kind of idiot goes out to climb in a snow shower without waterproof gloves or even a warm hat, for the love of God.

With my core getting cold, my exposed hands were doomed, and they got worse and worse until they refused to function properly. The climbing gear was nearly impossible to manipulate with immovable fingers.

Fortunately, the climbing required few hand holds.

At first, I stopped every 20 feet to warm my hands on my legs; it helped well enough to get me to the first belay. I told Brian to continue leading if he was able; I was too cold and needed some time to warm up.

He said he was okay and so organized the rope and gear as I jammed my hands inside my clothes to warm them against my belly skin.  My core was warm, but I swear my hands won the temp battle and cooled my core instead of the planned opposite impact.

A view of the First and Second Flatiron from low on the 3rd Flatiron, as the weather worsened

After 2-3 minutes, I accepted failure and put my liner gloves on and made ready to belay Brian.  He took off just as the sky started snowing harder, throwing large clumps of snowflakes. Within a few minutes, my gloves were wet and worse than useless.

We repeated this process 3 times, with the weather getting worse and worse.  On the 4th pitch, my hands were completely gone and my feet were starting to get numb.  I knew I had to get off the rock quickly before I lost the ability to get down at all.

When I reached Brian in the notch below the final pitch, I told him I had to skip the final pitch and scramble to the rappel anchors from there.  He agreed as he had finally succumbed to the elements as well and was shivering like a wet rat.

Brian climbing through a wet, heavy snowfall on the 3rd Flatiron

It was my job to move the belay through the escape gully, but first I had to get some functionality back into my hands.  Once again I jammed my claws down my pants to find warm skin.  This time, I had to endure the thawing agonies that we all know so well.  I was yelling out loud to disrupt my mind’s focus on the pain.  After five minutes, my hands started working again, and in addition, the adrenaline from the pain had warmed up my entire body and mind!  I’m sure it helped that I was sheltered from the wind throughout the process.

I moved the belay and setup the rappel.  I quickly rapped down to the rap ledge and then traversed west to the second anchor where I clipped in before taking myself off rappel.

While I waited for Brian, I could see that the wind blowing south was fierce.  On a south-facing ledge, we were protected for the moment; but soon we’d have to step and rappel into that freezing hurricane.  I was thankful for not facing it all the way to the summit.

Brian quickly followed.  He pulled the rope and handed me an end that I used to setup the 2nd rappel. I clipped in and stepped over the edge.  Only 75 feet from the ground, I was almost safe. Almost.

Brian escaping the brutally cold wind after the descent

About 1/3 of the way down, I noticed that the rope dangling below me had been blown around the corner of the arête and been tangled on rock features seemly designed with deadly intent.  While hanging in a freezing wind, clawing my way toward the snagged rope, the thought ran through my mind:  if I cannot clear the rope quickly, I’ll die here today.

I attempted to clear the tangle as my brake hand (holding my weight on the rope) slowly lost feeling. I couldn’t quite get far enough around the corner to see what the rope was caught on, so I kept flipping the rope in hopes of clearing whatever it had gotten hooked on. After 4 attempts, the rope fell clear.

Then the wind blew again and the rope below me swung around the corner to get caught again. Once again I clawed my way to get as close as I could, and finally was able to clear it.  Before heading down I looked to see if any more tangles would impede my retreat, and could see a massive knot in the ropes well below me, blowing far out to my left in the wind.  My heart sank for a moment until I realized that I could reach the ground before needing to clear the knot. I was safe!

After reaching the ground, I cleared the knot and then scrambled to find some shelter from the hurricane winds while I waited for Brian, who soon joined me for a snowy scramble back to civilization and warmth.

I know it sounds rather pathetic, my near brush with disaster while doing a 5.4 rock climb in the Boulder Flatirons.  But I have to say that Brian and I both felt that we could both be pleased that we found an adventure and persevered on a day when a self-inflicted adventure was all we had time for.

I suppose it is true, adventure is where you find it. And, twenty-four hours later, my fingertips are just starting to regain feeling.