Three Trips Up the Third

In the last week, I climbed the Third Flatiron three times. This is not my normal routine; in almost three years of living within sight of the Third, I'd climbed it only twice before. I can think of two reasons for my sudden fascination with this particular piece of rock -- first, I bought a new pair of approach shoes, the kind with sticky rubber, so I can hike to easy routes and climb them without changing shoes, and second, my friend Bill has been sending me trip reports of his scrambles in the Flatirons all summer, and I had to jump on the bandwagon.

Bill holds the record for the fastest car-to-car time on the Third, at 47 minutes and 40 seconds (9:36 on the route itself). He and his "Satan's Minions Scrambling Club" converge on the Flatirons above Boulder once or twice a week, approaching climbs at puke-inducing speeds, soloing up several thousand feet of easy fifth class rock, and dashing like mad down talus and trails to their cars again, showing up to work by 8:00 AM. A couple of months ago, Bill and his minions headed up to Long's Peak, running the icy Keyhole Route in under five hours and appearing to work by 9:30. This is the same route I hiked in sixteen grueling hours the summer after I graduated from high school.

I had given my new approach shoes their inaugural run on Saturday,  when my friend Rob and I climbed Spearhead in Rocky Mountain National Park. On Sunday I found myself without a climbing partner, so I recruited an enthusiastic neighbor, also named Rob, for the Standard East Face Route on the Third. Rob had taken the Colorado Mountain Club's intro to alpine climbing class, but had never done a 'real' multi-pitch rock climb before. I figured his excitement level and positive attitude would more than make up for the slow pace I have come to expect with beginning climbers.

We got a late start, but we weren't quite late enough to avoid the sun on the face. We reached the East Bench, the start of the route, in 35 minutes of brisk hiking, and promptly downed half our water in the blazing sun. I gave Rob a brief refresher on the logistics of multi-pitch climbing, then led up the sea of reddish brown rock.

"Twenty feet!" Rob called out.

It's amazing how quickly one can eat up 200 feet of rope on the featured, low angle rock of the Flatirons. I found a convenient ledge and set up a belay. To my surprise, Rob climbed up as fast as I could reel in the rope. The sun had disappeared over the ridge by this point, and we enjoyed perfect temperatures for the rest of the day. At the end of our fourth pitch I checked my watch.

"We've got ten more minutes and we can finish in under an hour," I told Rob as he joined me at the belay.

"Let's go for it!" he replied.

We climbed the last pitch up the exposed "big toe" of the Third with three minutes to spare. We had completed the route, normally done in eight pitches, in just five pitches and 57 minutes.

After enjoying the late afternoon breeze at the summit for several minutes, we began the first of the three rappels. The last rappel can be done from either of two anchors. Both were occupied with other parties' ropes, but one of the rappeling climbers told me we were welcome to use theirs. I thanked her and began the final descent, after providing Rob with a few pointers on what to do with our rope. Once I'd reached the ground, Rob yelled "Rope!" just as I had instructed. The four of us on the ground at the time yelled "Clear!", only to see a coiled ball of rope rocketing toward us like a missile, slamming into the ground a few feet away. Rob had somehow forgotten all about the part where I said he should "snake" the rope down instead of tossing it! But no harm was done, and we all had a good laugh about it after Rob joined us.

On Wednesday evening, three days later, my friend Iain arrived from teaching a NOLS course in the Wind River Range of Wyoming. It was already 7:30, but on the spur of the moment I suggested that we run up and solo the Third Flatiron. He agreed, but first needed to call his friend Rob (a different Rob from the first two in this story) about climbing the Diamond the next day. Rob, as it turns out, answered the call on his cell phone, just near the summit of the Third Flatiron.

"We're heading up -- we'll probably cross paths in a few minutes," Iain told him.

I took a 9mm rope, a harness, and an ATC, while Iain carried his climbing shoes on his harness. We power hiked up the steep trail, completing the approach in about 24 minutes. I waited for Iain to change shoes, then began soloing up the face. Getting into the rhythm of the rock is easy on the Third, focusing on the featured holds and rough smears as they flow beneath you in an almost never-ending stream. The lights of Boulder shimmered like gems in the valley below, partially hidden by blankets of trees in the gathering dusk.

I stepped lightly to the summit after nineteen minutes of blissful climbing. Iain joined me just a minute or two later, and we rappelled down into the darkness below. We found a rope running through the final anchor. As we soon discovered, the rope belonged to Rob, who Iain had called on the phone less than an hour before. We descended slowly, picking our way through the talus sans headlights.

Saturday morning, three days later, I was amped to go for Bill's record. Just how fast could I climb the Third Flatiron? I thought it would be tough to beat Bill's time, since he is an awesome trail runner and had been in peak marathon shape at the time of his record. I decided I would be happy if I completed the route in less than an hour, round-trip.

I set my alarm for 5:30, but I decided when the time actually arrived that it was still too dark and quite possibly too cold. I'm a master at making excuses and getting myself to believe them in situations like these. Nonetheless, by 6:30 I found myself sitting on the couch eating grapes, half dreading and half anticipating my mission.

At 7:00 I beeped my watch as I left the Chautaqua parking lot at a slow run. Within a few minutes my heart rate was already up to 180 beats per minute, and I shifted from running to power hiking as the trail steepened. Several hikers and climbers stared at me like an idiot as I huffed past them, barely choking out a "morning" through my heaving breaths. Near the cutoff to the East Bench, I passed my friend Michelle and her partner, heading up for the same route.

"You're traveling light," she called after me. "No shoes, no water bottle, no gear...what's it going to take you, ten minutes?"

I could only hope for such a fast time. At the East Bench, I checked my watch: 20:35 for the approach. I allowed myself five seconds to catch my breath, then started up the familiar rock for the third time of the week. Even in an anaerobic state, I thankfully never felt sketchy. I was careful to never lose concentration, staying in balance and watching each hand and foot placement as I padded up the friendly sandstone. Three-fourths of the way up the climb, I checked my watch. Ten minutes already! I was disappointed that I was already slower than Bill's record, and I must admit that some of my motivation left me for a moment. But the lure of the one hour car-to-car threshold spurred me onward.

I topped out at 13:23, pausing not a bit before setting up the first rappel. The rappels are the only time you really get to rest in this game, and I welcomed the break gratefully. All too soon, however, I was back on the ground, rope coiled, and starting the scramble down the trail. The rappels had taken about ten minutes.

I was all-out running by the time I hit the relatively smooth trail below the Third itself, and opened it up into a full sprint at the Bluebell shelter. I knew I was going to be very close to one hour and wanted to make sure I did everything I could to break that time. With two hundred yards to go, I forced my screaming legs to move even faster. At the parking lot, I stopped my watch -- my time was 59 minutes and 37 seconds. I dragged my tired body back home and gave it what it wanted -- food, water, and rest.