RUFA

Strava - first 7 laps

Strava - 8th lap

Strava - 9th lap

Results

"It's hard to beat someone who never gives up" -- Babe Ruth

I realize that's a pretty bold statement to put at the start of a personal race event report, but it's not there to aggrandize me. It's to explain my seemingly ridiculous 6th place overall at the Salt Lake City RUFA (Running Up For Air). I probably wasn't the slowest person in this event, but I was close to it. In this event your placement is based upon how many laps up and down a mountain you can do in a set amount of time. My event was the 24-hour event. Now if everyone kept going for the full 24-hours, I might have been DFL, but they didn't. Some didn't because they didn't need to. My buddy Joe Grant won, doing ten laps in just 19 hours and 20 minutes.  Others quit because it was no longer fun or they were tired or got injured or cold. I just kept plodding along like a tortoise and only five hares beat me. So, while it is hard to beat someone that never gives up, it isn't impossible.

I'm trying to stay spry enough to remain partners with my son Derek for as long as I can. Now that is some serious motivation. Next on our list is an attempt on Fitz Roy in Patagonia in January 2020. I'm trying to toughen myself up so that I can be ready if we get a weather window to climb that peak. I have some friends that know their way around that area and they have advised me to be ready to go for 24-hours straight if opportunity arises. To that end I'm trying to do a long, hard adventure every month this year. In January, the best I did was Mt. Harvard, but in December I did the Top Ten Flatirons. I signed up for RUFA as a low-commitment (easy to quit) way to get in my long adventure for the month. That, and I just met Jared Campbell, the race director, last month when we climbed Squawstruck together and I wanted to support his event.

But shouldn't I be climbing instead of hiking and running? Maybe. But that's high commitment and best left for the next month. Always the next month. I tried ultra running once. It's hard. I found my joints didn't like coming downhill after 10,000 vertical feet. That's not an issue for a normal athlete, but it is for a mountain ultra-runner. I moved on to easier things. So, when I entered this event, I didn't consider it a race in any way. I just don't have the talent to compete against anyone but myself. So, my main goal here was to do 20,000 vertical feet. I'd never done that before. That, and I wanted to see if I'd be tough enough to just keep on going.

My best friend Mark Oveson lives in Provo and is also the timer for the RUFA events that use his awesome software OpenSplitTime. He was the real reason I was out there. Without his support and help, I'd have found something in Colorado. I'm a real burden, too, because I'm cursed when it comes to travel. I've known this for decades and after years and years of getting agitated I just roll with it now and try to let my wife handle as much as possible. To simplify things for this trip, I didn't check any baggage. Let me correct that: I didn't plan to check any baggage. I got to security in fine shape, well ahead of departure, and found that my trekking poles were classified somewhere between an Uzi and a thermonuclear device and therefore not permitted in carry-on luggage. Bummer. I didn't want to throw away my expensive poles so I ran back to the check-in counter to check my bag. But it was too late to check the bag for my flight. And I had a super cheap ticket that you can't rebook. But the agent took pity on me and put me as stand-by for the 2 p.m. flight and confirmed me on the 6 p.m. flight. Of course I didn't get on the 2 p.m. So I arrived at 8 p.m. and forced Mark to hang around Salt Lake City all afternoon. Go me.

We got back to Mark's house just in time to settle a dispute between Jason and Spencer (twins age four) about something to do with princesses and monster trucks and eat some ice cream. After 5.5 hours of sleep, Mark whipped up some waffles and we were on the road by 4 a.m. At the check-in I was shocked to see Joe Grant. He and Kyle were supposed to be doing the Ogden RUFA. I was supposed to be doing that too, but space opened up in the SLC event and I switched to it, since Mark was going to be there and it was closer to Mark's house in Provo. Kyle came down with food poisoning on the drive out and couldn't start, so Joe switched to SLC too. Cool. I'd have a friend out there. Another friend, Darcy Piceu, was also doing the event. Both Joe and Darcy we assumed to be locks for the win. I know fast people. Too bad that isn't enough to make me fast.

The venue, Grandeur Peak, had so much snow that they had to move the start/finish/aid area back a quarter mile. The course was a simple out-and-back that gained 2650 feet in 3.25 miles, for 6.5 miles per lap. At the summit the course didn't follow the trail, which was hopelessly buried and continually being blown over. Instead, the trail went straight up the ridge, via a 35-degree slope for the last 150 vertical feet. And it was soft snow.

I purposely started at the back of the pack so that others would break trail. How awful is that? Let everyone else do the work for me? Served me right to get behind some slower hikers. I just chilled. Going slower on the first lap was the right thing to do and if I wasn't limited, I'd have made the mistake of going faster. Why not pass? Because the track was only wide enough for one person and going off the track would plunge you to your waist. Wasn't this an issue with people going up and down by each other constantly? Yes, but most everyone was super nice about stepping off to the side and letting the downhill runners (only people going downhill were running, with very few, short-lived exceptions) pass. Is this technique of asking and answer my own questions getting annoying? Yes, I'll stop now.

After some re-shuffling, I fell in behind two guys, who were obviously friends: Mark and Jeremy. They were talking about Wasatch (one of the toughest 100-mile races) and I knew it would be unwise to pass these guys. I just followed them to the top of the peak. We started in the dark at 6 a.m., but after an 80-minute ascent, the sun was up and we had some great views. I didn't dawdle on the summit because my feet were cold. The descent took a slightly different path, so that we wouldn't ruin the nice steps going up. The way back down was basically a luge run. Most people sat on their butts to go down. Darcy wore shell pants to ease the slide down. I didn't want to get too wet as I was just in tights, so I tried to stand it up each time. I half skied down, flailing my poles wildly, half fell down the slope. Eventually a track probably 6-8 inches deep formed that was just one shoe-width wide. I'd put one shoe in front and the other in back and pretend I was telemarking. I fell about as often as I do telemark skiing, which is to say often.

My plan was to do laps every 2.5 hours - four per ten hours and eight laps in 20 hours. My goal was to do 20,000 vertical feet because I'd never done that much vertical in a day before. My first lap took me 2 hours, so I banked a bit of time. I refilled my bottle, took some food, changed out of my down mitts and into my gloves (a mistake), and was headed back up by 2h05m.

I spent a lot of time in this recovery area by this nice warm heater. Nice people would bring me drinks and food. The support at this race is stellar. The volunteers are outrageously good.

I went a bit faster on the second lap, mostly due to less congestion. I had no one in front of me and was motivated to go faster. I did, marginally, ascending in around 1h15m. My hands were freezing at the top. I wondered why I had taken off my down mitts. I had them in my UD running pack, but was too lazy to dig them out. I slid back and and transitioned into my shuffle. It wasn't a real run, like Joe and Darcy were doing, but it wasn't a walk either. I took 5 minutes at the aid station before heading up again. I ate and drank some, but mostly switched my gloves to my second, dry pair, and put my down mitts over them. I'd do the rest of the laps like this and my hands generally stayed warm enough. I never needed to use my chemical heaters, but I did ball up my hands at time, tucking my poles underneath my arm.

My mindset was to get four laps as efficiently as possible and then start taking more time to rest, warm-up, and dry off. The third lap was tough for me. I'm not sure why. Maybe not enough time to get warm and dry. My feet really froze on this lap, at least at the top. It was windy and cold above the trees and most of the ascent is out of the trees. I broke the ascent down into thirds. The first third covered about 1.5 miles up to a distinct switchback to the left. Here there was a sign just pointing out the trail direction, but it was a significant landmark for me. The next section was the long, rising traverse to the ridge. Most of this was above the trees. The trail hit the ridge and there was a short track off to the right, presumably a pee spot, and then the trail dropped below the ridge again for five more minutes before regaining the ridge. This middle third took the longest. The first third took me about 30 minutes and this second third took about 35 minutes. The final third, up the ridge, was the steepest, coldest, windiest, but also the shortest. The final steep section to the summit was intimidating, but I found that was my relative strength. Early on I figured out that it took 200 steps with my right foot to gain the summit once I started the final incline. I would put my head down and pound out these steps without ever looking up. There was no point in looking up and being disappointed with how far off the summit was. I'd get there when my 200 steps were done. Actually, it never took 200, but was always close - over 185 steps at least.

The first two laps I didn't listen to anything, but then I started to listen to one of my Audible books. This makes me feel so efficient: I'm exercising, I'm racing (sort of), and I'm reading. Sweet. I wasn't really doing any suffering. I knew if I went too fast, I'd tire, bonk, quit, something. I just kept the pace reasonable. I walked every step on the way up and shuffled mostly on the way down, with some walking when I was feeling tired.

I thought I was mentally committed to staying out for my eight laps, but was a bit demoralized finishing my third lap. I was pretty tired, wet and cold. I wondered how I'd get five more laps, especially since it was logical and reasonable to expect a slow and steady decline in my ability to keep going. But ultra-running (walking) isn't a reasonable thing to do. While very inexperienced at this, I did know that people go through ups and downs and that things could get better, but at the time I didn't think this. A low-point this early wasn't expected. I'd done less than 8000 vertical feet and felt worse than I had finishing my training run of nearly 11,000 feet. This time I took 18 minutes in the aid station and wanted more, but was concentrated on getting the first four laps out of the way.

The fourth lap felt a bit better, even though it took me a minute longer. When I got down my feet were really soaked and cold. In the shuttle van up to the start of the race I heard people discussing how many pairs of socks they brought. As soon as I heard this, I knew I had screwed up. I only brought two pairs. I wasn't thinking about the aid station enough and this aid station is what makes something like this possible for me. If I couldn't warm up, change socks, dry out, I'd never have been able to go as long as I did. In this sense it isn't like a real mountain adventure. I still have a long ways to go there. As this page on OST shows, I spent a lot of time in the aid stations, especially after completing lap four.

I spent a ridiculous 46 minutes in the aid station after lap four. That's embarrassing, but it helped me so much. I changed socks, dried out my shoes a tiny bit (they were still pretty soaked), changed my shirt, ate, drank, warmed up, and rested. I talked with others in there, most of whom seemed like they were stopping. This isn't dropping, as you can't DNF this event unless you fail to do a single lap and no one failed at this, though a couple didn't start, like Kyle. So they weren't dropping out of the race, they were just electing to stop. Some claimed the nice, warm aid station contributed to their stopping. It felt so nice in there that they didn't want to go back out into the snow and the wind and the cold.

This extended stop marked the turnaround for me. I settled into a groove. It wasn't fast, but it was steady. I just cranked out my thirds on the way up and shuffled down. In the past my joints have really started to hurt after 10,000 feet of descending and I had planned to walk all the descents after getting this much vertical, but I was surprised to find that I could still shuffle down most of the way on all laps. I think this was due to my slow pace and the joint-friendly softness of the snow.

Mark's daughter Alice was entered in the 12-hour event and was doing it with her friend Logan. On m my first descent I saw them coming up (they started an hour after me at 7 a.m.). On each lap I'd be further down the mountain before I saw them until, finishing my fourth lap, I met them on the paved road less than 100 yards from the aid station. After some recovery, I headed up for lap five and caught and passed them just before the steep final section. I saw them again in the aid station afterwards. They were done, doing four laps. I was trying to do double that, but in double the time. Three to go.

In the aid station I found my Wasatch buddy from the first lap, Mark, was stopping after four laps. He'd had enough of the lumpy terrain. Another guy, much faster than me, was also thinking about stopping. I left before him, but he'd run by me while I descended my sixth lap.

Just like I was catching up to Alice, Joe and Darcy were catching up to me. Joe lapped me on my fifth lap. Darcy caught and passed me on my sixth lap, but then a strange thing happened. I didn't get dropped. It was dark now and when I found myself approaching another racer I figured it was someone else that Darcy had passed, but it was Darcy herself. Granted she was a lap in front of me, but I didn't figure I'd ever be able to go her pace. Obviously, she was fading a bit and lacking some motivation. She was way ahead of her competitors, but it was only 7 p.m. or so and a lot of time to go. I ended up following her all the way up and even passing by her on the final steep section, when she stepped to the side to call and congratulate her daughter for a stellar swimming performance. I told her that she'd run by me on the way down, as I'd be walking. But I didn't. I could still run and did pretty well. Darcy did catch and pass me, but it was near the bottom and when she stopped again to adjust something I went by and finished my sixth lap before she finished her seventh lap. She stopped after that so I narrowly avoided being lapped by her.

Each time into the aid station Mark would dry out my shell and my pile. Jared lent me a pair of socks and I changed into these after the sixth lap. On my seventh lap I got caught and passed for the second time by Joe. He was on his ninth lap. Considering he owns the FKT on Nolan's, I wasn't surprised. He's such a nice guy and we chatted a bit before he passed me and moved on, but then a strange thing happened. I didn't get dropped. Being two laps ahead, 5200 more vertical feet than me, even the great Joe Grant can slow down. When he noticed me just below him on a switchback he was excited for me and called down, "Right on, Bill!" On the final steep section to the summit Joe paused for just a few seconds to catch his breath and I nearly ran into him, my head being down and all. He turned around, shocked to see me, and said, "Bill! Alright!" He is perpetually positive and encouraging. One of the nicest superstars you'll ever meet. I passed him at the summit, because he paused for a bit while my freezing feet forced me into an immediate descent. It wasn't long before he came zooming by though and I'd never be close to him again.

With seven laps down, I was feeling pretty good. I did the easy calculations and knew that I'd have time for a ninth lap if I could hold my pace. In the aid station before my eighth lap I even mentioned it to Mark. Doing so was risky, because now if I didn't go for nine it would be clear that I just wasn't tough enough. My eighth lap went fine, pretty much the same pace as my last couple. The main difference was that the course was getting lonely. People were stopping. I headed out for lap eight just before midnight. High on the peak, the lack of racers and the wind was filling in the track a bit and things got more difficult and more slippery. Jared recommended descending the steep final section via the ascent route. Now that hardly anyone was out there, this was reasonable and kept me upright and drier.

I rested 30 minutes after lap eight, less than I rested after lap seven, before heading up again. My last three laps I'd gone without poles and I felt that made me faster on the way down and kept my hands a lot warmer. But on this last lap, my ninth, I decided to take the poles because I'd probably be walking all the way down. This turned out to be a mistake. I was tired and knew it was my last lap and I didn't have any time pressure, so I went a bit slower. I even went into the aid tent on the summit for the first time. I had some hot chocolate, some food and chatted with the three people in the tent. They had a propane heater going in there and it was toasty. On my descent from the summit, I slipped and fell. No big deal, as I had done that many times, but this time my pole was planted deep and I didn't let go of it and I broke it. Bummer.

I finished DFL! At least it looks that way now. I thought I was the last guy out there, but when I was descending on my last lap I passed a guy coming up. I forgot his number. I looked at my watch and said, "You've got time" and he responded, "Yup." But I didn't see a finishing time after mine in the results on OpenSplitTime.  I don't think any other event (there were multiple 6-hour events, a 12-hour event, and the 24-hour event) finished at 6 a.m. Curious. In fact, I ran a lot more on my final descent than I would have, just in case this guy blazed his descent and passed me. That wasn't likely, as I calculated I must have had at least a 25-minute lead and I only had 45 minutes to go. I finished with 40 minutes left on the clock (anyone who finishes past the 24-hour cut-off doesn't get credit for their last lap). Maybe he didn't make it. (Note: I found out later that this guy, unfortunately, turned around before reaching the summit and while he finished after me, he didn't complete the lap, so didn't get credit for it).

As usual these days, it was my friends that made it possible. Mark, despite being the head timer for this race, served as my man Friday at the aid station. Joe, Kyle, Darcy and most of the other runners kept encouraging me. And, maybe most significant of all, I didn't want to appear too wimpy to Mark and Homie who I knew would be watching the results. If my choices are sitting in a nice warm tent, eating lots of good food and getting some sleep or having the respect of my friends...it's not a hard decision.

While this was very significant for me, without exaggeration, I must be the least tough person with which I adventure. Homie did the same amount of vertical as I did on Green seven hours faster. I was ready for Homie to say, "Dude, if you didn't spend so much time in that tent, you'd have done ten laps."I was prepared with my response: "If it wasn't for that aid tent, I'd have quit after four laps."  But Homie didn't say that. He just was super positive, of course.

So, February long adventure is done. What will I do in March? Derek and I need a winter Longs Peak ascent to keep our streak going. If I'm slow enough that could qualify...

Postscript:
We got back to Mark's place around 7 a.m. and after a shower I went to bed at 7:30 a.m. for 2.5 hours. I got up, packed my bag and had breakfast with Mark, while chatting with his family. Since they were headed to church, Mark told me to take his truck and drive to the train station in SLC. I'd ride the train to the airport and Mark would pick up his truck later that day. There were two options for catching the train and Mark thought he gave me the directions for the station with the best chance of catching the train. I got there, parked, hung the keys on the bolt hidden behind the front wheel and hopped on the train with a minute to spare. All went well on my return trip, but later that night I got a call from Mark. He couldn't find the truck... After some stress we concluded that he was at the wrong station. I told him, "Whew, I was afraid the truck was stolen." I hung up and Mark made his way to the correct station. Fifteen minutes later, Mark called again. No truck. We confirmed he was in the right location and indeed the truck was gone. By coincidence, a police car was nearby and Mark flagged it down. Shortly afterwards he was watching a security-camera video of a guy stealing his truck. Bummer. I felt horrible about my part in this, but Mark just said, "Don't worry about it. I didn't even like that truck." Pretty blase for a guy whose truck had just been stolen.

A few days later the police recovered the truck. They weren't looking for it. They found it at a drug bust. A guy was sitting in it outside of a suspected drug hangout when the police asked him if this was his truck. It still had Mark's plates on it, so the police knew it was stolen. The guy said, "A guy lent it to me." "Who?" "Just this guy Paul. I just met him and know nothing else about him." From the video the police knew that the guy wasn't the guy who stole the truck, but they arrested him for receiving stolen goods.

Mt. Harvard with Homie and Danny

Photos (not many as using a camera wasn't possible up high)

Strava

Wind. Besides snow conditions, either too deep or too dangerous, this is the strongest force that climbers must battle. The wind is legendary in Patagonia, but the winter winds in Colorado aren't far behind. The winds we encountered today might not have been the worst I've experienced, but they were in the top five, probably. They were without a doubt the strongest winds I've ever continued to ascend into. I'll try to describe them, but I fear there is no way for a person to understand winds like these without experiencing it firsthand.

All my significant adventures these days follow the same script: Great friends, super strong friends agree to take me along, do all the work, and make it nearly impossible for me to quit, despite my best efforts. Without these partners, my life would be so different. But that's true all throughout life. The people that surround you are the ones that determine the course of your life. Yes, my character has some influence in the friends that I have, but it seems I've been unduly luck.

Homie is one of the all-time Colorado 14er masters. He's 28 peaks through this second pass through the winter 14ers. Danny's done 31 of the hardest 14ers in winter. I've done 26 of the easiest. All of us like to get at least one winter ascent each year. I wanted to write "a few winter ascents", but after today I wonder when I'll be mentally ready for another. This one might have scratched that itch for the entire year. In selecting a peak, we need to find the intersection of Danny's and my remaining winter 14ers and a peak Homie hasn't done in the current month (he's working on gridding the 14ers - a truly insane project). We narrowed the list to Belford, Oxford, Columbia and Harvard. Of those Danny said, "I've heard Harvard is kind of a bitch...so that's my first choice." Makes sense. For him. it would have made it my last choice.

Homie leads and I'm following

The safest route in winter, is via Frenchman's Gulch, a route that is 18 miles and 6000 vertical feet. Of course, Homie had done it before and served as chief guide. Danny was the assistant guide and main workhorse. And I was the client.

We decided on skis for the approach and it is a great choice for this route. The entire route, save the final ridge, is at a gentle angle that allows for reasonable skiing on the way down, despite the single-track trail. The lower part of the trail is on a 4WD road that is wide enough to allow for snowplowing as a speed control mechanism. Even Homie concluded that skis were the right choice and he generally prefers snowshoes. Danny was all hot to use skis, having recently acquired a slick AT setup. Homie and I went without NNN (Nordic) gear, which is light, but much trickier on the descent.

We met at my house (another concession to me at Danny's suggestion) at 2 a.m. We piled all our gear into Danny's car for the long drive to the trailhead at 8600 feet. We were skinning up the road at 5:15 a.m. in our little pools of light. We had to break trail the entire way. It generally wasn't too deep, but was continuous and tiring. We averaged maybe 45 minutes per mile. Homie broke trail for a mile and then stepped aside. Danny, ever the over achiever did a mile and a half. I barely made it through my mile, at a reduced pace. Then Danny again for another 1.5 and then Homie took us to treeline.

We skied up into the basin and atop a hill at around 12,000 feet. Above the snow was intermittent and rock hard or sugary. We opted to drop the skis and continue on foot. Homie and I pulled Microspikes over our skis boots and Danny switched out of his boots into a pair of gaitored running shoes!

We worked up the basin and then across a wind-scoured slope up to the next tier. While it was breezy below, what we encountered above was an entirely different force, an other-worldly force. For the next four hours we'd battle this swirling, unpredictable demon. Gusts would hit with such force that you'd have to drop to the ground or be blown over. They seemed to come from every direction. There were small lulls occasionally and movement during these periods was so much easier that I found myself doing intervals to gain as much ground as I could during these relative easier times. Intervals over 12,000 is not an ideal approach. I'd be so winded at the end of each one.

Danny was leading the way, then Homie and then me, as usual. The wind was so ridiculous and the summit so far away, that I was already thinking of turning around. I just didn't see any way I could succeed. Danny knows me well. He knew what I was thinking. And he wouldn't let me catch up to him because he knew I'd mention retreat.

The raw temperature couldn't have been that cold because if it was, the wind would make things truly life threatening. All of us had cold feet, mostly because of the wind, but also because we all had minimal footwear for winter climbing. We all wore our shells, hoods, googles, and balaclavas. Any exposed skin was in danger.

Progress was slow and draining, especially for me as I spent considerable energy wondering if I should turn around, wondering if my feet were freezing. I took stock of the rest of my body. My hands were okay. I was wearing my big down mitts with chemical heaters in them. I was worried also about my nose, though. I couldn't tell if my balaclava was covering it sometimes. Otherwise I was okay. So, fatigue and feet, fear and frostbite.

We regrouped at the start of the long ridge leading to the summit. It was so far away. It seemed impossibly far. Danny moved on. I told Homie I might turn around and not to wait for me. I wondered which direction to move. Up or down? I wiggled my feet. I didn't think they were numb. I could feel them moving. I was torn between my desire to summit and the damage to my self esteem if I was the only one to turn around. Whether I doing any damage to my feet for a silly summit or whether I was imagining that damage as an excuse to turn around that made me seem smart instead of weak. My buddy the Loobster is still climbing mountains and he's twenty years older than me. I wondered how old I'll have to be before I'm content to sit in my chair on the weekend. That thought made me think of the Bob Dylan song with the line: "How many seas must the white dove sail before she can rest in the sand." Only then did I realize that song was "Blowin' in the Wind." I shed my pack and continued on, going as light as I could.

Movement along the ridge was brutal, with frequent sections where we'd be crawling. We didn't start off crawling. We started by using our hands on steep terrain and staying with it until the terrain was nearly horizontal. The climbing was only 3rd class, but the slopes below us were steep and covered in rock-hard snow and the gusts so strong that being blown off wasn't out of the question.

All of our goggles were icing up. With as many winter 14er ascents that Homie had done, he'd been here before. Ironically, he brought two pairs to the trailhead and left his second pair behind, trusting the weather report. Removing the goggles wasn't an option, as the wind was driving the spindrift so hard that it was quite painful and impossible to keep your eyes open. Homie would clear his by licking on the lens. Danny got some luck with breathing on them. I tried scraping them with my gloved fingers.

Halfway across the traverse, Danny dropped his pack as well. We were all pushed to our limits. After rounding a significant gendarme, I thought I saw the summit - a prominent rock tower. Despite three ascents of this peak, I asked Homie if that was the top. He told me it was on the ridge in the background. The far background. Despair descended upon me. Later, Homie would admit that he considered turning back when we were probably within fifteen minutes of the summit. It was that bad. My goggles got worse and worse until I could only see vague shapes. I crawled the last twenty feet to the summit. The only reason I made the top was because my companions kept going and, this is key, they never got too far in front of me. I'm not sure if they were wasted or waiting for me. Probably some of both, but if they had gapped me by a sizable margin, I'd have turned around. No one could wait in weather like this and I wouldn't have trusted myself to negotiate the ridge alone.

Needless to say, we didn't linger on the summit. Homie made a point of patting me on the back. I think he was as amazed as I was that I had made the top. I can suffer compared to the average person. I know that. But I'm such a wimp compared to these two. On our trip up Antero last year, I was a net negative. Going with these two is a conundrum. On the one hand, my chances of making the summit are greatly improved. On the other hand is the pressure of being the weakest, of contributing nothing, and the fear of failure. The night before this trip I sent Danny an email saying they were stronger without me and that I was looking for an excuse to bail. A reasonable response would have been: "Maybe we are faster without you, but it's up to you." That might have been enough. Instead he wrote back, "Nah, you're going." One can do a lot worse than following in the footsteps of these two. It's going to be up to me to know when I shouldn't tag along. Hopefully I won't wait until I'm a serious liability.

The misery wasn't over at the top. The upper few hundred feet were the worst of all and next 45 minutes were a serious struggle. My goggles were useful only as skin protection, as I couldn't see out of them. I'd lift of the bottom for just a few seconds and try to memorize the next six feet of terrain, then put them down and feel my way. I thought of my blind friend Erik Weihenmayer. He never has problems with his goggles.

Whenever I could cheat, I'd keep my goggles up and go as fast as could until the wind whipped the spindrift into my eyes with such pain I wondered if it damaged my eyes. Homie led the way and I followed as close as I could. I lost a Microspike somewhere along here. If it has been the Hope diamond, I wouldn't have gone back looking for it. I wondered if I had pushed things too far. If I stumbled and injured myself to the point where I couldn't walk, I felt like I'd die there. How could I be rescued when it was all anyone could do to move themselves? At least I wasn't wrestling with the decision of whether to go on or not. I know this sounds overly dramatic and I doubt my partners had such thoughts, but it was running through my mind. Keep moving, I kept telling myself.

Once back at my pack and off the ridge, I knew I'd survive. The wind still pelted us mercilessly, but it was less here and if I got knocked down, it would be on gentle terrain. I still couldn't see out of my goggles, but now the wind seemed to be primarily at my back and I could travel long stretches with my goggles up.

Back at our ski cache we were shocked to see only one of Danny's skis. We had placed all six skis in a pile between two rocks. Danny started looking for the ski down the slope. I started thinking what it would be like for Danny to get out on one ski. Walking wasn't much of an option because, once in the trees, he'd have dropped to his waist for nearly ever step. I've skied on one leg before when I broke a ski halfway through the day. It's an incredible leg workout and I'd switch legs every time I stopped. But that was at a ski area. Back when I was an expert skier. And twenty years old. Danny was going to be in trouble and we weren't going to be able to help that much. It had me thinking how dependent we are on this gear to survive.

Before Danny had searched for even a few minutes, Homie spotted the ski. It was 40-50 feet uphill! Homie wasn't looking for the ski there. No one would look there. He just happened to be walking back to rock and saw it above. We concluded it must have been the wind, that is so crazy that I'm not sure. It just seems to be the best explanation...it seems the least impossible answer, but still seems impossible. It must have been a freak gust...that just plucked one ski and left the other five undisturbed? I wondered if an animal got caught in it and dragged it a ways. We saw elk or goat scat up there, but no animals. It was pure luck that Homie saw it. If he hadn't, we'd have spent at least an hour looking everywhere downhill for it before giving up and watching Danny suffer through an all-night wallow back to the car. That Homie is handy.

So happy to be back down in the trees

We were all weak from the lack of food and water. The wind above didn't allow us any respite to fuel ourselves. Each of us forced down whatever food and water we could. Fueled by a strong desire to reach to the shelter of the trees, we quickly switched back into our skis and started our descent. We kept on the skins for a bit, to control our speed and climb the small rises we knew were coming, but soon the desire to glide was too great for Danny and I. The skiing was pretty fun with nice soft powder to side of our track to provide a speed break. Despite this, I fell a couple of times. Getting back up in this bottomless snow was a real chore. Homie pulled me from one of my falls. The other times I found myself completed winded by time I was standing again.

Halfway down we ran into a group of five or six snowshoers. We knew a few of them. They were doing a 2-day ascent and thanked us for the track. Unfortunately, they had no way to avoid dorking up our nice ski track with snowshoe craters. Danny and I could zip down the gradual trail fine, but any rise was very difficult for us. We had to herringbone or sidestep up the hills and it was tricky to use our poles since if you didn't plant them in the track, they'd nearly disappear into the snow. Homie kept his skins on, preferring the speed control and the grip on the climbs. We regrouped often, to make sure no one had an injury or equipment failure.

We made it back to the car completely exhausted, but quite elated. The round trip took us just over 12 hours. We seem to recycle the same comments about the wind and our doubts all the way home.

Winter Flatiron Top Ten

Danny Gilbert taking a breather high on the First Flatiron around 7:30 p.m.

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Roach's Top Ten Flatiron climbs hasn't attracted a lot of attention, but it should. Though one could argue over the choice of the routes, this collection is high quality, varied, and spread nicely along the entire length of the Flatirons. Doing them all in a day is daunting. I have no idea how often it's been done, but all of the ascents that I know about was documented in this trip report by Danny Gilbert. Most of the time it's done as a point-to-point (and for some reason almost always strictly north to south) to avoid the 6-mile hike back to the start. Danny upped the ante the first time he did the Top Ten and finished where he started. Darren Smith followed suit and set the FKT in 6h28m.

A long time ago (10+ years, I think, I need to find that trip report) I tried the Top Ten, alone, in January and, after scaring myself silly when my rope got stuck on the North Face of the Maiden, decided not to solo, for the first time, the North Face of the Matron. Hence, I only got nine done. Cleaning that up had been in the back of my mind ever since.

Danny high on the first section of the Fatiron. 

Doing the Top Ten in winter is harder than you might first imagine. First, because it must be done in late December or January. February and March are out because the Third Flatiron closes after January 31st. So, you're pretty much guaranteed a cold, dark day. My good friend Danny Gilbert and I made it a goal of ours this year and then didn't get it done in January. The first few days of winter were semi-reasonable temperatures but family commitments precluded us from giving it a go until the 29th, which happened to be the coldest day of the winter season.

I'm known among my partners for being particularly wimpy in cold weather. So, what am I doing trying this? I can't explain that sufficiently even to myself except that it's a challenge. I aspire to climb big mountains and it's cold up there, so I better train for it, right? But, still, I'm not suited to it. My hands and feet have poor circulation and I need good gear to survive and still suffer. Danny knew this and still wanted to team up with me. I might not be the worst partner for this, since I know the climbs pretty well, but I'm a long way from being the best. Maybe he needed more of a challenge himself. Layton Kor, one of my climbing heros, was famous for doing first ascents of very difficult routes, with neophyte partners. He succeeded not because of his companions, but in spite of them. This is basically what Danny did.

Rapping down off the Maiden

The night before the weather forecast was for 13 degrees the next morning and not rising about 15 degrees for hours. My son Derek, who had been interested, said he was out. I sent a text to Danny telling him about our doubts. His response: "We can do it!" No easy way for me to back out. When I arrived at Chautauqua Park the next morning it was 8 degrees. I figured we'd just be going for a long hike. Danny really wanted to at least give it a try this year (since it was on our list of goals) and if we failed, we'd just try again in January.

I wore my Keen Mountain boots - soft-soled, warm boots that I used to climb Aconcagua - and would change into freezing climbing shoes at the base of each route. Danny did the entire day in his scramblers. With my wimpy feet that wasn't an option for me. I brought a down jacket and wore it most of the day. I brought big down mitts and wore them at the start and whenever I needed to warm up my hands, which was frequent.

Our plan was to close the loop - to start and finish at Chautauqua. Why make it harder? Danny. We planned to climb up each route, which sounds obvious, but frequently people do this link by climbing down Stairway to Heaven because it climbs south to north. Why make it harder? Danny.

Danny leading the first pitch on the Matron

 So, we started by hiking about six miles south to the Fatiron, which is east facing and we hoped it would be climbable by the time we got there. This allowed us to hike during the dark and the coldest part of the day. We chatted non-stop and just hiked. We were carrying two 30-meter 7.8mm ropes, a rack of five cams and five slings, harnesses, belay/rappel devices, food, two liters of water. I wore a 30-liter pack to give me room to carry my huge boots when necessary. We were not going light. It was too cold to go light for 12+ hours.

We navigated well and arrived at the Fatiron after 1h35m. I switched into my climbing shoes, kept on my down jacket and we scrambled upwards on great, dry rock and in the sun, though it was still very cold. At the top of the first section we set up a rappel from the anchors and I went first and noticed that the ropes didn't reach. The terrain at the end of this rappel is very overhanging and the ends just dangled. We moved the rappel down to a horn near the edge of the overhang and it worked great.

At the top of the Fatiron we experienced very strong, biting wind. We'd meet these conditions on the top of each route and it would be so brutal at times that we questioned whether we could continue. Each time we'd arrive back on the ground in a miserable state. I'd switch back to my boots, pull on my down mitts and we'd hike on, and each time, we had recovered enough by the time we got to the next climb to head up once again.

We made the short but complex hike/scramble over to the Maiden and Danny discovered that movement in his scramblers without Microspikes was not only slow, but dangerous. He'd wear them continuously (not on the climbs, of course) for the rest of the day. We roped up for the Maiden, as we would on the Matron, the Backporch, West Chimney, and Friday's Folly. We soloed the rest: Fatiron, Pellaea, Stairway to Heaven, First and Third Flatirons.

Me nearing the crux of the Pellaea

I led and we simul-climbed from the start over to the East Ridge. We both stopped enroute at the Crow's Nest to ditch our packs. Danny had to stop a couple of times as we traversed the north face in order to warm his hands. We both climbed in light pile gloves and conditions here in the shade of the North Face, with temperatures still below 20 degrees and winds about 30 mph, were nasty to say the least. Danny worried if he was forcing me to stop in a bad position, but before each tricky section I'd make sure I had enough slack to continue to the next rest stance. I was out of slings at the belay on the east ridge and stopped there. I was surprised to hear moans of pain from Danny wafting around the corner. I was gratified by it, somewhat, though. At least I wasn't the only one suffering. From previous experience on winter 14ers with Danny, I'd have thought if Danny was in pain from the cold, I'd have already been left for dead.

When Danny joined me on the ledge, I ran the rope up to the top while Danny suffered the screaming barfies as his hands thawed. At the top the wind was ripping and it was desperately cold. I pulled my down mitts out of my pockets and pulled then on while we set up the rappel. Danny went down first and barely made the Crow's Nest because the our purple rope got blown around the rock and got stuck. He got down, but couldn't free it. I'd have to do it.

Just dropping off the top of the Maiden was scary because my hands were nearly numb. I wore just my pile gloves in case I had to manipulate something. I rapped down until I was the furthest from the rock - probably thirty feet away from it, getting blown around in the wind. I wrapped the rope around my leg three or four times and then hauled myself down the rock via the stuck purple rope. Just before I got to the rock the rope pulled free and I swung wildly away, spinning 170 feet off the ground. I was penduluming so far out to the side, that I didn't think I'd hit the Crow's Nest, but Danny was able to pull me in when he grabbed the ends of the ropes.

Me climbing up Stairway to Heaven

The next rappel went a lot smoother and we rapidly warmed up once on the ground and out of the wind. On the climb, I thought we had to abort, but now back on the ground, I was at least willing to hike over to the Matron. We descended down to the bridge trail and took that over to Shadow Canyon. We dropped some weight just off the Shadow Canyon Trail and headed up to the Matron. It was Danny's turn to lead and he did a great job. We simul-climbed the 3 or 4 pitches in one and met our nemesis, the wind, at the summit. Two rappels and we were down. I carried my pack to the summit because I had to carry my boots. The only routes I didn't carry my pack on were the Pellaea, West Chimney, and Friday's Folly.

We now told ourselves that we just needed to hike back to Chautauqua and we'd be done. Yeah, we had to do seven climbs along the way, but at least we were headed towards the finish. We'd taken about five hours to get the first three climbs done. It was going to be a long day. We were a bit worried about the Pellaea since it is a thin, delicate climb that seems harder than the 5.4 rating. We once again stashed some gear at the trail junction low in Fern Canyon and headed up with just one rope in the pack.

The climb went surprisingly well. It was the only climb of the day that I climbed bare-handed. The rock had been in the sun for quite awhile and conditions were good. Of course the summit was pure hell, but we weren't there long. We hiked down, retrieved our cache and headed towards Dinosaur Mountain. We had previously arranged some aid from Sheri at the Mallory Cave/Mesa Trail junction and she did not disappoint. She brought us more water, Gatorade, Frappuccinos, hot chocolate, cookies, sandwiches, nuts, etc. She also brought me my gaitered running shoes and I swapped them for my mountain boots. Later, I almost regretted this choice, but it worked out.

Bushwhacking over to the Royal Arch Trail

We trudged up the Porch Alley trail to the back side of the Front Porch and dropped some gear. Then headed around the north side of the Lost Porch and up to the Back Porch. It was my turn to lead and once again we did it as a single pitch. Two rappels off the back side, with the second being the freakiest rappel start in the Flatirons and then back to the gear. We took the newly-formed path (from the latest Tour) down into Skunk Canyon where we found some nice tracks in the snow (probably put in my Peter Bakwin and Justin Simoni) and headed east to the base of Stairway to Heaven. Getting up this long climb was tiring and very cold on my feet. We downclimbed off to the west via Danny's route, which I'd never done before. It's pretty neat, though a bit lichen rich. I was thankful to be back in my Crossovers and we did the bushwhack over to the Royal Arch trail.

The trail was very icy and I was now wearing Microspikes continuously as well. I was dreading the long, complicated, nasty hike to Green Mountain Pinnacle and it delivered on all my fears. Yet, that was nothing compared to the climb. With our light fading fast, Danny headed up into the chimney with 40 mph wind ripping through it. The rope paused for quite awhile I wondered if Danny was bailing. That just shows that I have more to learn about Danny. He doesn't bail, unless his partner forces him to (I've done this to him before). Eventually the rope snakes out and comes tight on me and I start to climb. Once in the chimney it is so cold that my primary goal is movement upwards and I care very little about falling. I'm on a toprope and I know I'm safe, but I'm so cold and only the summit will bring me relief. I'm wearing my down jacket and don't want to rip it against the opposing wall of the chimney. It's a concern, but not my primary one. I fight my way to the top and not a word is said between Danny and I. We both immediately untie our ropes and lower them down the wall to the ground.

Executing one of my twenty shoe exchanges

Back on the ground, I'm thinking that it's over. No way I can climb another route in that wind. I have to bail. Danny can sense my mindset and says, "That was nasty. Seven down. Three to go," assuring me that he isn't thinking about stopping. I stay quiet and resolve to not speak up until I get to the base of the next route. No use in quitting here. Either way we are following the same path for the next 30 or more minutes. We pack up and are moving quickly. It sucks descending, but we're careful and don't stumble. A short ways above the trail we stop to eat and drink a bit more. I'm warmer now, but a long way from comfortable.

By the time we get down the Royal Arch Trail, I'm warm again. We mistakenly go by the bushwhack up to the base of the Third Flatiron and call an audible to go do the First Flatiron next. That way we don't waste the vertical climbing up to the base of the Third. We can link right to the bottom of it from the First. We trudge on in the darkness, feeling every foot of vertical. At the base of the route, things look serious. Each of the tiny edges holds some snow. Just a dusting to be sure, but maybe enough to make them slippery. I mention the conditions and Danny just agrees. I wonder to myself if it is prudent to head up, solo, in the cold and the dark, with my current level of fatigue. Is it worth the risk? I let Danny go first to test conditions. He's just in scramblers. I have climbing shoes. If he feels solid enough my pride will force me to follow. He does and I do.

Our one support stop - thanks, Sheri!

The next two hundred feet, we both agree, demand our complete concentration. Once above forty or fifty feet the chances of surviving a fall are nil. We encounter minute patches of ice occasionally and call them out. The higher we go, the easier things get. We opt out of the slot and head to the ridge, thinking our packs might make things tougher and we just want the easiest way to the summit. We stop once to rest. At the top the wind urges us to go straight into the downclimb instead of messing with the ropes and freezing.

On the ground, we know we'll complete it now. We just have to get to the base of the Third. The East Face is long and we're wasted, but it's well featured and we'll be fine. At one point we weren't sure exactly where we were, but just continued upwards and nailed the route that is ingrained in my hands and feet. We stop a ways below the summit to put on our harnesses out of the wind. At the top we immediately set up the rappels and descend. Danny goes first and deals with the inevitable tangle on the intermediate ledge below. I follow and then we stress when the rope won't pull. It must be tangled with the other rope. Danny uses superhuman (well superBill anyway) strength to pull the ropes down. I try to help.

This is what the Third Flatiron looked like at 8:30 p.m.

Danny sets up the next rappel, dropping one line and then tossing the coil that I gave him of the purple rope. Unfortunately, that coil developed into a massive knot. Danny then made a horrible mistake. One I made early in my climbing career with near fatal consequences. It was similarly dire for him. In his fatigue and haste, he rappelled into the knot.

Danny had to climb up a bit to release the tension on the rope and free the knot from his device, while keeping himself on rappel. He did this and then tried in vain for quite awhile to untangle the knot. He couldn't do it because he needed the end of the rope, which was snagged below him! He was screwed. Then he came up with an idea. He'd complete the rappel on just the unknotted line. But before he could implement this strategy, his headlamp died.

He shouted up his plan to me and I fixed the red line. He felt around in the darkness to switch his rappel device out of both ropes and onto just one. After awhile he called up again, "Okay, I'm on red and will descend." Except that he wasn't. I yelled down, "Red is slack and purple is weighted." Profanities ensued. Apparently Danny cannot tell the difference between red and purple...by feel.

After what was probably the most stressful time in his climbing career he was on red and descended safely to the ground. He freed the stuck end of purple and I hauled it up to untangle the knot, which did require pulling through the end of the rope. By the time I was on the ground my feet were nearly numb and I was frigid. It was my lead, but I didn't want to epic so close to the finish. I wimped out and decided to toprope it instead. This proved pretty challenging, but once again the cold drove me upwards with little regard for falling on a toprope. Danny went up after I got down and we packed up for the final time.

The hike out was slow and icy, but mainly because I didn't want to hurt myself so close the finish. The time mattered not. By pure coincidence we finished in 15:59:19. It was a bonding adventure and we embraced once we were on easy ground. I'd never have made it without him to keep the adventure rolling and to never even consider failure. Great partners help you achieve great things.

As we neared the trailhead Danny said, "That's one adventure I won't be repeating." I wholeheartedly agreed.

No Sighting the Yellow Spur

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I've done a few climbing routes (Yellow Spur, Bastille Crack, First Flatiron, etc.) so many times that I've asserted, jokingly, that I could climb them blindfolded. Of course I wasn't serious and it was only an indication of how well I knew these routes. I knew each hold, each foot placement, and the exact sequences of moves. But seeing someone climb a route that they don't know, without sight, is something altogether different.

Erik and Connor just above the first-pitch roof

As I watched Erik Weihenmayer, a world-famous blind adventurer/writer/speaker, feel his way up the 5.7 third pitch of the Yellow Spur, I calculated that it was the equivalent of climbing 5.10. He can't see the better hand placements near to where he's crimping a micro-edge. He can feel with this hands and remember the foothold locations, but mainly of the larger sizes. If the footwork is subtle edges, he has to smear. A move that a sighted climber can quickly execute and get off his arms and back onto his feet, takes Erik much longer. Yet, he's climbed the Naked Edge. He probably has 5.13 climbing strength, as does his business and frequent adventure partner, Connor Koch.

I teamed up with these two to climb the Yellow Spur. I met Connor earlier this year when a small group of us Minions scrambled by him and his buddy on the First Flatiron. He knew of the Minions and we got to talking and he amazingly remembered that I knew Erik, as we'd done one bike ride about five years ago (on his tandem). I'd been hooked up with Erik via our mutual friend Hans Florine, but after that one outing we fell out of touch. Connor got us back together.

Connor Koch at the top of the third pitch

We met in Eldo at noon. Already that should have been cause for concern. It's dark at 5 p.m. this time of year. I packed a headlamp. Connor forgot his. Erik...well, he didn't see the point. The trail was hard-packed snow and ice. I pulled on my Microspikes and Erik pulled out a cheap off-brand pair, which I think were Connor's. Connor just skated along with the agility of a young person.

Watching Erik hike along a very technical, rocky trail, coated in ice made me wonder if he's truly blind. I said as much to him and he came clean. He can see, but will only admit to it until after he retires from climbing, kayaking, bullet catching, etc. He knows he had good thing going. Erik taps along with his trekking poles faster than any of the tourists in Eldo. He didn't trip. He didn't fall. He didn't stumble. I think I did all three.

Erik isn't perfect though. He has terrible fear of heights. He only climbs because of the huge advantage he has of not being able to see. Think of all those poor acrophobic sighted people. Probably potential world-class climbers like Erik, if it wasn't for their damn eyes. Sure, one could use a blindfold, but they'd undoubtedly be hounded by cries of cheating, akin to those from using oxygen on Everest.

Erik belaying Connor on the fourth pitch

Also, I'm pretty sure Erik is terrified of bears. Connor hikes along in front of him holding a bell in his hand and periodically rings it, apparently to assure Erik that no ursine creatures are nearby. Connor will occasionally give directions to Erik about the upcoming terrain: "off-camber slope here", "funky rocks ahead", "branch on your right - watch your head." But not for everything. At one point I noticed a big boulder in front of Erik and asked Connor, "Aren't you going to mention that?" "No," he responded, "you can't coddle him too much. He'll figure it out."

Indeed Erik does figure things out. He never asks for help to do anything. He know exactly where all his gear is and how to use it all. When we stopped to spike up, he peeled off the pack, reached directly into his pack, pulled out the spikes, felt around for their orientation, pulled them on and had his pack back on practically before I did. Gearing up, we just hand him the end of the rope and he ties in. He cleans gear, anchors at belays, sets up and rappels without any assistance, pulls the rope, coils, etc.

While he never asks for help and hardly ever needs it, he is appreciative of any information you give him. He never says, "I don't need help." Never says, "I can do it on my own." He doesn't need to assert his independence. When you've done what he's done (he kayaked the Grand Canyon and the film made about this just won the Grand Prize at the Banff Film Festival), you don't need to tell anyone what you can do. Instead, he's thankful and appreciative. He makes you feel good for helping him. When I climbed with him on one pitch, I gave as much direction as I could (frequently getting his rights and lefts reversed), but his speed of climbing seemed independent of my instructions. When I paused to clean a piece of gear, he'd climb up into me. If he doesn't get any hints about the terrain, he just keeps climbing. It might take longer to search out a solution, but I never heard him once ask for a tip.

We climbed with two 70-meter ropes. That's one giant potential mess and it motivated me to belay only at ledges. I led the first pitch, which is incredibly circuitous. It goes like this: up twenty feet to a roof, traverse 90-degrees to the left underneath it to some jugs, then turn 90-degrees again to go up, above the roof turn 90-degrees back to the right and traverse the lip, then up 45 degrees to the belay at a tree. Pulling almost 500 feet of rope up that was arduous, but watching Erik cruise the burly 5.9 roof with minimal vocal help from Conner made it seem fun.

Connor and Erik climbing the last pitch. 

I linked the next two pitches (5.8 and 5.7) and set up a belay from four cams. Following this nearly 200-foot stretch took some time, though probably about average for most climbers of the Yellow Spur. I watched the sun get closer to the very high horizon and regretted leaving my headlamp at the base of the route. That was dumb. When Connor and Erik arrived I suggested we switch to the easier finish, up Icarus. They were both game and we avoided a mini-epic. We did a short traverse pitch over to the Red Ledge below the upper part of the Dirty Deed Chimney. Connor led a long pitch here up the route called Daedalus. He belayed from a tree 200-feet up and Erik and I climbed up to him.
I led a short pitch to the top of the wall, intersecting the arete descent from the top of T1 (where the Yellow Spur ends) and immediately descended left to the notch and the rappel anchor there. From there we did a 70-meter rappel back to the Red Ledge, then traversed north on the Red Ledge to the bolted rappel anchors at the top of the second pitch of the Dirty Deed. Another rappel here (less than 60 meters) put us back on the ground, just as it got dark.

What a great mini-adventure with two incredible people. We hit it off well, but I think these two would get along with anyone. They are just so positive, so pleasant, and so very capable. We vowed to return and start a bit earlier in order to complete the entire Yellow Spur. I'm going to talk them climbing with a hundred foot rope and do a bit of simul-climbing, if necessary.  I suspect that won't bother Erik in the slightest.

White Rim Trail w/Liberty Crew

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Two years ago I rode the White Rim Trail in a day with a group from my brother Chris' company - Liberty Oilfield Services. I invited Derek along because, well, he likes adventures and challenges. It wasn't because he was a mountain biker, because he wasn't. You'd think doing a 100-mile mountain bike ride for your first ride would be...unwise. But, we had full support via a pickup truck following us. This way, if anyone couldn't make it, they could throw their bike in the truck's bed and hop in. Derek did just that after 60 miles in 2016. It was the right thing to do at the time, but it left a bad taste in his mouth. Derek doesn't like leaving things undone...

This year, a couple of months before the scheduled ride in early November, Derek borrowed my spare mountain bike. He knows the benefit of training and he wasn't coming to get a further along the route. He was coming to finish. We did a couple of training rides together, but mostly he rode by himself or with friends. He was riding strong and I know his resolve. I was nearly positive he'd finish. I didn't know just how strong he was going to be.

Derek taking a break on the White Rim Trail

We drove out Friday afternoon evening. After I screwed up with the GPS coordinates of the campsite (trusting my faulty memory as to the location instead), we arrived after 10 p.m., the last ones. The morning quickly and it was cold. I anticipated this and brought lots of clothes and two big pairs of gloves for us both. I crawled out of the back of our Land Cruiser, where we slept, and the president of LOS, Ron Gusek, already hard at work at the grill. He had multiple burners going making bacon-egg-English-muffin sandwiches. I had two.

We started in the dark, via headlamps, and rode a few miles back east to highway 313. We were heading down the Shafer Trail and would finish by climbing up Mineral Bottom Road and then ride the interminable dirt road, gradually climbing all the way, 11 miles back to the campsite. It was a brutal finish with which I was quite familiar.

Derek, Ron and I bombed down the trail at the head of our 15-rider group, along with Ron. We kept rolling along until we arrived at Muscleman Arch. Derek and I both rode across it, as that is tradition for me, and now for Derek. While we did this Chris and Liz caught up to us. We took some time shooting photos and a few riders went by. We hopped back on the bikes and headed on.

The group taking a quick break.

We had three support vehicles with us for this ride. The lead vehicle was driven by Leen's wife and when we pulled up to us at the Airport Campground her right front tire was rapidly going flat. We inspected it and saw not only the obvious tire damage but some rim damage as well. It must have just happened because the tire was complete flat a minute or two later. What happened next was impressive.

LOS is a fracking company. These guys work in the oilfields running millions of dollars worth of equipment, 24-7. They are not your average highway repair work crew. The jack was found in seconds and while one guy jacked up the car, another was pulling the lugnuts off the wheel. Two others, including Ron, were on their backs under the truck, removing the spare. The entire operation looked like a NASCAR pit stop. I barely had time to snap a couple of photos (my contribution to the tire changing) before it was all done. Pretty impressive. No one was directing anything. Everyone knew what had to be done and if there was a task not being done, that's the task they took on. It was a bit similarly to an experienced climbing team setting up camp or rappels.

Changing one of our support vehicles' tires in record time.

We moved on. Ron moved on even faster. He was off the front until just before lunch time, when Derek and I finally caught up to him. He didn't make it last year either, which is surprising, because he is a 48-hour adventure racer. Going continuously for two days is his speciality. Heck, he once road 747.94 miles in a single workout (though it apparently was spread out over 293 hours?) But, like Derek knows, specific training means something. He wasn't biking fit two years ago. He was this year and his mantra was: I'm finishing this ride and I'm finishing it in the light. If anyone wanted to join him in that goal, he'd love the company, but he wasn't going to explicitly ride slower than it would take to finish in the light. Derek and I were on board with that goal.

The three of us continued together to the very challenging Murphy's Hogback - the halfway point of the ride. Atop this grueling climb we'd have lunch. I was just barely able to clean this climb without stopping or putting my foot down, but I nearly passed out with the effort. Derek has more fitness and more power, but two months of riding wasn't enough to learn the subtleties of balancing your weight between the two tires and holding a good line. Plus, he was riding a 26" mountain bike, which is more challenging than the 29" tires that I rode. Ron and Derek were both dropping me on the flatter terrain approaching this climb, but Ron's a TT guy and climbing isn't his strength. Still, it was only the last pitch where they faltered.

We waited there for the rest of the group and more importantly the food wagons to catch up. We ate hearty, but watched the clock. We knew we couldn't take too long of a break with nearly 50 more miles to ride.

Chris Wright - the Imperial Grand Poobah at LOS

After lunch we moved on in smaller clusters of riders. After five miles or so, it was Derek, Ron, and I off the front again. We rode together to the base of Hard Scrabble and there, Ron offered to let me try his fancy mountain bike on the climb. I've never got this hill clean. There is one section where I fall off just ten feet short of easy terrain. I figured it couldn't hurt and we switched, all of us using Crank Brothers pedals. Alas, I still failed at the same spot. This hill is a grunt.

At the top we assessed our situation. We thought about possibly regrouping a bit, but I predicted that if we rode on, we'd just barely make it in the light. Waiting would surely put us in the dark. Yet Derek and I didn't enough water to finish. Ron offered to share his and we committed to push on.

By the time we hit the campground down at the bottom of Hard Scrabble I noticed my chain was really complaining. When I noticed a big group setting up camp, I told the others I was going to zip into there and see if they had any lube. Ron and Derek followed and we found very friendly riders there. We all got our chains lubed and we all got topped off with water, as they had a huge 30+ gallon container in one of their trucks.

Derek right with the vertiginous Standing Rock spire in the background.

The long, rolling, sandy approach to the Mineral Bottom climb sapped me and I was just barely hanging on to Ron and Derek, who seemed a lot stronger. At the base of the climb, they both stopped to eat something before the climb. I just wanted it over and pushed on directly up the climb. I got less than halfway up the climb before Derek caught me and then dropped me. I was impressed and surprised. It was the first time he'd ever been truly stronger than me on a bike. And he did it with minimal training. Perhaps his youth gave him an edge, but still, I have so many more miles in me. I understand he'll be more explosive and I couldn't out sprint him, but we over 80 miles into this ride. Endurance should be the key now and I should have had more endurance. I did not.

As Derek stretched out his lead in front of me, I consoled myself by looking down a couple switchbacks to Ron. I pedaled on. My pride had me wanting to limit my losses to Derek. When I got to the top I found Derek talking to someone. I immediately recognized Tom and then his truck and then Kirsten. I had told Tom we were doing this and we had hoped to ride some with him. After a short discussion we found out that Tom had ridden right by us when we were changing the flat tire. He had just finished himself and Derek nearly caught him. Kirsten brought us over chips and salsa and we relaxed and waited for Ron, who also partook in the sustenance.

Tom had the good sense of starting his ride right at the rim, so he was done. The rest of us remounted our bikes and started the worst part of this loop: the horrible, endless, relentless climb back to our campsite. Ron soon faded and Derek and I rode together and, as the sun dipped closer and closer to the horizon, the temperature fell. I counted off the miles, trying to predict when we'd be done, trying to overestimate the mileage so that I wouldn't be disappointed. Yet, my prediction came and went. The sun set and darkness rapidly closed in on us. Derek gapped me for the last mile or so.

Ron Gusek: LOS President and Head Breakfast Cook

We pulled into camp less than a minute apart, chilled to the bone, especially Derek who was just in short sleeves. I at least had armies. We jumped in the truck and cranked the heater. Unfortunately, at least for Derek, our total mileage was 99 miles. He'd never ridden 100 miles in a day before and he wasn't going to let this opportunity pass. Once warmed up, he put on a headlamp, my down jacket, and some big gloves. Then he jumped on his bike and continued along the road until he hit 99.5 miles, where he turned around and headed back to the car and his 100-mile milestone.

The others came later, finishing in two's and three's. All chilled, but all with high spirits and excited to finish. No one failed to close the loop. That's impressive.

The next morning was chilly, but Ron was up early manning the grill. I worked on the fire and, after eating, I took over as head pancake chef. Then we packed up and headed for home. Another great WRIAD with Team Liberty. I hope this tradition continues. If not every year, at least every other year. I'll be in. Maybe I can keep up with Derek next year...

SquawStruck

Strava

Photos

My best friend Mark Oveson moved away from me. Moved away from Boulder. Moved away from Colorado. It was traumatic. Even for him! Alas, he moved to a super cool location: Provo, Utah. Super cool if you're a Mormon, which he is, since it is 95% Mormon there. Even better, at least from an atheist-climber perspective, is that he lives one mile away from a 22-pitch 5.11a sport climb. TWENTY...TWO...PITCHES! This route is called Squawstruck because it ascends the south face of Squaw Peak. While I vowed to visit him often and keep the bond of our friendship ever strong, when I heard about this route, I felt the bond needed immediate strengthening. So I booked my flight.

I booked my flight despite not having a partner for the climb. I hope Mark will eventually climb it with me, but he wasn't ready for it. Truth be told, I wasn't really ready for it. Mark solved both problems by not only supplying a partner, but a rope gun of the assault weapon level that most states want to ban and Utah celebrates. Here the weapon was Jared Campbell.

If you don't know who Jared Campbell is...well, that's okay. Time to learn. He's the hardman's hardman. His full CV of bad-assery would fill volumes and put sufficient wear on my keyboard. He is at the very pinnacle of the outdoor/adventure athlete hierarchy. Climbing? 5.13, thank you. Sendero Luminoso? Yes, please. He won Hard Rock. He's finished the Barkley...twice. He's linked a week's worth of the toughest Zion slot-canyon descents in under 24 hours. He started the RUFA series of races and is the RD for the Salt Lake edition. He's superman in the mountains. He's Stefan-Griebel-esque. But most important in this particular situation, is that he's Mark's friend. Mine too, now. 

I flew out Friday night, taking almost exactly as long to fly, house-to-house, as it would have taken me to drive. Delta Airlines. Not a fan. Because of my late arrival (to bed around 1 a.m.), we decided to do the climb on Sunday. That left Saturday to hike up Y Mountain with Mark and two of his daughters. Mark and his wife Trish, being Mormon and all, are fecund. They have three of each (just two genders in Utah - it's almost like visiting a foreign country). 

Doing anything with Mark's kids is an exercise in humility. JD (short for Jelly Donut, at least to me. Geraldine to others, like her parents, siblings, and everyone besides me) is the second fastest freshman cross-country runner in the entire state of Utah. I guess because she's only the second fastest is why she stays so humble. You wouldn't even know she ran by talking to her, but looking at her long legs you'd notice potential. And she sucks at running compared to her ability on the piano. Or singing. Or really useful things like memorizing the digits of pi (she knows 200). 

Along with JD, Alice joined us. I used to think that Mark's daughter Mallory was the sweetest, friendliest, happiest person I'd ever met, but she's downright surly compared to Alice. Alice is recently back from an 18-month mission in Italy. She's now fluent in Italian. I'm barely fluent in English. Along with a bunch of community service, Alice tutored kids in calculus...in Italian! She re-starts at BYU in January, studying Applied Math. You go, girl.

Jared leading the first pitch via headlamp.

We started early, from Mark's house because he lives at the base of Y Mountain. It's called Y Mountain because there is a giant Y painted on it. Before the Y it was just called Mountain, so it's much easier to identify now. The Y is for Young. Steve Young, I assume, since he was a star quarterback at BYU and the 49ers and is in the Hall of Fame. So, you know, probably deserves to have a mountain named after him. A classic first date for BYU couples is to hike up to the Y, which is less than halfway to the summit, but the trail up to the Y is wide and smooth and ridiculously steep. Alice says it is a true test of whether you have any chance of being a couple. If you hike together to the Y without any whining, then there is hope. If not, break-up immediately. Alice has done this more than once. If her prospective suitor can't keep up with her and not whine about it, she cuts them loose. Reminded me of my wife's rule with suitors asking her to play tennis. If you didn't beat her, you didn't get a date. I squeaked out a victory. Lucky for me. And for Danny and Derek! 

It took us two hours to hike the 3000 vertical feet to the summit. Mark continues to have serious pain with his now-fused left ankle. An amazing mountain endurance athlete before the infection in his ankle, Mark is still searching for a solution. Yet, he never complains about it. Never offers up any excuses. He just guts it out. And then limps for a few days. Ugh. I wish I could help him solve this problem. But I can't. 

Jared following a pitch low on the route.

The rest of the day I spent eating, watching a movie, and reading. Now if you asked the members of Mark's family what I was doing they'd say: eating, watching a movie, and sleeping, but they just don't know that when I read a book it looks a lot like sleeping. No fault of theirs. Just inexperience with my unusual ways.

Jared arrived at the house around 10 p.m. He was bigger than I thought he'd be. A little bit taller than me. He wore shorts and his calves revealed the fact that he can climb 40,000 vertical feet in a single day. I didn't want to stand too close to him for fear that anyone else would be comparing us, but I did try to suck in my gut a bit, just in case. 

We got up at 5:30 a.m. and I started having a bowl of cereal when Mark walked into the kitchen offering to make me eggs and bacon. Dammit, Mark! Get up earlier if you going to be offering such service. That just meant I had cereal and eggs. He even bought donuts for me to take up the climb. Lack of fuel was not going to be a valid excuse. 

Mark walked the start of the approach with us before we peeled off to scratch and scramble our way up a very steep, loose slope. If it wasn't for Jared having the GPS coordinates in his mapping app on his phone, I'd still be looking for the start of the climb. Shortly into the approach, wanting to see more of the terrain for route-finding purposes, I bumped up the intensity of my Fenix headlamp. If this headlamp worked like its specs said it does, it would be so awesome. Alas, it doesn't. The headlamp promptly died and wouldn't turn on at any intensity. That was after a full charge the night before. I'm done with this headlamp. This was my second one. Both lemons. I had to do the rest of the approach with my phone as my light. Scrambling up this tricky terrain with one hand was probably the most dangerous part of the day.

We were at the start and it was still dark. Jared offered me the first lead. It's 10b - a stiff grade for me...when I can see. I'm not known for my night vision. I'm known for my lack of night vision. I declined and Jared styled the first pitch via headlamp, scanning for the bolts in his beam. I followed easier than I expected and wondered if this whole climb was overrated. Or if I was stronger than I thought. Nope and nope.

Jared heading up the 10c pitch by the cave at the start of the crux tier.

The second pitch starts with the "Leap of Faith" where you jump from the slightly detached pillar we had just climbed to the wall behind it. Or you can just make a two-foot step across and avoid the jumping. Jared and I both watched a video of this jump on youtube. We were a bit dumbfounded by it now. I scampered up the 5.8 pitch to the top of the rock and we hiked up to the next band.

Squawstruck is 22 pitches long, but the pitches are not completely contiguous. They are broken into six separate tiers, with some short hiking between. We hiked up to the next tier and, in an effort to move faster, Jared then linked the next three pitches in a massive 200-foot lead, climbing pitches of 5.9, 10b, and 5.9. Impressive. I followed and found the climbing super fun and was pretty comfortable on it. I was working, but not on the verge of falling off. My confidence built.

Squawstruck (22 pitches, 5.11a) on Squaw Peak

I led pitch six, at 10c the hardest pitch yet. It went well. I was breathing hard, but hung on. Cool movement and nothing tricky. Jared linked two more pitches (two 10a's) and we did a small hike to the next tier. The next tier had three pitches: 5.8, 10a, 5.8 and we pitched it out due to the their length. We were moving pretty continuously and didn't have time to savor any belay ledges, of which most pitches had. The follower quickly moved into the next lead at each change-over.

We then arrived at the true meat of the route. The next tier was five pitches long, all 5.10b or harder, with three 10d or 11a. Jared led a 10c and I followed clean and led a 10c/d. All good. Jared styled the crux pitch to a near hanging belay. It looked tricky as Jared had paused there a bit and sussed things out. On my turn I climbed easily up to the crux, which is at the very end of the pitch. There I was stymied by what I thought was the cryptic nature of the climbing. After trying two or three ways, including using Jared's beta I concluded it was more than cryptic. It was hard. Too hard. The crux moved involved using a desperate 2-finger flared jam (yes, a finger jam!) and a terrible sidepull and then moving the left foot up very high to a bullshit foothold. No way. I couldn't touch it. Just too steep on too bad of holds. It seemed way harder than anything we'd climbed up until then. After a few falls, I had Jared take me on tension, and then reached up again for better holds.

Jared at the hanging belay at the top of the crux pitch.

This started a downward trend of performance for me. The next pitch was rated 10b and it had a committing lock-off move on it and I couldn't find good enough footholds to pull it off. I hung on a bolt to rest before finishing that pitch. The pitch after that was rated 10d and probably was the hardest pitch on the route. It started a bit to the climber's right, at a second two-bolt anchor. I had apparently belayed from the rappel anchors, with the chains. Normally there is just one anchor of course, but for ease of rappelling there are two or three spots with duplicate anchors. The wall above the anchor was considerably smoother than anything we had climbed or would climb - just tiny, tiny holds. Jared ticky-tacked and toe-tapped his way up this section and remarked, "Dang. That's pretty hard for 5.10." When it was my turn, I just grabbed the first two draws. I'll be back to this route, probably multiple times due to its proximity (to Mark) and the mess I've left behind.

We did a short hike up to the last tier which consisted of six pitches: 9, 10c/d, 10c, 8, 9+, 10a. I scampered up the first pitch without much trouble, but my feet were starting to kill me. So much so that it was affecting my climbing. At each belay I had to pull them off immediately. Unfortunately, as soon as I put them on again, the pain resumed without delay. 

The next pitch, the 18th, started with a short, but severe roof. It was awkward to get up the eight feet to the start because the roof was completely undercut, but the undercut was only three feet high, so in trying to pull onto the bottom of the undercut my head hit the roof. It wasn't too bad, but awkward. Turning the roof required getting the feet up really high and locking off for one move. Jared cruised it and said, "At least the holds are good." I didn't agree. I couldn't do it. On my first try I failed the lockoff and the rope stretch put me back on the ledge ten feet down. On my second try I got into the same position and yelled up "Take!" I knew he couldn't hold me there completely, but I wanted all the help I could get. I then deadpointed for the draw over the lip and barely caught it. From there the rest of the pitch was pumpy but doable, barely.

Jared updating his social media at the summit of Squawstruck.

At the belay, I knew it was my lead. We'd been swinging leads up until here, but I didn't think I could do it. I was consistently getting my ass kicked on 5.10 since the crux pitch. Jared bailed me out and led a brilliant pitch that went up and left and then hard back to the right. The pitch description in the online guide is apt: "...then back right on desperate and tricky holds." As soon as Jared finished this section he called down, "That was really cool. You're going to love that sequence." Sure enough I did, but I was also glad I wasn't leading it, as once I started to traverse back to the right I was on the ragged edge of falling off clear to the belay. The crux was at the start of the traverse right, but as the moves got gradually easier, my pump built. Some of the climbing was really cryptic. The feet are pretty good here, but widely spaced and the handholds so marginal that it required a lot of balance and body tension. Super neat climbing.

I strung the next two pitches into a monster 200-foot lead so that I didn't have to lead the final 5.10 pitch. The 5.8 pitch went pretty easily but my intense foot pain had me moving slowly. The 5.9+ penultimate pitch had two desperate sections. I found a way around both of them and traversed back into the line above, each time having to skip one bolt. Apparently, I was visibly desperate, as Jared called up some encouragement at one point. Or maybe he was just urging me on to climb faster, as this long lead took forever. My feet hurt and I was getting really tired. I belayed on a small stance and immediately whipped off my shoes. I had just two draws left to clip in.

Jared soon joined me and even he took a slight break from his shoes here. It was the only time he took his shoes off after following a pitch and before his next lead. He was pulling them off after each lead though. Climbing shoes hurt.

The final pitch seemed a bit contrived as a clearly easier path led straight to the top. Instead, the pitch moved out to the right in order to turn a 2-foot roof and then a bulge above. The description is once again right on: "Keep climbing up then right over some roofs with depressingly small holds." One of the bolts on this pitch was drilled straight up into bottom of the roof. It seemed like the first ascensionist wanted to just try placing a bolt like that. Given my state of fatigue and that I'd barely led the 5.9 pitch before this, I was surprised not to fall off this one.

Squaw Peak and Squawstruck

The relief in pulling off my shoes equaled the joy in topping out this route. Huge thanks to Tristan Higbee (hey, I wonder if he is related to Art Higbee of the Higbee Hedral on Half Dome...), Thomas Gappmayer, and Christian Burrell (probably not related to my friends Buzz and Galen) for the ridiculous amount of work that went into establishing this route. What an incredible contribution to the local climbing community. Without Jared, I'm not sure I could have ascended this route. I'll find out in the future. I hope that by standing in a sling I can do the crux. Either that or I'm going to have to get a lot stronger.

Jared and I hiked the 4-mile, 3000-foot descent trail back to the parking lot. We chatted about his family and mine, but most exciting was that we chatted about future climbs together. This was encouraging, as my biggest contribution to this climb was giving Jared belay practice. I hope it happens, but I won't hold him to it.

Being the dumbest, slowest, weakest person in the group could be depressing, but not with this group. It's sort of like being the slowest Minion - you might still be pretty smart, fast, and strong. Might be. No guarantees. But being around them is a bit inspiring and I'm hoping some of it rubbed off on me. 

Thanks Mark, Jared, JD, Alice, Mallory, Trish, Spencer, and Jason for being such gracious hosts. Every one of you is welcome at my fire anytime.