The Naked Edge

Josh encouraged me with the idea of linking the first two pitches. “Start up the finger
crack, and then when you get up onto the slab, you’ll see the two bolt anchor. Check in,
and see how you feel. If you’re psyched, keep climbing. You don’t need much gear,
there are pins and bolts, and just make sure you still have a green Camalot. You can’t
miss where it goes. I think that’s the way to start The Edge.”

Such a suggestion was diametrically opposed to my first timid overtures towards one of
Colorado’s other big, proud 5.11 trad lines. Wunch’s Dihedral, a perfect granite corner
on the Cynical Pinnacle in the South Platte, had left you demoralized and frustrated
several years before. I fell multiple times, had a fit on lead, and whined my way to the
summit. The only thing that got me there was my partner, and he was gracious enough to
stop talking to me by pitch 3.

Last April, I had a chance to do some onsight battling with another titan; Eldorado
Canyon’s famed Naked Edge. I badly wanted to put forth an effort worthy of that
iconic sentinel boasting in the sun. I needed some sort of redemption for my past
embarrassment. I put a stop to the recollection of failure, and started climbing.



The route starts at a ramp a few hundred feet above South Boulder Creek, above a few
pitches of easier terrain. A perfect finger-sized crack parallels the major arête on The
Redgarden Wall, only 3 feet or so to the climber’s left. Hands alternate between jams
in the crack and pinches on the famed Edge. Smearing the feet and trusting the balance,
I eventually found myself above a small piece of gear, and one of those perfect rock-
climbing moments flashed into my brain. I could either panic and try to shove in another
piece, likely resulting in a crippling pump that would ensure a fall, or I could collect
myself. I’d have to move higher above gear, risking a slightly bigger fall, but if I could
get out of my own way, I could work through the sequence above.

I committed to the climbing, forgot about the fear, and pulled. I was working smoothly
and more quickly, and soon stood on the much less exposed face above. Two bolts
greeted me after 90 feet of strenuous climbing.

Stopping was certainly an answer. The Mountaineer’s Freedom of the Hills clearly
identifies that very location as a “bombproof” belay. But it was a bit in the shade, high
up on that slab. ‘Maybe,’ I thought, ‘I should just listen to some sage advice and peek
my head around that corner again. Let the sun beam down onto my face. The wind will
steal a few chalk nuggets, but it might be a bit warmer.’ So I threw a long sling onto one
of the bolts, checked for that green Camalot on my waist, and kept moving.

Sure enough, just after I pulled back around into the sun, there was a perfect spot for that
piece of protection. A green Camalot is about the size of a small ice cream cone, but this
magic feat of engineering always leaves me feeling safe. I swaggered up on the small
edges above, higher and higher, eventually into a small, scooped corner. There was chalk
to the left. I thought, ‘Yeah…I could see how that might go. Of course, there’s chalk
our right, too. Decisions, decisions.’ And then, did my mind wander! I looked down,
and saw that last bit of safety perilously below my feet. The tunnel vision started to flare

a bit, and then perhaps the vertigo took over. Was I 40 feet above that cam? No. No,
couldn’t be. ‘Get a hold of yourself, young man. It’s like 10 feet below you.’

Oh, yes, of course. But then there was that little fact that the first two pitches now ran
together. That meant I had about 125 feet of rope out from my belay. I’d fly days. ‘Shit.
And…that edge. That EDGE! Josh is on the other side of it, and he’ll never know I’m
falling until the rope jerks him to attention. That’s if the son of a bitch is even holding
it.’

All that self-imposed distraction was pushing me farther from success. I needed to
get my mind back to where it had been while I was exiting the finger crack below. I
needed to feel the connection to all the meditative mind I’d ever felt, invite myself (and
particularly my mind) to be entirely present in that one moment. I needed to focus.

I think I went right. I know I was up and down a few times. I know I called Josh terrible
things, accused him of holding me hostage. And I know that, finally, I made it to another
two-bolt anchor.

I brought Josh up from the ramp, and he with minimal word waste, we steamrolled
through another pitch of good rock. After that last mega pitch, this easier section felt
merely average, but I was happy for Josh to lead and allow my mind to take a break. I
followed him smoothly, and was able to settle into the climbing. I even became anxious
for more action.

Fortunately, Josh enrolled me at the Sharp End once again for the chimney pitch. It was
such a thrill to be alive, to act with courage in the one place where I was meant to be at
that moment. I heard Josh suggest moving from the thin face holds our right of a pinned-
out corner, and into a funky stem. He’d been right so far. Then I remember moving out
right on poor feet but with generally good holds. And then, if memory serves, I found
another “bombproof” seat on a pedestal that gave me the best view of Eldo I’d ever cared
to imagine.

Josh came up after, and then climbed up the overhanging hand crack, eventually out
of view and onto the finishing slabs above. I grit my teeth, and pulled through the last
hard moves, aware of the bitter threat posed by blowing the onsight at the very top. We
congratulated ourselves, and then found our way to the East Slab descent, making eye
contact with a passing peregrine.

Back at the car, we drove home to pack for my first trip to Yosemite, and left the next
day.