“Dude, I forgot the rack,” I said to Tony, abashedly meeting his look of incredulity.
After hiking the narrow dusty trail at 8,500 feet of elevation, we were easily an hour from the car. Situated comfortably on the ground at the base of Pear Buttress – a route I’d been eyeing for years – I couldn’t believe that I’d forget something as crucial as our safety equipment in the trunk of my car.
The day before our 5:45 am parking lot rendezvous, I’d agreed to bring half of the protection – most importantly, the alpine draws – and Tony would provide the other half. The alpine draws would’ve allowed up to place stoppers as passive protection, and extend the pieces so they wouldn’t pull out as the climber moved up.
Had I brought the alpine draws, the lack of camalots would’ve been less detrimental.
I should’ve known something was amiss. That I should’ve triple-checked everything I’d embarked with on the hike to the base of the climb. Before we even started hiking, I’d forgotten to put my approach shoes; I was still wearing an old pair of ratty slippers falling apart at the seems.
I guess I hadn’t had enough caffeine following the 3:00 am wakeup call to make our rendezvous time.
Tony sat in a calm stupor with harness and shoes in hand, making a judgment call of just how bad of a mistake this was.
He asked, “What do you want to do?”
Looking up at the white-washed granite wall housing grainy black flecks – a wall that beckoned for friction-filled foot smears and splitter hand cracks – I’d weighed the options. We only had six camalots for 500 feet of vertical climbing; we were supposed to have 14.
The first option was to walk-jog back to the car, retrieve the rack, and walk-jog back to the base of the route. Cons: this would be a two hour round trip, and I’d have to walk back up the steep approach to the bottom of the wall again.
Or, the second option was to gather what gear we did have, and climb the route. Cons: no alpine draws to extend the distance between the gear in the rock, effectively increasing the drag in the rope as the climber moves up.
I said, “We’re here, I think we should do it.”
Tony stared at the ground and replied, “Hmm.”
I started putting my harness on, convincing the both of us aloud, “You’ve been doing lots of ropeless climbing in Rocky Mountain National Park, and I’ve been doing lots of climbing in Eldorado Canyon…”
Eldorado Canyon is notorious for its somewhat bold style of climbing. There aren’t always places to put protection into the wall. It requires a leader to make committing moves several feet above their last piece. This type of head game would be necessary for climbing 80 to 100 feet at a time with a minimal amount of protection should a fall occur.
“Alright,” Tony said as he’d begun to put his harness on.
Before embarking upward, I couldn’t believe how few pieces I’d clipped to my harness. Typically, it takes many minutes to place various pieces of gear onto the loops of my harness. I’ve performed this ritual for many climbs accumulated over the years; and, the process is typically calming. The placement of the gear onto the harness loops is always the same. I know where everything is located and what to grab when I need to.
There are meditative qualities in such repetition.
This occasion, however, was different. The racking the gear onto my harness took a quarter of the time it usually did.
With one end the rope attached to my person, and other tied to Tony, I’d grabbed the first grainy lip of the coarse rock with my right hand, found an edge to stand on with my left foot, and began moving up.
Then, another edge to stand on for the right foot and a sloping hold to pull upward with the left arm.
Looking down at Tony, I’d thought, “this is going to work out.” Unsure if I was convincing or reassuring myself.
Thirty feet up, I’d placed the first piece of protection into the hand sized crack.
By the time we finished the 600-foot route, Tony and I had found we’d been able to maintain the mental composure of climbing well above the last pieces of protection. Further, we’d had an adequate amount of gear to safely build an anchor to belay one another up each pitch.
Less is more.
That was the mantra for the day, as the route took a much shorter amount of time to climb than we’d initially anticipated. Without stopping to place the amount of gear I’d typically have placed, ended up shaving off a lot of time.
Leaving behind so much is not something I would recommend to my future self.
But, I can reassure that future version that if such a scenario occur again, I can rely on past experiences. I can tune into previous climbs and move forward armed with the knowledge that at certain times, certain places force me to move boldly as a climber. That climbing in such a way is possible.
Or, of course, next time I could just remember to bring the right amount of gear.