1964: A Harsh Introduction to Eldorado
I turned thirteen in the spring of seventh grade and on that very day I climbed in Eldorado Canyon for the first time. An older climber I knew, Gary Spitzer, had just done two Eldorado test pieces in the same day – the Bulge and the Bastille Crack. Both of these climbs were steep and intimidating and way beyond me and my friends, but Gary said that they weren’t that hard and we should try them.
With such advice three of us set out on that Saturday to climb the Bulge. Dan and Dave Talcott were twins I grew up with in the neighborhood, and were now my climbing buddies, my strongest partners. They were much more physically mature and just flat-out stronger than I was, and they were exceedingly bold, which I was not. We stashed our extra gear at the base of the climb, and Dan started climbing, trailing the rope up unprotected rock with a sea of bumps and divots, but no obvious line, or protection. A single fixed piton about thirty feet up suggested we were on route. Eventually he made his way up the first pitch, risking massive falls most of the way.
There was no question that I would be the middleman of the three of us, meaning that I would not be leading. I had no business leading, but with a rope above me I had no trouble following the pitch. At the belay I was feeling the exposure of space below and above, as we tied-in to anchors and stood in potholes big enough for one foot at a time. I was not comfortable. I was intimidated.
Dave quickly followed, then started up the next pitch, traversing up and right with sparse protection, then doing a big run-out up and left to a tiny belay stance straight above. I followed, and then Dan, and now the three of us were crowded into a semi-hanging belay, high above the ground, plastered against the steep sandstone, shuffling our feet on tiny bumps and scoops. I was pretty much terrified by this time and wanted out of there. I don’t remember how the conversation went but my energy was dragging down any aspirations of continuing upward for two more pitches. Dan and Dave could have finished the climb if not for me. So, we rappelled down from that high point, in defeat. And I was happy to be on terra firma once again.
But holy crap! My pack was gone – it was stolen from the base of the climb. My entire modest collection of climbing gear and a pack, gone. As we descended the talus to the bottom of the Canyon, my head was hanging. Then, crossing the creek, hopping from rock to rock, my glasses flew off and disappeared into the spring torrent – gone in one second. Those cost my parents a lot of money. Now I felt totally defeated.
What a day my thirteenth birthday had been. A lot had gone wrong for me, but fortunately no one was hurt. This was my first introduction to a genuine butt-thrashing, where you get totally humbled, but there would be many more of these in the decades ahead. I had been badly spanked by Eldorado, and the sensible thing to do would have been to go back to baseball and piano. I certainly showed no signs of aptitude or talent for climbing.
As with all butt-thrashings, time heals and you recover. I ventured back to Eldorado, finding more appropriate climbs than the still-notorious Bulge. I became enchanted with the stunning yellow lichen on desert varnish, the warm textured fountain sandstone, the screeching, soaring swallows, and the wild river below. I became bewitched by the mythology of Layton Kor, and the haunting, puzzling, funny names he gave his Eldorado climbs: Outer Space, XM, The Naked Edge, Rosy Crucifixion, Guenese, Kloeberdanz, Ruper, Grand Giraffe, The Diving Board, … I dreamed of climbing these some day.
While I was still thirteen I returned to Eldorado many times and climbed the Bulge, the Bastille Crack, Upper Grand Giraffe, and Calypso. I also climbed the classic Northwest Passage on the Third Flatiron with my brother Bill who was two years older, probably the biggest adventure of my life so far.