Starting Hold #41 - August 2010

That fantastic photo is of the second pitch of Rosy Crucifixion (5.10a) in Eldorado Canyon outside Boulder, Colorado, which my friend Adam dragged me up not so long ago. As a climber who spent his formative years trad climbing but subsequently stopped upon my relocation to the Front Range in exchange for the incredibly convenient sport climbing scene, this was a proud day for me. It’s not a terribly difficult climb, but when I led the first pitch, I felt like a superstar as I crimped on tiny holds, flagged my feet like the French, and sunk gear so bomb-proof it would have saved Hiroshima.

That, however, is not the whole story. In fact, describing my first pitch that way is very nearly a fib, but let me start at the beginning. To get to the opening pitch of Rosy, you have to solo up a 150-foot 5.3 slab before turning a corner, scrambling up, and doing one 5.5 move that’s terribly exposed. I watched my friends scamper up the slab like they were driving a golf cart up a fairway. I froze 40 feet up and took in my surroundings, thinking how to fall should I slip. By fall, I mean slide, tumble, roll, skid, lose all the skin on my backside, then walk back to the car with tears welling in my face, embarrassed, alone, and dejected.

Eventually, I began creeping up the slab again and made it to the top. Having not even begun our first pitch, I was mortified. What the shit am I doing up here? Someone take me to the climbing gym so I can clip evenly spaced bolts already! Content to follow on toprope the rest of the day, I needed no part in the sharp end after having spent that much time on the “no end.” This wouldn’t do, though. Rosy starts with a 50-foot traverse that’s nearly 200 feet off the ground as soon as you pull onto the first holds. It traverses just above a roof, which means if the second falls after pulling out a piece of gear, it could land him or her below the roof, making it incredibly difficult (without some kind of ascender) to get back to where he or she fell. I grudgingly took the pieces and set out on the thin holds. To my great surprise, it was no problem. Adam then led the second pitch, and I followed, bringing us to home stretch.

The third pitch is a blocky 5.9 face protected with one bolt and plenty of great gear placements. After a lot of struggling, I made it to the lone bolt, tried to move, couldn’t, panicked, tried to grab the draw, got yelled at by my belayer, downclimbed, and breathed very hard. After five minutes, I figured out how to traverse what can only be described as a sideways ladder only to get hosed up at the next 5.7 boulder problem. This was starting to get ridiculous, and my belayer’s support relayed as much in his annoyed encouragements. Finally, I sacked up and made the well-protected moves to a giant ledge. I spent something like 40 minutes on the 60-foot pitch. When Adam popped over the final bulge to the finishing slab, he looked up at me with a look of mild amusement mixed with disgust, and simply said “C’mon son.”

I was ashamed. My effort was pathetic. Of course, I’m not trying to downplay the difficulty of the route, and this isn’t an attempt to spray about my ability as I just explained how I flailed on a climb number grades below what my 8a.nu card says I have climbed. Point is, despite my alleged experience, I was a spectacle for the morning, which, I suppose, reveals the true nature of climbing. It’s never something you can master. There are always skills to learn (and in my case relearn), and in any given circumstance, I can be a bigger gumby than I was when I started climbing (albeit a much less dangerous one). It’s why, in part from this experience, we’re bringing you our Climber’s Almanac (p. 56), a feature dedicated to compiling some of the wisdom we’ve collected over the years into one great guide for those just starting or climbers who have been at it longer than Urban Climber Mag has been around.

I usually scoff when people describe anything other than a road trip as a personal journey, as if were some introspective path to enlightenment. Maybe I’m just cynical. I have to admit, though, climbing is sometimes like that. It’s why I can come full circle after this long and still learn something new about myself when I punt on routes I feel I shouldn’t. I did however enjoy myself, and I suppose, in the end, that’s all that really counts.