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Spearhead Bootcamp

June 29, 2010

A dark Spearhead in the distance

My high altitude climbing goals for the 2010 summer season meant I needed to get back into shape.

Brian had talked about redoing the Spiral Route on Notchtop; I had been talking about redoing the North Ridge on Spearhead.  We were worried about snow on the descent behind the Notch, so we agreed to do Spearhead.  A Spearhead Bootcamp, as it were.

I asked Brian what time he’d pick me up.  He responded that we used to start at 2:30am.  Now, I have to admit that 2:30am sounds too early.  I mean, why did we used to start at 2:30am?  So I started counting:  1.5 hours to drive from Boulder to the Glacier Gorge parking lot (4am) plus 2 hours to hike to Black Lake (6am), plus 45 minutes to hike to Spearhead (6:45am).  With sunrise at 5:30am, it would be light enough to climb by 6am; and with a forecast of possible thunderstorms at 1pm, starting at 2:30am seemed foolishly late.  The question was, could I live with getting up even earlier than 2am?

I agreed to be ready at 2:30am.  We’d just have to get down by 1pm.

The beautiful terrain of Glacier Gorge

When the alarm went off at 2am, I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me.  I used to do this all the time, and I always hated it.  But this time, it just felt right. I jumped up and got ready.

We arrived at the Glacier Gorge parking lot at 4am and started up the dark, windy trail.  There were a few cars in the lot, but we had the trails to ourselves.

A snowy barrier below Black Lake

Upward and onward we hiked toward Loch Vale, taking the cutoff to Black Lake about 1.75 miles in (using the shortcut).  We could hear the full creeks roaring by, but could not see a thing outside the flashlight beams. It wasn’t until we were hiking below Arrowhead that the sky started to get light.  To that point, we’d walked on dirt and rocks; no snow any where near the trail.  But as we approached Black Lake, we found a lot of snow.  It was a delicate thing, walking across frozen snow in sneakers. But it only slowed us a bit, and we arrived at Black Lake at 5:45am.

I really should have brought better footwear. Sure my light hiking sneakers felt great while carrying them up the climb, but on the hike in and out they felt like slippers that permitted the roots and rocks to bash and mangle my feet. It is said that good fences make for good neighbors; I contend it is also true that good boots make for good terrain. I won’t make that mistake again anytime soon.

My first good view of Spearhead for the day. The North Ridge route ascends the right hand boundary of the broad face in the photo.

Sunrise may have been at 5:30am in Denver; but in Glacier Gorge, we could see little of that sunshine.

While I was starting to feel the weight of my pack (full of rock gear) and my lack of conditioning, I decided to push on to Spearhead without a rest.  Of course, Brian didn’t need one.

We were ahead of schedule and made good time up the drainage creek path to reach the Spearhead basin. All that was left was to figure out a path through the willows and streams.  Brian was ahead and took a wide detour to the left.  I thought I’d head straight on to save time.  After dunking a sneaker (made of meshy, spongy material), all I can say is my path was straighter.

At least by that time, the sky was fully lit, even though the sun would not be seen for another hour.

Spearhead is a spectacular chunk of rock.  The North Ridge route ascends the long ridge that forms the northeast face.

Brian catching a few winks at the bottom of Spearhead's North Ridge

I stopped at a small pond to fill my water bottles, take off my wet hiking sock, and give my right Achilles tendon a rest. It only took 5 minutes to complete my chores, and then I worked my way past some sleeping biviers to the start of the North Ridge route, where Brian was catching a few winks.

We started up at 7am.  Brian was shivering after his grass nap and so took the first pitch to warm up.

Pitch 1

Brian started up some easy rock and then moved left to cross a slab to get beneath the twin chimneys.  I followed and was amazed to struggle on the slab traverse.  I commented to Brian that perhaps he should have gone lower.  Perhaps, my declining skills and tolerance for altitude just made the low 5th class rock feel hard.

Brian leading the 1st pitch of Spearhead's North Ridge

I joined Brian beneath the left chimney and grabbed the gear.

Pitch 2

First on the agenda was to look at the rappel sling someone had left behind at the top of the chimney. I always like to find biners and usable rock gear to use for own my escapes.  But this was just a knotted sling stuck in a crack, and the water knot was tied with the tails so short that one has slid back into the knot.  That sling had some bad karma; I left it behind.

I continued up the crack to reach a flaring dihedral .

Then I reached a 2nd flaring dihedral, this one had a wide crack in the middle. I used the left face as it had all the holds.

Above the 2nd pitch

I continued up the ridge until I reached a ledge below a short crack. The rope was starting to feel heavy and my Achilles was demanding a sit-down rest.  I took it.

I started Brian’s belay with 3 tugs, and then I enjoyed the spectacular view of Glacier Gorge.  My eyes followed our approach path, winding up from below Bear Lake, past Mills Lake and continuing beneath Storm Peak, Thatchtop and Arrowhead to reach Black Lake, and then winding through the willows and drainage creeks to reach the foot of Spearhead.  It was breathtaking.

And we had the peak to ourselves.

Brian arrived after a short while; we re-racked and then he left, heading further up the ridge

Brian arrives at the end of the 2nd pitch

Pitch 3

Brian scrambled up the ridge line with all apparent intentions of going further than he had rope.  I gave him some rope tension to signal the impending ‘end of the line’.  He quickly found a solid belay and then I followed after struggling to extract my bomber nuts in the belay anchor.

I followed up the exposed ridge and enjoyed the excellent views of Sykes Sickle and the great rock above us.  The sun was finally beating down on us and my sweater and rain jacket started to feel like too much.

Joe (me) at the 3rd belay, about to start the 4th pitch.

I reached Brian and requested I get in one of the photos, and then I started up.

Pitch 4

Initially, I wandered left to take a new line, but the rock looked dirty and steep; I backed off.  I went up the obvious weakness in the otherwise slabby rock directly above the 3rd belay.  The climbing was rather easy and I was surprised when the rope ran out. I struggled to put in a good belay anchor, but was soon giving Brian a belay to my position.

He arrived quickly and then set off for the “big block” (Roach).

Pitch 5

Brian made short work of the rather easy rock leading up to the base of the big block, and I followed quickly.  As I approached, I recalled reading Roach describe that the standard route went right of the block to reach a ramp.  But I was certain that we’d always gone left for some challenging (as I recalled) climbing.

Above the 3rd pitch

It would be my pleasure to pick a line.

Pitch 6

I asked Brian what he thought. Instead of left vs. right, he suggested a hard crack variation (further left) that we had done the last time we did the route. I had no memory of the crack variation at first, but once I saw it I remembered.  And I remembered it was hard.  Brian suggested that

I take the crack and belay near the top of the crack, for a 100 foot pitch; then he could take the last 100 feet to the summit, including the awesome step back to the ridge and ‘The Slot’ (Roach) leading to the top of the climb.  Hmmm.  Well, I did seem to recall that is the way he did it when he led it some years ago.

I worked up the left leaning crack underneath the roof.  I had to choose between traversing left beneath the hard crack or continuing to the top of the roof before traversing left using a nice looking hand ledge.  I picked the hand ledge.

The view above the 4th belay with Brian near the 5th belay and a route line drawn to indicate the 6th pitch

I continued up and stood on top of the roof; it was a nice rest for my Achilles.  Then I looked at the hand ledge and discovered it was not as ‘nice’ as I had perceived from below.  I was still within talking distance from Brian, so I asked him what he remembered from his last visit.  He seemed to recall putting in gear on the left; I’d missed the route. I felt I could make it, but I would have had to make a hardish, unprotected traverse to reach the bottom of the hard crack.  I bailed on the idea.

I wasn’t terribly disappointed. I had mixed feelings to start with. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do the hard crack anyway, and I was damn sure I didn’t want to give up my lead on the best part of the route. I called back down to Brian to tell him that I wouldn’t put in any more gear until I was above the hard crack so he could climb it, and that I would see how high I could get.

He nodded and sealed his fate.

The start of the 5th pitch, heading left of the block overhead

I continued right across the roof to reach the bottom of the left leaning ramp.  Then I worked my way back above the crack where I finally put in another piece of protection.  I asked Brian how much rope; he indicated more than half.

How could I stop?

I looked up at the set of dihedral leading to the top and couldn’t tell which one I was suppose to climb. But I did know that I was supposed to reach the ridge at the top of the dihedral, so that meant I needed to climb the furthest left one.  It started looking familiar, and I remembered climbing it easily in the past, but those days were gone (not forever I hope).  I struggled up, and desperately searched for places to rest my Achilles.  The only place I could find a rest was at the top of the corner with one foot on the either side of the ridge crest.

It had been my intention to belay below The Slot, but I couldn’t work out a good belay.  Plus, I could see that the route only had 20′ to go.  I decided to push on and explain later.

Brian nearing the top of the 6th pitch

I stepped up and wedged myself in the slot, and found the climbing to be easier than I remembered.  Before, I’d always had tremendous rope drag, like I was dragging a couple dudes behind me.  But this time it was smooth sailing. Later I figured out it was because I didn’t place any gear on the ramp (to the right of the belay); a great lesson for the future.

I dragged my oxygen deprived body over the top, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.  I set out to place an anchor but found the rack to be nearly empty of gear and slings; I guess I had been stressed a little bit. I managed to build a solid anchor out of a cam and a wedged ass, and then I pulled up the rope.  I had at least 20 feet of slack!

I brought Brian up and was thinking about how I’d explain not leaving anything for him to lead. I was ready with my excuse, but he caught me so off-guard by cursing me while he was still doing the crux that I could only say, “I still had rope so it was technically my pitch.”  I think I’m right about that.

Once at the top, I had intended to return to the summit, as we had done the first time we climbed Spearhead in 1997.  But the weather wasn’t looking great, so after a short visual tour of the area, we started back down.

Our view from near the top of Spearhead

Rarely is a mountain summit a literal point, like the tip of a spear; but Spearhead was one of the rare ones.  The top was so small, we had to take turns sitting on it (on our initial visit in 1997). And, to make it even more interesting, the top was shaped like a throne; it was a flat seat with a comfortable back and arm rests.  It is the best seat in my RMNP palace.  Feel free to use it if you stop by.

The descent was as bad as I recalled, but we made it down without incident.

Once at the bottom of the route where we’d left our packs, our first order of duty at Spearhead was to confirm that our lunch survived our absence. This is the only real difficulty with Spearhead….there are no trees and so no obvious way to secure the food.  On our first climb in 1997, Brian tried to hang his lunch from a steep part of a large boulder; a marmot ate the sandwich and most of the plastic bag.  This forced me to give up one of my food bars and Brian to gag it down.  On our third visit, crows got into my pack (they unzipped my top compartment) to get my food bars; I don’t remember what Brian shared with me to power me home.

This time Brian resorted to burying his lunch beneath a heavy rock while I carried my bars to the summit. And we each managed to eat the lunch we brought from home.

I also did my normal ‘what time do you think it is?’ contest.  Brian guessed 12:30pm; I thought it had to be later, so I guessed 1:30pm.  After digging my watch from my pack, I could see it was 12:23pm.  Brian has a very good internal clock.

We had now climbed the North Ridge route on Spearhead 4 times.  It is a classic.

The rain and hail did catch us on the hike out, but we survived it.  The last part of the hike out felt like a death march, and my joints were killing me.  My knees are old foes, and my ankles were in revolt as well.  And my feet were destroyed by stupidity.

Spearhead approach & hike out

We made it back at 3:30pm for a 11.5 hours round trip, only 30 minutes longer than our first effort 13 years earlier.  But I was hurting pretty badly; I forced Brian to stop on the drive out so I could soak my legs in the creek for a while.  ‘Awhile’ in running, freezing water turned out to be 3 minutes.  But it was good for what ailed me.

I may get into shape yet.

Maybe next week we’ll do the Spiral Route on Notchtop.

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Lumpy Orange Julius

June 21, 2010

Okay, okay.  The title is a bit misleading, but I felt a little less than myself when trying to come up with a title.  I made do; I hope you’ll do the same.  This is a trip report about a misadventure on the Bookend crag at Lumpy Ridge climbing the classic rock climb, Orange Julius (5.10b).  It is a great climb, I hear; I can personally attest to the 1st and last pitch, which is all we did of the route.

The weekend before, we had successfully dodged trains and unsuccessfully dodged poison ivy in an unsuccessful attempt to climb on Mickey Mouse Wall near Eldorado Canyon.  After finding a “Raptor Closing” sign on the rock, we decided to make the best of what was available, some hard (5.10ish) face climbing on a few bolted routes we found nearby.  With that success, we felt confident to try something new (and hard) at Lumpy Ridge.  Brian picked Orange Julius.

On June 20, 1998, we hiked into Lumpy’s Bookend area and did a warmup climb on The Great Dihedral before starting up Orange Julius.

It was an epic.

Our unintended variation of Orange Julius

Pitch 1

Brian led the first pitch, which was the official crux of the climb, rated at 5.10b (very hard for normal people and one of the top 3 difficult routes I’ve ever done). Oddly, he struggled to get off the ground, but soon was cruising.  He ascended the dihedral and then used thin, wet face holds to traverse left out from under the roof.  The nice horizontal crack at the top of the face (under the roof) provided excellent placements for pro.  Once out from under the roof, he moved higher and found a nice belay behind a tree. I was impressed with how easily he moved past the crux; it gave me hope that the climbing was easier than the rating.

After a moment or two, Brian yells down to announce that the blue rope is stuck and he could only give me a belay on the green rope (we use a double rope system). Great.

I did a layback move to get past the ground level difficulties, and made good time up the dihedral to the roof. I then examined the rock under the roof to see what kind of hand I’d been dealt.  My high hopes for a moderate traverse were dashed immediately.

The holds were very thin and very wet.  I didn’t see any way my shoes could stick to that thin razor of an edge protruding from the rock face that I had to use, and my hand holds were worse. And everything was slick with water. I had to admire Brian for his grace, but then I realized that he had a top-rope!  The gear was above his head when he did the crux.  I had already removed the piece in the roof that protected these thin moves, and the next piece on the green rope (blue was stuck, remember) was 15 feet directly to my left; if I fell, I was going to swing a long way before smashing into the rock.

So, I had to do it.  The sequence was step out onto the wet, razors, and then step through to the next set of wet, razors, and then grabbing for a bucket.  Oh shit!

Okay, I’ve done stuff like this before, I can do it! (yeah, right; I’d done it once or twice, when dry, and not facing a big fall).

1-2-3, step, and step, and reach….made it!  How’d I do that?  Sticky rubber is truly a miracle.  I love sticky rubber!

I then cleaned up the rest of the gear, including the one that was all jammed up with the blue rope. I joined Brian at the belay and we exchanged some prideful notes on the crux pitch.  It was my turn to lead next; I was so pumped full of adrenaline that I didn’t bother to look at the topo in my pocket.  I just started climbing up the rock.

We wouldn’t see the Orange Julius route again for several hours.

Pitch 2

I went straight up the crack above me looking for a traverse right; what I should have done was quickly head right.  But I was just climbing along without thinking, and was happy as a lark.  That is, until, the good rock ran out.

I came to a mantle move that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. I didn’t want to have to reverse a mantle (and I hadn’t been able to place gear in a while), so I looked around for a better path; there wasn’t one.  So I took the mantle and then started feeling around the bulge to the left for holds; the rock above and to the right was blank.

I felt a crack, so I blindly stuck my foot around the corner and jammed my toe in the crack to balance my reach around to place some protection.  Delighted that I wouldn’t have to fall a long way, at least for a while, I made the move around the bulge and continued up.  The higher I got, the less protection I found and the dirtier (read: not climbed often) the rock became. My mind finally started working, and I started to realize that something was wrong.

I made another mantle…8 feet above my last protection…I put in a very bad TCU and then made a 5.9 crack move to a ledge…now 15 feet over my last good protection…and all the while thinking that my gratitude for chalk bordered on the religious. And looking up for some salvation, I could see bolts!  I’m saved!

My desire to live was high as I crept up a sloping slab of grit covered rock to reach the ledge with the bolts.

Brian followed quickly and offered me his highest possible compliment under the circumstances, “I bet that was scary!”  What I mean is he couldn’t rightly offer me a ‘nice lead’ complement when I really screwed the pooch.

Pitch 3

Brian then took off up some nasty off-width. He found the right path, but didn’t have enough big gear to stay in it; so, he stepped left and worked up some overhanging rock with good holds to reach a good ledge atop a pillar.

I followed quickly, but begged off taking the next lead. It was getting late and God only knew what rock was above us; we needed our best climber on lead, if we were going to have our best chance to make it out alive.

Pitch 4

As we were getting ready for Brian’s lead, the rope pile slipped off the ledge.  Brian asked if we should restack the rope; I looked over the ledge and saw that it was merely hanging straight down, not caught on anything.  I said ‘no’, it will be okay.  Brian accepted my judgment and started up the 4th pitch.  The Utter Fool!

As he was climbing, the rope was giving me more and more trouble.  It was getting friction on the rock below somehow; but I kept working on it enough to feed Brian the rope he needed….right up to the moment that the rope got fully stuck below me.

I yelled up to Brian to see if he could get off belay to let me fix the rope. I could barely make out what he was saying until I finally understood that he was saying ‘no’. I pulled like madman and managed to get enough slack to let Brian reach a belay.

But even with both hands available, I couldn’t work it out.  I managed to pull in enough slack on one rope to rappel over the edge to clear the jam.  It was overhanging, so it wasn’t easy to reach the problem.  I finally managed to work it out, but then I had to climb back to the belay station while giving myself a belay; I would climb a bit and then take in the slack and re-tie in.  The climbing involved some hard face climbing and a pendulum, but I made it.

And then I had to climb up to the next belay; well, at least this part was on a good belay.  The hardest part was a dead vertical section with thin holds.  Normally, the pro is placed before a hard section, but this time Brian had really wedged in a brown tricam right at the pitch crux.  I worked on it until my hands gave out; then I worked on it while hanging on the rope.  I still couldn’t get it out; I really hate it when Brian places tricams like nuts instead of cammed.

I was already in a foul mood from the stuck rope; I just left it.

When I reached the belay, I told Brian that I left that damn tricam behind because it was placed badly.  He grinned and said, ‘that was a hard section, huh?’  I agreed, and then he said, ‘that’s where I was when you asked if I could get off belay’. Touche.

Pitch 5

We figured we were back on route, finally.  All that was left was a 5.7 chimney that led to a bunch of easy but exposed scrambling.

It was a hell of a day. I really have to be more careful.

Someday I’d like to really climb Orange Julius; I hear it is a great climb.

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2nd Flatiron Waterfall Climb

June 16, 2010

Brian and I had scheduled a Lumpy climb for Saturday, June 12, 2010; but the weather didn’t cooperate.  After a month of hot, clear weather during which Brian skiied and I did therapy on my knee, the forecast for our rock climb was rain and cold.  Thanks.

But the forecast for Sunday looked better, so we agreed to push the plan back a day; and in addition, we agreed to move the climbing to lower elevation. We agreed to go to Eldo if the weather was good or Flatirons if the weather was bad.

We didn’t have a plan for very bad weather.

When the forecast turned to “rain all day”, we agreed at the last moment to do the 3rd Flatiron.  We’ve done the 3rd in snow and ice; we felt confident we could do it in a steady rain as well.

We started hiking from the Chautauqua Ranger Station parking lot around 8am, taking the old paved road to avoid the muddy trench that the main trail becomes when wet. It was steadily drizzling into the standing puddles that had accumulated over the past 2 days of rain. On the hike in we discussed Paul Graham’s essay on Why Nerds are Unpopular (in school).

At the turnoff the Royal Arch trail to the 2nd/3rd Flaitron approach, Brian stopped to look at the “Rock Climbing Closure” sign.  Shit.  We’d forgotten about that stupid raptor closure program that I’ve had to contend with since before I moved to Boulder many years ago.  The 3rd Flatiron was closed until the end of July.

There is no nonsense so arrant that it cannot be made the creed of the vast majority by adequate governmental action.

~Bertrand Russell (1872 – 1970)

Neither of us had a guidebook, so we resorted to mining our failing memory about past climbs and unclimbed objectives that might work under the current horrendous conditions.

My first comment was that the Tangen Tunnel route would be perfect except for the blanket of Poison Ivy living in that particular gully. I then offered the idea to finally climb the Royal Arch, but Brian rightly thought the climbing would be too steep for exceptionally slippery rock.  Brian then suggested the 1st Flatiron, but there was no way I was going up the steep East Face Direct in a steady rain.  I’ve done it wet by accident; I wasn’t going to do it intentionally.  Then I had the idea to do the 2nd Flatiron.  I remembered someone telling me about the “Highway”,  a 4th class route that went up the gully between the South Block and the main portion of the 2nd Flatiron that led to the Hanging Garden below the “Pullman Car” that capped the 2nd Flatiron.  Of course we’d skip the Pullman Car, I said.  The route had been described to me about 10 years ago, but it still felt fresh in my mind because I had thought about it every time I’d climbed the 2nd Flatiron. Brian agreed and we started for the base of the 2nd Flatiron.

Unfortunately, I was completely wrong.  The route was not “Highway” but “Freeway” and that route doesn’t go up the gully but rather up the face well to the right of the gully.  The route that does go up some of the gully is “Dodgeblock” but it starts differently and dodges the Pullman Car to the right; it does not go left of the Pullman Car and into the Hanging Belay.

In fact, no established route, 4th or 5th class, goes up the gully all the way to the Hanging Belay. I misunderstood what I was told about “Freeway” all those years ago and I never bothered to check it out. My foolishness would be the catalyst for an interesting day in the rain.

 

The 'Waterfall' route and our other regular routes up the 2nd Flatiron

 

On the way there, the weather actually worsened.  It was raining hard by the time we started up the vegetated gully.

Position #1

About 100 feet above the hiking trail, we stood beneath a house sized boulder choking the gully.  It looked like we might be able to work up and around to the right, but Brian wanted to try to climb the left side up a low angled dihedral. We got our harnesses on and then he started up in his hiking boots. He refused a belay.

Under the current conditions, I surely did not want to be standing beneath him when he came sliding back down the slip-n-slide.  It would have been a bad tumble back down the rocky, tree-filled gully.  I stood off to the side and encouraged him to request a belay. He explained that the rope might let him avoid getting so wet and dirty (he was laying on the rock for full body friction), but ‘no thanks’. Apparently, he was working on his mental toughness.  Fortunately, he made it to a small ledge with injury only to his clothing.

I took a belay and managed to avoid the mud wallow Brian endured, but it was very sippery. I was very glad to have the belay. I continued up the next obstacle and setup a belay behind a large tree another 50 feet above.  It was a wet, gooey, slippery experience, not significantly different from how I would imagine the experience of climbing a waterfall with mossy vegetation beneath the water.

Position #2

 

Our route followed the rock seam and then the tree lined gully toward the 'Hanging Garden'. Photo not from rainy day (imagine torrents of water pouring down the gully)

 

We then scrambled up another 100 feet to reach the bottom of a true waterfall. The water was cascading down a broad slab of smooth rock with a channel cut just below a rib of rock; the channel looked to be cut into the rock by thousands of years of running water. The slab of rock blocked easy access to the tree-filled gully 100 feet above. Uh oh.

With most of our views obscured by trees and by the heavily falling rain & mist in the air, I wasn’t sure where we were.  At first I (wishfully) thought we were underneath the Pullman Car, but it was just the overhang on the South Block.  I noticed another gully to the right (north) and thought I had found the way up; we traversed north 50 feet and then scrambled up 50 feet to were I could see well enough to know where I was.  We here standing at the bottom of the gully that we use to reach the bottom of the Pullman Car on our normal 2nd Flatiron route (which is similar to Free For All).  I remembered that this water-smoothed gully is steep with delicate climbing when dry and in rock shoes, and that the only escape I knew was the 5.6 traversing crux underneath the Pullman Car.  No way we were going to do that in these conditions. Shit.

That was when I knew that I had screwed up.  We weren’t going to make it. If we were going to push ahead, we’d have to commit to a risky effort. Turning around was a solid option, in my mind.

Position #3

We returned to the waterfall and Brian said he wanted to try it. I tried to talk him out of it as I thought the protection would run out after 20 feet. My point was we were in a good place to bail from, while 50 feet up with no way to secure a rappel would not be a good place to decide to go home. But Brian was feeling adventurous, I suppose; and he started up the waterfall. At least, this time he took a belay.

But, the rock was too slippery for hiking boots, and we figured rock shoes would be worse.  He slid back to the ground before putting in a single piece of protection, and gave up on the waterfall.

Position #4

I looked around and then pointed to a seam and a potential ramp in the rock above us and to the left, just below the South Block.  I wondered out loud if that would allow us to work our way above the waterfall area. Brian jumped to it, apparently determined not to go home just yet.

He led a scrambling pitch to a saddle between the waterfall gully and the South Block of the 2nd Flatiron.  From that platform, we could see the diving board flake that is the crux of the Southeast Ridge route on the South Block; it’s a 2-move route, but it is awesome set of moves. We could also see that our best bet was the seam in the rock face that led toward the tree-filled gully.

Brian again took the sharp end and oh-so-gingerly worked his way across the slick rock using the rock seam.  The seam provided just enough protection and friction to make it possible to cross this amazingly slippery rock in hiking boots while dragging a 20 lbs rope (soaked with water).  Brian yelled that the slabby bit at the end (after the seam ended) wasn’t as bad as it looked from afar.  When it was my turn to cross it, I complained that it was exactly as bad as it looked.  Yet, we both made it without a slip.

Position #5

And once we were past the waterfall area, I felt sure we would make it.  Despite all evidence to the contrary, I still clung to a certainty in my mind for the climb-ability of the gully beneath the Hanging Garden that I had casually glanced at on a number of occasions over the years. It surely was a day for being very wrong.

A 20 foot scramble led to another waterfall, and this time the water fell over an overhanging lip of rock; we wouldn’t be climbing directly up it. We found a path to the right that required a significant reach to utilize a hold big enough to pull our bodies out of the falling water. As I pulled my gore-tex protected bulk out of the water, I could feel the difference between a good rain jacket and a dry suit; I could only wish for the latter.

Position #6

 

The 'Waterfall' route crux

 

Another 20 feet of scrambling led to another waterfall, and this was a big one. It was directly below the Hanging Garden between the summit of the South Block and the Pullman Car atop the 2nd Flatiron. And, it was another overhanging rock formation that we would not be able to climb.  But while we could climb around it, I could finally see the gully beneath the Hanging Garden; and I could see how it was steep and featureless, and I could see how so very wrong I had been all day long.

I got that sinking feeling, the one that says “I’m screwed!”

Brian rightly insisted on solving one problem at a time, and we climbed up and right to get past the waterfall and reach the bottom of the technical climbing directly beneath the Pullman Car formation.  From there, we’d have to traverse left back into the gully, and then climb straight up into the Hanging Garden.

This was it.  The crux.  If we couldn’t slither our way past this last section of rock, we’d have to rappel all the way back down the gully.  I dreaded it with all my heart.

And, it looked hard.  Just looking at the smooth rock, I wasn’t confident we could even get around the corner to get back into the gully below the Hanging Garden.  The rock was slick and it lacked the normal flatiron features we’d been using to get this high.  Once again, Brian started up.  I told him to aid it, if he could.

The only thing going our way was the weather.  At last the rain had stopped.

Position #7

He put in a yellow camalot and then the grey one in the overhanging lip on the corner.  He managed to pendelum out into the gully and then climb up a few feet, but soon slipped back down.  It was too slippery. It wasn’t going to work.

In desperation, I suggested he try his rock climbing shoes.  I was just thinking that we should try all the possible variations; I really didn’t think the treadless rock shoes would hold any better. Brian returned to the belay to change shoes.

It was still agonizingly slow, but Brian managed to work back out to the gully and then upward about 1/2 way to the Hanging Garden before bringing me up. I took my own advice and put on my rock shoes; they stuck to the wet, slabbly rock very well.  We should have known. I quickly made my way up to Brian with the gear he’d need to complete the rest of the climb.

He started up again, slowly making progress toward the Hanging Garden. Near the top, he made an awkward flopping move to mount a block that he then used to step up to the belay ledge.  He made it!  We didn’t have to rappel all the way back down the gully!

I followed, using a batman rope climbing move to quickly overcome a particularly thin and slippery section. I was amazed at the volume of poison ivy that I had to trod upon to escape.  But I did escape.

We had to overcome another tricky move to reach the last layer of the Hanging Garden, but from there I knew how to escape the Hanging Garden and led Brian to the downclimb that led to the backside of the 2nd Flatiron.

We made it! I think we actually put up a new route in the process.  I think I’ll call it the “Waterfall” route. I cannot say I recommend it.

We stopped for quick, late lunch and to put away the gear. It was approximately 1:30pm.

After the short break, we started hiking up slope behind the 2nd Flatiron to reach the descent trail between the 1st and 2nd Flatirons, which we took all the way back to the parking lot.

On the hike out we discussed on plans for the year.  We decided to next do the Spiral Route on Notchtop and then the traverse from Thatchtop to Powell as preparation for a fun scrambling climb around the Solitude Lake Cirque, climbing up Arrowhead to McHenry to Powell to Thatchtop.

And, yes, the lower part of the main trail was a miserable, slippery muddy mess (that is still stuck to my boots).  But at least I didn’t slip this time, unlike 6 months ago when I slipped on the same trail, icy instead of muddy, and spoiled my 2010 ski season.

We always find a way to find adventure, and so far, we always get home to tell tall tales.  And we share credit this time: Brian gets all the credit for the positive outcome, while I get all the credit for getting us into a jam.

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Unnamed (and Mt Antero)

June 10, 2010

May 27, 2000

With Memorial holiday giving us an extra day I was hoping for a bigger than normal adventure…but Brian couldn’t pull off two nights out. We had to make do with a single day with an early start.

Brian suggested Antero, with the idea that we could get a good ski descent. Since Antero was one of the few unclimbed Northern Colorado 14ers on my list, I loved the idea.

The drive up, which started late due to my tardy arrival, was interrupted by a missed highway turnoff and an accident that closed the highway for an hour. To make use of the time and avoid eating dinner after midnight, we got out the stove and made dinner on the side of the road. And, it still might have turned out okay, except the approach road was very long and slow going. We made it to 11,300′ before stopping to setup camp; we settled in for sleep at 1am. With a 5am wakeup call forthcoming, it would be a short night.

Brian on final approach to Mt Antero summit

We started moving at 5:30am and took 3 hours to ascend from camp at 11,300′ to the Mt Antero summit at 14,269′. We followed the winding road up, but didn’t trust where it led after passing the summit ridge; we followed the ridge to the summit. Unfortunately, we also discovered that there wasn’t any snow left on Antero except for a thin strip about 50 feet wide and 500 feet tall on the southern ridge leading to the summit.

We enjoyed the summit for a short time and discussed our options for the day.

My rapture on the summit of Mt Antero

Since we couldn’t get our ski descent, we decided we’d head over to a tall peak across Baldwin Gulch that had a very nice snow covered eastern slope. But we had to hurry since the snow had been in the sun since dawn.

We descended Antero following the old mining road which turned out to lead to the final stretch of the summit ridge.  Once at the start of the switchbacks, we left the mining road and headed around the cirque toward the unnamed peak.

Where's the snow? On the way to some snow on 'Ol Unnamed (North Carbonate?) from Mt Antero (in background).

The progress was good until we got to the exposed scree & talus on the SE ridge of the unnamed peak.  It was murder for tired legs.

We found the summit to be protected by a weird cornice that required crawling over to get to the top of the peak. I needed a rest, but with the sun burning on the snow, we stopped only momentarily before setting off for the steep descent slope.

As we feared, the snow was soft, and possibly dangerous. After a short pow-wow, we decided we’d proceed…with the extra precaution of staying on opposite sides of the face and only skiing one at a time. The snow turned out to be great, and we had a great time descending 1800′ in only a few minutes.

Our route from Baldwin Gulch to Mt Antero and North Carbonate(?)

The hike out was mercifully short; we made it back to camp at 1:30pm for an 8 hour, 8 mile, and 4000′  day.

And sometimes, one day is enough.

In the years afterward, I came to believe that the peak had an unofficial name, “North Carbonate”.  And, just recently, I discovered that the officially unnamed peak got an official name in 2005…it is now called Cronin Peak.

Formerly known as “North Carbonate”, this mountain now has an official name, approved by the Department of Interior in May 2005. Cronin Peak is named in honor of Mary Cronin (1893-1982) who in 1921 became the first woman to climb all the fourteen-thousand foot peaks in Colorado.  ~summitpost

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The Stone Man Project

June 5, 2010

Three years before, in the Summer of 2002, Brian and I used the Stone Man Pass to scramble out of Glacier Gorge in RMNP on our way to the Double Crown of Chiefs Head and Mount Alice. While hiking past the famous Stone Man, Brian, out of the blue, speculated on the difficulty of climbing the Stone Man pinnacle.

The Stone Man from low on McHenry

While perhaps admitting to a lack of imagination, the question caught me off-guard to the extent that would musing over what marmots think about when not raiding unattended backpacks.  I mean, who in their right mind would hike 6 miles each way and ascend 3,200 feet of elevation gain in order to do a 40-foot rock climb?

View from Spearhead

Still, I did take a quick look.  My judgment was it looked upper 5th class if it went, and it might not go; and no guarantees about getting down, either.  Brian figured it was easy. Whatever.

I put the notion out of my mind in the years since; Brian did not.

In August of 2005, as Brian and I were going through our weekly “what are we going to do this weekend” exercise, Brian suggested we finally go see about climbing the Stone Man.  The implication was that it’s been next on his/our list for some time.  In some situations, this call would require an official/judicial ruling.  But, our adventuring partnership is based on a choose-and-let-choose philosophy, meaning that when one of us really wants to do something, the other will generally agree. And since I didn’t have a better idea, Project Stone Man was a go.

The plan was to hike 5 miles to reach Black Lake, scramble 1800 feet from Black Lake to reach the top of Stone Man pass, and then figure out a way to climb 40 feet of technical rock climbing to stand atop the Stone Man.  Whoo Hoo! Well, it would at least be a good hike into beautiful terrain; no doubt a better day than that of 99% of the population.

We started hiking right at 6am and made okay time reaching Black Lake at 8:00am; 2.5 mph at 288 feet per mile is 720 feet of altitude gain per hour while covering 5 miles — good enough while carrying rock gear.  (See hiking pace discussion).

My hiking speed chart

After a short water break, we left Black Lake for the shortcut to Stone Man Pass heading west beneath Arrowhead.  After a lengthy scramble up the steep grass and cliffy slope, we reached the bench above Black Lake; we then turned south to head underneath McHenry toward Stone Man Pass. We reached the top of Stone Man pass around 10:00am.

After a short break, we began our exploration of the base of the Stone Man, looking for a probable line of attack.

We started on the ridgeline and started going around the Stone Man counter-clockwise. In my eyes, it still looked hard. Once we made it around the the north face, we found a probable line…at least a line that would go to within 5 feet of the top.  Brian said he’d do it; he grabbed the rack and started up.

Our climbing route to the summit of the Stone Man (the dashed line indicates the route view is obstructed)

It turned out to be only a 20-foot climb, so I didn’t bother to get comfortable. After 10 minutes, Brian yelled back down that it went. He said there was a single tricky, hard to protect move; then he went for it.  And he was on top.

He yelled down that it would take a bit of time to set up a belay. I didn’t know what to make of that but did what I could do; I waited.

I watched from below as Brian flipped the cordellette a few times to get it all the way around the Stone Man’s head.  Then he yelled out that I was on belay.

I followed his route, admiring the quality of the few moves it required. And then I was standing below the summit and studying the exposed move that Brian had made to accomplish his (our) goal. I repeated it, and then I was on the summit as well. It was an admirably exposed summit, but not a good place to spend the rest of your life.

View of Stone Man route from Spearhead

When I looked around, I noticed that the cordellette was the only anchor. Brian informed me that it was the only thing he could find for protection, and asked me if it was okay that we sacrificed it (the cordellette was mine). Well, I did want to go home eventually, so I complied.

We rappelled back to the base and started back down. We started following cairns down the east slope (toward Spearhead & Longs), simply curious to see if the path would lead us back to the basin below McHenrys. It was a winding route, but far superior to the nasty Stoneman Pass route.  It worked! Since we were in an adventurous mood, I suggested we try the waterfall descent route Brian had mentioned as a possibility some years earlier.

Brian was game, and we angled directly for Black Lake and the top of its major waterfall.

The ascent and descent routes from the Stone Man, seen from Blue Lake area

The descent was a bit more dramatic than I expected. The climb down into the waterfall notch was easy enough; but once into the notch, the passage got thin and steep.  It was worth doing, but not superior to the scramble up to or down from the bench above and west of Black Lake.

A view from summit of Arrowhead of alternate descent to Black Lake

A short scramble led us back to Black Lake and another short rest, and then 5 miles back to the car for the 1 hour drive back to Boulder.

Brian insisted on replacing my cordelette and so we drove to Neptunes to buy 30 feet of 6mm cord.

Despite my early lack of enthusiasm, The Stone Man Project turned out to be a worthy adventure.  My only regret is our having to leave a cord where it can be seen. I hope the sun and weather beat that cord down quickly.

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Mt Evans Extreme

June 2, 2010

It was the end of May, 1999, and I had just returned from my Great Bolivian Adventure. I didn’t have time for a full day of mountain fun, and, naturally, Brian wanted to ski; we picked Mt Evans as a good, close-by solution, with the thought of seeking the route less travelled to spice things up. And, I was anxious to see how much better my performance would be with my Bolivian, high-altitude acclimatization.

A view of Mt Evans and the rocky ridge separating Mt Evans from Mt Spalding

We drove up early to get good snow conditions and parked in the parking lot beside Summit Lake. We started working our way forward, postholing our way to the top of the bowl rim so we could get a good view of the options. We decided to angle right toward the rocky face dividing Mt Evans from Mt Spalding, aiming for the snow slope that reached nearly to the top of the ridge.

Brian nearing the exposed rock portion of the climb. The hard snow climbing occurred just before this spot.

Brian picked it, and I went along; I thought it looked interesting and possibly climbable. I forgot that we didn’t bring a rope; read: no belay.

The climb started like any other moderate snow climb, but about 2/3rds of the way up it got hard; the route became steep over mixed terrain.  And I was huffing and puffing with poorly functioning lungs. I whined to Brian that my allergies were acting up and trying to suffocate me.

The last 50 feet was thinly covered rocks; very little for the crampons and nothing for the axe to grab onto. On two separate occasions I had to commit to moves that I expected to fail, when failure meant some very bad outcomes. My alternative was to stay there for the rest of my life. The worst was at the very top, which turned into a moderate rock climb with crampons and ice axe making every effort to kill me.

I didn’t get a belay, but I recall Brian was generous with his words of encouragement.

But we made it to the top of the rim.  Thanks, Pal!

Then we hiked to the summit and enjoyed the well earned views. My breathing was so labored that I swore to Brian that if Colorado made my allergies this bad again, I was moving!  The skies had quickly changed from beautiful blue to looking like rain or snow soon, but we didn’t start down for the North Face until the axes started singing their dreaded electrical song.

We got down well enough. My glissade wasn’t very good due to operator error; I guess I just forget how to do it, having been skiing instead for the last year. Some additional huffing and puffing while postholing had me really annoyed with my physical performance. I had looked forward to kicking Brian’s butt for a change, but my 20,000′ plus acclimatization just didn’t pay off the way I expected.

Brian about to descend the North Face to escape the electrical field around us.

Twenty-four hours later, I knew why:  I had the flu. Isn’t air travel just lovely? At least I could continue living in Colorado with a clean health conscience.

It was my 3rd summit of Mt Evans, and the most interesting so far.

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Huron, Bloody Huron

May 28, 2010

Our drive, hike & climb to Huron Peak summit

One more time. Brian and I thought we’d back to the Clear Creek Reservoir Road, this time to collect Mt Huron. We knew going in that it would be a 10+ mile hike in the snow with a 4000′ elevation gain due to the winter road closure, but we were on a roll and Huron was next on the list. The only problem would be the inevitable snow storm; the previous week it snowed all the night before. And, it did so again.

It was Brian’s turn to drive; we left his place in Golden @ 7:45pm on Friday (April, 23, 1999) heading toward Leadville.  The Bronco is a slow beast, but it works wonders on poor backcountry roads. Along the way, we were pleasantly surprised to find the roads in better shape than the previous week (when we did Missouri Mountain) despite the heavy new snow in the front range. We figured we’d gotten lucky on the snow distribution.

Brian picked the East Slopes route. At the time I figured it was the worst thing he could find, but in hindsight I suppose it might have been because Dawson wrote that the East Slopes generally have more snow. Well, we did have plenty of snow.

Aiming for the Clohesy Lake trailhead, we pulled off US Highway 24 onto Clear Creek Reservoir (dirt) Road. We immediately knew we had been mistaken about getting lucky with the snow; the accumulation was much worse than the previous week.  We drove past our previous camp at Vicksburg and to the Rockdale townsite where we turned onto the 4×4 road heading toward Clohesy Lake trailhead, but only managed to get 1/3 mile up the 3-mile road before the snow was too deep to drive even for the Bronco.  And, believe me, that means something. A determined Brian forced his way cross Clear Creek before giving up on the drive; that crossing was much more interesting than I like at 11:30pm.

We setup camp as quickly as frozen fingers allowed. And then sleep came quickly, and so did 5am.

The first thing we noticed was the temperature.  It was way too warm.  Crap, it was going to be a hellish, soft snow day.

The initial hiking over the 2.7 miles remaining of the 4×4 road was rather flat; we started at 10,000′ and took 1.5 hours to gain 800′ of elevation. I hoped in vain that it would be a nice downhill glide 10 hours hence. Still, it was an easy start, for me anyway. Brian broke trail; and for a change, he actually made a trail I could use instead of gliding across the surface like a modern day Legolas. It was odd to hear him grumble.

Once we cleared the treeline, we could see heavy snow covering the ridges descending from Huron.  It was still early and already a slide had occurred, nearly reaching our ascent path.  We kept our distance from the snowy slopes as best we could, and we tried to hurry to minimize our exposure.  But it was a long curving path to reach the couloir ascent to the summit ridge.

Detail on the final stretch to the summit

The final couloir was very steep and icy. So, we didn’t have to fear an avalanche, but the skins were only marginally up to the task of ascending such a steep, slick surface. We slowly worked our way up until about 3/4ths of the way up we had to exit into the rocks on the right to make the saddle.  The climb certainly would have been better with crampons and an axe.

The weather had looked bad all day and continued to do so.  We tried to hurry to the summit, but the snow on the ridge was too soft. I literally had to swim across the sections without rocks to step on. This misery was compounded by my agreeing to bring the skis to the summit, where we sat for only as long as it took to eat a quick snack.

I carried the skis up to the summit and then carried them back down to just above the saddle.  When I dared put them back on, the snow stuck to the base like tar.

Fortunately, by the time we reached the top of the couloir, the skiing returned to a normal state for the day…merely terrible. A few turns into the descent, I hit a rough, icy section and lost it. I hit face first and cartwheeled down the slope, bashing my brains in on every flip. My self-arrest ski poles allowed me to stop after a few flips, but not before mutilating my nose. And this only 2 weeks since making a pact with God to take better care of my nose after allowing me to keep most of it after some frostbite on a cold, windy day on Mt Silverheels.

I bled continually and fell frequently as I attempted to escape Huron with my life and the remainder of my health (and nose).

Once we made it past the lake and reached the 4×4 parking area, the snow had softened enough to become impossible. In the last 3 miles, I fell through the snow 6 times. One time I could not get back up; it was a sort of quicksnow. I finally had to resort to rolling to escape the pit I dug for myself.

We made it back to camp at 6pm for an 11.5 hour day covering 4000′ of elevation gain and 10+ miles of soft snow slogging.  And, I was a bloody mess.

Some trips it is hard to remember that I do this because I love it; but it is important that I remember it.

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Wham!

May 20, 2010

Hike to Wham

Rocky Mountain National Park is my favorite playground.  And, I am not alone in feeling that way.  The secret to finding great alpine adventure unspoiled by throngs of people in RMNP is to start early and to seek out the rock less climbed. This trip report is about reaching a bit too far, a bit too casually to climb Wham, the ugly twin of the Zowie pinnacle on Otis Peak.

Anyone climbing Sharkstooth or Andrews Glacier has seen the fantastic pinnacles hanging off the south side of Otis Peak. Most people just keep on going, but I and a few others have had the pleasure of climbing Zowie. It is a smaller version of the Petit Grepon with the same exposure and great climbing, but with far fewer people competing for a place in line (generally, none) and a good deal less rock to climb to reach the top. I’ve climbed it three times whereas I’ve only climbed the superior Petit twice due to justifiable fear of crowds.

And to avoid lawsuits for lack of disclosure, I’ll mention that there is something terrible about Andrews Creek below Zowie that facilitates the birthing of massive clouds of mosquitoes. One trip in particular represented the worst mosquito event in my life, and I grew up in South Florida. I still blame that day for my serious bout of West Nile Virus in 2003.  Consider yourself warned.

Approach to Zowie & Wham

On our last visit to Zowie in the summer of 2003, Brian and I gazed over at Wham, Zowie’s next door neighbor, and agreed that we should do it before returning for another ascent of Zowie. Brian broached the subject in September of that year, but I was afraid it was a loose mess and didn’t want to waste a day.  Nearly a year later, Brian’s persistence paid off and we selected Wham for the Saturday, August 7, 2004.

The only worry was that Wham would be too short and easy (5.7) to fill the day; the plan was to bag Wham and then re-climb Zowie (5.8+).

August 6, 2004
Joe:
How about Wham tomorrow?  It’s fairly short.  If we’re feeling fast maybe we could redo Zowie afterwards.
Brian

For better or worse, Wham turned out to be more than an appetizer.

We left Boulder at 3:30am for RMNP.  We started hiking at 4:50am and quickly made our way up the trail toward Loch Vale and then Andrews Glacier before turning off the trail just after leaving the trees.

The start of Wham

We crossed Andrew Creek and ascended toward Zowie, winding our way through the trees and small cliffs. Once out of the trees, we aimed toward Wham and made our way to the gully between Zowie and Wham.  This was infrequently visited terrain; there were no clues about the start. We figured the real start was on top of the shoulder, so we just took the nearest nice looking line that led there.

Reaching the shoulder, we found it was covered in dwarfish trees.  Brian remembers it as a “big shoulder plagued by trees”.   We had to bushwhack our way to the base of the pinnacle; the trees grabbed the rope so badly Brian had to untie before bushwacking. We should have tried to climb directly to the spot where the pillar meets the shoulder.

Finally, we could start the climb.  The guidebook merely said to go up the South Face; over the years we’ve mostly found that to mean it is obvious, but other times it has meant the guidebook author doesn’t know (didn’t do the climb).  We hoped for the “it is obvious” option, but it wasn’t. I remember sitting down and studying the rock, but I couldn’t figure out where the 5.7 line was or even how to get off the ground without performing death-defying acts. In a desperate effort to save the day, I offered the notion of bailing and climbing Zowie instead.

Brian refused to be denied.

Brian recalls:

From the runt trees, the line was a not-too-steep dihedral with a few loose-looking holds.  Again and again I started on it just to find that it magically steepened at my touch.  Each time, I came down and looked at the even steeper route to the left, then discarded that idea.  That one just looked very sustained with no chance of success.  Finally we were ready to bail, and I decided we might as well risk one tricam on the left line.

Sure, the line seemed impossible, but the placement was bomber, so why not?

I hoisted myself up and stared at the next 3 feet.  Hmm, more good cracks, Ok, we’ll just risk one more nut so I can see around the corner.  And on it went for the next 30 minutes and 120 feet, until I looked at the depleted rack and relenting angle of the face and realized the we were actually going to make it.  Not only that, but we’d get our rack back, too.  All I had to do was somehow scratch out a belay and haul Joe and the metal up.

The last pitch was easier, but just as dramatic as the face sharpened up into a ridge of bouldery steps.  That was the best pitch, knowing that nothing could stop us.

Our winding route up the South Face of Wham. Photo taken from Zowie.

We made it. But it sure didn’t feel like 5.7. Maybe we didn’t do the correct route, but we sure tried to do so.

We sat on the summit for a while enjoying our success on our unexpected adventure.  Clearly, we wouldn’t be visiting Zowie.

When it was time to head down, I dug out my notes on the descent I collected from my old Gillette guide (the one I swore I would never use again after my fiasco on Northcutt-Carter):

Several long rappels west into gully.

I looked over the edge to the west.  It looked like a long, long way down — too long even for a double rope rap. Brian and I looked around for a better line but couldn’t find one. I said I’d go down and take a look, hoping to find something, anything.  I rappelled over the edge and spent 30 minutes working around from the west to the north side before finally finding a decent spot on the north side to build a rap station for the 2nd rappel.  Brian recalls:

Joe rapped down the left side and then spent a half hour looking for the next rap while I was on top wondering what the heck was going on.

But we still weren’t out of it. We couldn’t figure out how to get back to the base. We hiked around to the West side, thinking that the 3rd rap must be there.  But we found nothing useful.  It was all loose, steep rock split by a big ledge that provided only false hope for an escape.

We went back to the North side again and carefully worked our way down the gully leading west (toward Zowie) below the ledge. It required a couple 4th class downclimb moves, but it went.

Then we scrambled south toward the bottom of the gully between Zowie and Wham. The terrain was serious enough to require a belay for the final 100 feet to reach the edge of the final cliff where we found a rap anchor with an ancient biner that seemed to be made of lead (heavy, soft metal).  I replaced it with a modern aluminum biner and we escaped to the base of the climb.

Naturally, the rope got stuck and required some delicate scrambling among loose rocks. It was a relief to finally escape the grasp of that little pinnacle that we had so little respect for a mere 8 hours earlier.

The path less traveled sometimes leads to some serious shit (see all axioms).

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A Shocking Day on Arapahoe Peak

May 7, 2010

 

 

 

The scene of the crime: a view of South Arapahoe Peak from just below the saddle shared with Mount Baldy.

 

It was early June 2006, and we thought the conditions were good enough for another traverse of the Arapahoe Peaks, but we didn’t get the chance to find out when the weather took a shocking turn for the worse. We should have been more careful.

Lightning is one of the oldest observed natural phenomena on earth.  Once generally feared as a weapon of the gods or God, scientists now tell us lightning is just a gigantic spark of static electricity. People once avoided lightning above all threats to life due to the heavenly implications of being a target.  Now we are too casual about the low odds of a strike.

It was the late spring season, and that meant the conditions were highly variable. We considered doing the SkyWalker Couloir, but thought the weather might be too warm for a safe ascent. We resolved to take the easy way up the South Arapahoe Peak and then traverse to the North summit to make an interesting day of it. What we didn’t think about was the possibility of lightning, but that is what we got.

We got our interesting day.

Lightning starts with clouds. The sun heats up the spinning earth in an irregular fashion which results in wind. Air rises when it is warmer than the air above it or is pushed up by winds passing over mountains.  When the air & water vapor mixture rises, it can cool enough to turn water vapor into water droplets (or ice crystals) which becomes visible as clouds.

We started up just before first light from the 4th of July trailhead and quickly made our way up the familiar trail. We turned up the trail to the saddle between South Arapahoe and Baldy, pausing only long enough to longingly examine the Sky Walker route. We assured each other that we’d come back another day to do it.

As we made our way up the south ridge below the summit, we could see fast moving storm clouds north and east of us. But it was very early in the day and cold, and nothing was coming from the west.  We didn’t see any risk to us.

Thunderstorms are a special type of cloud that occur when warm, moist air rises high into the atmosphere, reaching to the freezing temperatures at very high altitudes.  The rising warm air and sinking cool air push around the ice crystal and heavier chunks of ice, which bang into each other creating static electricity.  The lighter-weight, positively charged ice crystals are blown to the top of the cloud while the heavier, negatively charged clumps of ice cluster at the bottom of the cloud. The opposite charges attract each other, and the lightning we see in the clouds is them finding each other.

 

Mountain Finder plate on summit of South Arapahoe Peak

 

Once on the summit, we started to notice lightning in those storm clouds.  And then we saw something unusual: those clouds off to the east seemed to be nearer to us than before.  Where they flowing east-to-west?  We didn’t know what to make of it. We wondered aloud to each other concerns about possible risk.

We were tempted to continue since we had come so far and were close to our goal; but our mountaineering ambition had dulled enough over the years to allow for reason to prevail. We decided to bail. While we didn’t understand what was happening, we were smart enough to realize that starting a technical traverse in such conditions would be foolish.

Lightning hitting the ground makes for all the excitement. The negatively charged cloud bottom causes electrons in the ground five thousand feet below to flee (like charges repel each other), resulting in an electric field that we can hear, feel and smell. The electric field is strongest on ground-connected objects whose tops are closest to the base of the thundercloud. If the electric field is strong enough, a conductive discharge (called an upward lightning streamer) can develop from these points and the surrounding air component atoms become separated into positive ions and electrons — the air becomes ionized. This ionized air (also known as plasma) is much more conductive allowing for electric current to flow from the cloud to the positively charged streamer or ground that is seeking electrons. We see this as lightning.

But we still didn’t see any immediate risk, so we didn’t take immediate action. We took a break on the South Arapahoe summit to enjoy more of the day before starting back down the trail at a moderate pace.

Familiarity breeds contempt.  While the rarity of lightning incidents makes it easy to become complacent, sometimes lightning doesn’t miss.  Being hit by lightning is a serious event comparable to a bear or lion attack, resulting in death and life altering injuries. See NOAA’s Medical Aspects of Lightning for more information

I kept looking over my shoulder as I worked my way down the ridge. I could see the storm was getting closer much faster than expected. We were losing the race. I told Brian we needed to go faster.

Then the thunder started to boom.

Once we hear the thunder or feel the cold wind or the sting of crashing hail, the thunderstorm is upon us. Our chance to be safe is lost. We are limited to looking for ways to reduce the risk that we can no longer avoid. And, reacting to lightning once caught out is an uncertain art.

Properly motivated, we started moving as fast as we could as the thunder became louder and louder. And then it was right on top of us. Boom, Boom, BOOM!

The flash-bang separation was very short, one second or less.

When we reached the saddle and good ground, we started running to get to the descent trail that would get us off the exposed ridge.

 

Our route up South Arapahoe Peak

 

About 1/2 way across the saddle, it happened.

An explosion went off as I felt a sharp, stinging shock hit the top of my head. Stunned by the noise and the sense that I had been hit by lightning, I stopped running. I didn’t know what to think. I wondered if I was dead.

I turned around to see if Brian would have a look of horror on his face. He merely hollered, “Run!”

I paused for an instant to ponder the problem of my metal hiking poles sticking out of my pack, but seeing Brian disappear down the mountain, I decided to just run like scared cat. I caught Brian in an instant and we flew down 1000 feet in about 10 seconds (felt like); and then the storm was gone.

Once we see or decide that the weather environment is unsafe, our goal for the day must change immediately and permanently to getting to a “safe” shelter.  In the high peaks, that almost always means getting to the vehicle, and the path to safety will often force us to traverse dangerous ground.  Our goal of getting to safety will be achieved by using three strategies:

  1. Move quickly to the vehicle to minimize our exposure to the dangerous environment and
  2. Avoid high lightning risk spots on the trail to reduce exposure to risk and be able to stop and
  3. Become a small target with a single point of ground contact when a lightning strike is imminent.

Going as fast as possible to safety is the most important thing, but it isn’t enough. Avoiding high risk locations means to minimize the chance of injury while moving while allowing us to safely get small when necessary.  Our ability to make fast, correct decisions in juggling these strategies is the key to our continuing health. (See more info about dealing with Imminent Lighting Threats)

We slowed and then stopped to gather our wits and remove our rain gear. I asked Brian if he saw the lightning bolt hit me. He said ‘no’ and I couldn’t find any evidence of burns on my hat or head. But none of that mattered; in the instant I thought I’d been hit by lightning, I was sorry for my casual attitude that allowed me to accept such a risk.  My life was changed forever.

I was hit by a low-power ‘upward lightning streamer‘

Upward lightning streamers that do not connect with the downward leader to complete a lightning channel are estimated to cause approximately 30% of lightning related injuries.  High-current pulses are launched from the ground (often tall, pointy, isolated objects) near the lightning bolt as it initially approaches the ground. These “streamer currents” are much less powerful than the full lightning strike but can be strong enough to cause injury or death to humans. (more)

I felt lucky to be alive.

And I have dedicated myself to understanding lightning and staying safe in a lightning filled environment like the high peaks of Colorado. In the time since, I’ve identified for my own use five levels of lightning danger for Colorado high peaks: low danger, approaching danger, high danger, extreme danger, and imminent strike.

Below, each category is described with conditions that may be observable or audible, depending on the presence of terrain or wind noise obstructions:

For any of us High Peaks Adventurers, our rational reaction to these levels of danger depend on our willingness to assume lightning risk. The only way to be “safe” is to stay home. But if we insist on proceeding with our risky venture, we can break down the situation into four questions that must be answered; and because we are dealing with uncertainly about deadly risk, the answers will be different for each person:

  1. What risk level am I willing to assume? There is a continuum of reactions we each can take in the face of lightning danger.  On the extreme conservative end, we could choose to never go outside when clouds are in the sky.  On the extreme aggressive end, we could choose to never worry about lightning since it doesn’t seem to hit many people.  The right strategy for most of us is between the two extremes.  (more)
  2. How to plan to avoid lightning? There is no safe haven from lightning atop the high peaks; the only way to be safe is to avoid lightning all together.  Either we stay home on a bad weather day or we start early enough that we can get less exposed before the lightning shows up. (more)
  3. How to read the sky for early warnings? Sometimes the lightning threatens to show up when we are vulnerable, despite our best efforts to avoid it.  But we can only hear thunder 10 miles away or less.  Since an air mass thunderstorm will travel over ground at 15-25 mph, we may have only 20-30 minutes before the storm is overhead (and the worst lightning risk begins).  We need more lead-time; we need to be able to get an early, even if imperfect, indication of when to turn around. (more)
  4. How to reduce the risk when the chance to be safe is lost? If we accept some lightning risk, we should expect to eventually get caught away from safe shelter when the lightning arrives.  Too often, the mountains obscure our view of the horizon and oncoming storms, and the wind noise keeps us from hearing thunder.  When we’ve been caught in a vulnerable position, we need to know what to do reduce the likelihood of being hit or injured by a lightning strike. (more)

The chart below that I’ve created for my own use is based on the advice provided by experts for minimizing lightning risks; the ‘moderate’ level of risk is the only usable information for me. The high-risk option is merely behaviors I have observed and even used before I knew better. I include this level and the low-risk level to provide contrast.

 

My personal lightning risk management cheatsheet

 

But please do not take my word for it. Do your own research and make your own decisions; it is your life.

My sources:

(1) NOAA:  The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (www.noaa.gov).  NOAA includes the National Weather Service (www.nws.noaa.gov), JetStream (http://www.srh.weather.gov/srh/jetstream/) and National Severe Storms Laboratory (http://www.nssl.noaa.gov/).

(2) NLSI:  National Lightning Safety Institute is a non-profit, non-product advocacy of lightning safety for both people and structures, founded and run by Richard Kithil (http://www.lightningsafety.com/)

(3) Lightning Safety Group, American Meteorological Society Conference

(4) Mary Ann Cooper, MD, Associate Head of Academic Affairs, Professor, Departments of Emergency Medicine, Neurology and Bioengineering, University of Illinois at Chicago

(5) NOLS:  National Outdoor Leadership School, Backcountry Lightning Safety Guidelines (www.nols.edu/resources/research/pdfs/lightningsafetyguideline.pdf)

To see more more details of what I found for myself, see the following:

Managing Lightning Risk

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17-Hour Saber

May 1, 2010

It had already been a full summer, and it was only July 11 of 1998.  I had been hitting the rocks hard since my early June summit on Mount of the Holy Cross, and had done a number of hard climbs at Lumpy Ridge, Eldorado Canyon, Red Rocks (NV).  I was in good rock climbing form and looking for good routes; and what could be better than a Layton Kor Route?

Brian was angling again for his notion to visit Vedauvoo for some hard crack climbing; but I had my eye on The Saber, Kor Route:  11 pitches, 5.9. Brian is an easy mark for classic climbs in RMNP.

We knew it would be a long day with darkness at both ends. We tried to start early enough, hitting the road from Boulder at 4am.  Still, when we arrived at the (old Glacier Gorge) parking lot a little after 5am, it was 1/3 full already anyway.  Still, it was odd that we didn’t see anyone on the trail; either they were fast hikers or they arrived the night before for bivies in Glacier Gorge and Loch Vale.

From the parking lot, we hiked up the trail for 2 hours to cover the 3.5 miles to Sky Pond.  As we arrived, we could see The Saber sitting between the Petit Grepon and the Foil, towering over both and Sky Pond. We couldn’t afford a break yet as we had already lost a bit of daylight that we’d never get back. (Sunrise: 5:42 AM Sunset: 8:29 PM Day Length: 14h 47m 19s).

A view from below The Saber of the 'Kor Route' which Layton Kor put up in 1962.

Layton Kor did the initial ascent of The Sabor  in 1962 during a period of time during which he put up many great climbs, including a few that I’ve been able to enjoy:

  • Yellow Spur, Rosy Crucifixion, Calypso, Ruper, and West Buttress in Eldorado Canyon State Park
  • Kor’s Flake & Pear Buttress in Lumpy Ridge, Estes Park
  • Satan’s Slab & Southeast Arete on the 2nd Flatiron in the Boulder Flatirons
  • The Owl in Boulder Canyon

The initial name for the Kor Route was The Saber, which was some years later stolen to provide a name for the pinnacle.

The first third of the Saber is lower angled. We skipped a big chuck of ugly climbing by hiking up 300′ of talus to the right of the SE corner of The Saber.

The Kor Route on The Saber. Topo constructed from original work in Rossiter's High Peaks guidebook

Below are the pitch descriptions by the position numbers indicated on photo & topo:

Position #1:

When we reached a grassy meadow and the first of two big, slanting ledge systems, we put on harnesses and rock shoes, and roped up for a few warm-up pitches to start the day.

I took the first lead and scrambled up and left along the easy ramp, and then straight up some low 5th class climbing to reach a grassy ledge (position #2).

Position #2:

Brian moved left and climbed some mid 5th class terrain to reach a ledge with some large blocks (position #3)

Position #3:

I had two options, as I recall. I could have gone up & right or up & left to reach the big grassy ledge that would make the real start of the technical difficulties. I chose the left ramp since it was described best by Rossiter.  When I could, a short distance later, I climbed straight up some low 5th class rock to reach the large grassy ledge. I moved about 1/2 way toward the big dihedral to save some rope drag on the crux pitch (position #4).

Position #4:

Brian had the pleasure leading the prominent, 100 foot long, left-facing dihedral that starts off in the middle of the ledge. The crux pitch. He is more likely to succeed quickly on a 5.9 lead, so that is his honor.

He climbed up the dihedral until it ended at a small roof.  He then moved left to pass the roof and reach another left-facing dihedral that led to a good ledge right on top of the crux pitch (position #5).

This was the crux of the climb, and really the only difficult climbing of the day, rating-wise. But our fast start was a thing of the past due to a variety of obstacles.

I followed badly at first and then well.  The 5.7 section right off the ledge was a strange combination of dead vertical plus giant holds; the crux felt easy by comparison. I joined Brian on the small ledge and prepared for some route-finding difficulty as we left the SE Ridgeline and entered the ‘Open Book’ section.

Position #5:

I started by downclimbing and traversing right to reach another ledge from which I could climb an easy dihedral to reach the ‘long’ grassy ledge (position #6). I had thought about taking the belay to the next position, but feared rope drag and a (unlikely but serious) long whipper for Brian.

Position #6:

After Brian arrived, we moved the belay to the far end of the ledge to the bottom of a large left-facing dihedral (position #7).

Position #7:

Brian took off, heading up the steep dihedral, looking for a ledge with a pinnacle.  He found it and brought me up (position #8). From this belay, we struggled to know where we were and to judge where to go.  I do not claim any of the rest of the climb is the “official” route.

Position #8:

I climbed the dihedral above, looking everywhere for “the second grassy ledge”. I continued up through rock that didn’t look like the topo; I only stopped to belay when it looked like I wouldn’t find another good belay for a while (position #9).

I brought Brian up; he didn’t know where we were either. The climbing wasn’t technically hard although it was steep; rock wasn’t solid and the route-finding took more time than we thought it would.  We were going too slow; the daylight was running out.

Position #9:

Brian started up looking for “a ledge with rappel slings” and possibly a dead tree (Rossiter’s topo). He found lots of old slings, but didn’t find the belay described by Rossiter. But as I had done before, he found a good belay (position #10) and brought me up. Good enough.

Position #10:

I wandered up toward the ridge line towering above me; the closer I got, the steeper the rock.  The climbing felt dead vertical at the very top, but the holds were gigantic and some were even safe to use (position #11). We made it.

Only my dehydration posed any continuing problem, that and the fact that we didn’t really know how to get down, the ground was a long way away, and the wind was trying to force us to take the fast way down.

I brought Brian up and asked him about the rap anchors; he pointed and then turned and pointed toward the summit which he said was a long way off.  He said ‘choose’, and I chose the summit.  Of course.

Position #11:

Brian led a simulclimb of the summit ridge, which involved a lot of up & downs over easy terrain. It was a magnificent exposure but the hurricane winds blew us around mercilessly. Brian had a close call when a gust nearly threw him off the summit after he untied from the rope.

Descent:

Since the daylight was ending, we quickly started down the back side into The Gash (between Sharkstooth & Saber). Fifth class down-climbing in hiking boots on snow and ice covered loose rocks with strong, gusting winds was scary enough to keep me alert despite my physical and mental exhaustion. Brian followed his nose down ledge after ledge; I followed Brian.  Once we reached the talus, we had to traverse underneath the backside of The Saber and The Foil to reach the descent gully. It was endless.

The descent gully was tricky in the failing light.  And we weren’t really sure we were in the right gully until AFTER we rappelled past a section that we couldn’t figure out how to downclimb. Fortunately, it was the right one.

But even then it wasn’t over.  We had to descend toward The Saber and hike back up the talus to collect our gear at the base of the climb. What a pain; and did I mention I was exhausted? All that extra work just so we could stand on the summit. It was almost enough to make me sorry for my choice.

But the good news was that we reached our packs and headlamps with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Finding our way down in the dark without lamps would have been horrific. We got lucky once again.

Still, no water for 13 hours while exercising at high altitude was not smart. And the liter I had stashed was not enough beyond making it home.

A 2+ hour hike back to the parking lot and we had done it.  We spent 17 hours hiking 10.5 miles and climbing 12 pitches on The Saber (Kor Route), another Kor Classic!

And twelve years later (as of 2010), 17 hours is my personal record for continuous climbing/hiking without a bivy. But I still haven’t been to Vedauvoo.

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