We were not intimidated.

How wrong we would be…

In our hubris, we chose, not the Standard East Face (5.4), but the longest route on the Third, the harrowing, rarely attempted East Face Left (5.5/5.7), reported to be a nightmare of route-finding, dodgy protection, and incontinence-producing exposure.

suspect approach to the flatiron

Erika and I were ready. We set out from Chautauqua Park on an alpine, crack-of-noon start. The approach trail was well worn, and we quickly made our way past the pensioners with canes and waddling, pasty Americans dripping fast-food wrappers. We recognized that we were not in league with these paragons of fitness, but chose to press on, regardless.

Per the guidebook, we followed the cryptic hieroglyphs left by the natives of the place, making the hazardous crossing of Bluebell Creek, and up the faint climbers trail to the East Face. We crossed below the Third Flatironette, a small spur of rock guarding the approach to the Flatiron like the Black Gates to the approach to Mordor. I saw some hesitation in the eyes of my partner, but she bit her quivering lower lip and proceeded gamely on past the spur.

There we were, at the base of the Flatiron at last. I paused to rack up as Erika flaked the rope. We peered up the sun-drenched face and compared it to the grainy guidebook photo. We looked at one another, and knew that this was to be one for the record books.

Off I went. The route finding difficulties began immediately, with a confusion of flakes, huecos, and chickenheads. Which to follow? They all looked so good. But which would lead me to Paradise, and which would lead me astray? I stood there, quivering with temptation like a dog balancing a biscuit on his nose before striking off in the only direction that made sense. Up.

My initiative was soon rewarded by the distant glimmer of an aluminum hanger on a Star-Drive bolt. I was on the right track. The ancients had been here before me, hand drilling in the fell depths of history.

We had made the critical tactical choice of a 70-meter lead rope, for who knows what challenges in route finding and anchors we would meet? The guidebook distinctly warned of little protection and no fixed belays, unlike the neighboring standard route. This was a good decision, as the extra length allowed me to combine the first two pitches and put me staring at the crux overhang at the end of the first ropelength. I clipped another antique bolt, backed it up with a pair of pieces in the overlap, and encouraged Erika onward and upward. Climbing with the knowledge gleaned from my astute route finding, she quickly and strongly followed the rope upwards, not hesitating in the least. This was a good sign, as the butterflies of the harrowing approach had clearly been chased away. She arrived at the anchor and we assessed the crux, literally in our faces. The guide noted that the direct crux, through a crack and holds in the overlap, went at 5.7, or we could skirt left for a mere 5.5.

Direct or left? We looked at one another and I found my answer in Erika’s eyes.

pulling the massive roof crux

This was a time for glory.

Go time.

5.7 it was.

A cam placed in the crack, a false start or two, and suddenly, I was pulling the airy crux. A quick rock-over, and I was on the upper face. Away I went, in a sweeping lead, placing gear behind distant ringing fakes, slinging the random chickenheads, and searching in my allotted 70 meters for that next elusive belay stance. I found a spot, threw in a couple of random pieces, and awaited Erika’s push at the crux.

With trepidation I awaited. This would be the telling moment for our ascent. Would it go free, or would there be a shameful asterisk next to the record, that the crux had been too much for the second? A helmet, a head, arms came over the overlap, then Erika arose, like Botticelli’s Venus, over the crux, triumphant (pix 2). We were golden. She followed the pitch, bringing along the few lonely pieces. We paused to look back at the crux, thinking that our challenges were over.

Silently, a raven circled.

john long would be proud

I struck off again through the confusion of knobs and flakes, my lead dictated by a tenuous piece here and there. Glory be! A found hex, left undoubtedly by some doomed party, retreating in the face of the mind-crushing expanse! I clipped a sling to it and labored on. Per the guide, belays could be scarce. I dug deep into my bag of tricks and Erika found me belaying her off a clove-hitched horn (Pix 3).

As the day wore on, I sensed that my partner was becoming increasingly confident in her skills, as if gaining strength as we gained potential energy up the vast face (Pix 4). However, my mind had become unraveled with the constant stress of decision-making and route finding. I made the command decision to bear right and join the Standard Route a pitch early. Drat. Our ascent would have an asterisk after all! I padded up a knobbed flake, joining the Standard Route and its conga line of climbers at the base of the fourth pitch, below the hallowed, ancient runes ‘CU’ inscribed on the face by interminable generations of those barbarians known as ‘Buffalos.’

summoning strength from within

One final technical crux would greet up at the top of the Standard’s fifth pitch. An exposed 5.2 step. Would my frazzled nerves hold? I looked back at my last pro – a blue TCU barely visible in the lengthening late afternoon shadows. I paused, breathed deep, called upon my spirit animal (in this case, a Tennessee Fainting Goat) and committed to the irreversible move. An unbalanced moment, and I was across. Another dicey belay of slung chickenheads and a flared cam, and I brought Erika across. I could see the she, too, had doubts about this move, but I coaxed her and offered suggestions of sequences and beta. Erika bore down and made the move (Pix 5). We were nearly there. A look at the setting sun warned us that today was not a day to summit. Damn. Another asterisk. But we had already surpassed the pitch count of the mere mortals climbing the Standard route in flip-flops.

sick 5.2 madness

We chose to swing the lead for the final moves into the rappel notch off the back of the Flatiron. Erika had definitely proven her strengths as a partner, and was ready to take on this challenge. I sat, stunned, as she made an audacious unprotected lead through the boulder-choked gully to the backside of the Flatiron. I was truly impressed. But wait. She paused. She was not alone, and it wasn’t another climber. Something hissed from a cleft in the rock. What was it – Cougar, marmot, giant fruit bat? A quick detour, and she was around the creature’s lair. What slumbering beast did we disturb? We shall never know, and it will leave its identity to our imaginations around innumerable future campfires. We shudder.

We set up for the free-hanging belay, tying on a second rope for the decent, and rappelled down into the gathering dusk (Pix 6). A quick review of the guidebook in the fading light. Bah! What was with these complex landmarks? Surely it was a short walk back to the main trail. This guidebook was apparently faulty. We set off down the backside gullies, picking our way through the scree on the climbers trail. A party before us disappeared around the corner, and all was silent. We found ourselves over a short, but impassable slab.

the race against time is on

The decision was made to rappel. There was no time for backtracking or a risky downclimb. We looped a tree and descended. Now, where was the trail? I rapidly coiled the rope as the sun went down.

It was dark.

We had no headlamps.

Erika’s cell phone made a plaintive ‘beep!’ and died.

Calls into the dark met with no response. We were truly alone. I now knew exactly how Joe Simpson felt. We began to feel our way through the trees as a narrow moon arose, needles crunching under our sandal-clad feet. Where was the trail? Surely it was near. Was that a trail, or that? Disorientation took over, as we blindly struck out time and time again at finding the path.

I began to feel faint. How long had it been since we started out? How long since we had eaten? Suddenly, our light-and-fast ethic seemed very faulty. Let’s see. Erika had one Clifbar left, or had she eaten it, the selfish wench? If so, could I distract her long enough to brain her with a rock? She was lean, but might be sufficient to support me for a day or two.

I knew, instinctively, that she was thinking the same thing, and decided to keep out of arm’s reach of her. No, she didn’t need that walking stick. Really. Don’t turn your back, even for a second.

I scrambled down into a gully. Surely, the main trail was just across, and if not, I knew the survivor’s rule of always following the stream downhill towards civilization. I hoped my decision was sound

The lights of Boulder taunted us like distant salvation to a victim of the Inquisition.

I stepped over a fallen tree. Into nothingness. Panicked, I grappled at the tree, pulling myself back over the void. I was okay, but shaken. I heard subtle disappointment in Erika’s voice. Had I fallen, she would have eaten well.

Up and out of the gully we scrambled, each both taking silent inventory of the other’s potential caloric yield.

Suddenly, like Liberty bearing her shining torch, there it was! The Third Flatironette, silhouetted majestically in the night sky! The trail was literally within our reach! Rejuvenated by this oracular sight, we stumbled on, finding the trail. I almost kissed it with glee, but paused, as Erika was still behind me, and even with salvation in sight, who knew what twisted plots her exhausted mind may still hold? Playing it safe, I held her hand on the walk out along the broad, moonlit trail. We had persevered.

Sure, our ascent may be clouded with a couple of asterisks, but we had made a truly successful ascent, with the entire party returning safely home. And not finding out, once and for all, if people taste like chicken.