The obvious first port of call, given we flew into Denver, CO was Eldorado Canyon. Eldo hadn't really made it onto our radar despite it featuring in a few climbing films and having the ultra-classic (50 favourite climbs) tick of 'The Naked Edge', famously free-soloed by Derek Hersey (who features heavily in the large glossy guide) numerous times.
Eldo is distinctly British in style, something that made it a perfect place to start for someone who is used to carrying excessive amounts of nuts rather than the double rack of shiny cams left back in the van. Like in the UK, much of the fixed gear (i.e. rotting mank) will never be replaced and is left in-situ for people to clip or not, depending on their own sanity or level of fear at any given time.
Given we'd spent 3 days running around like lunatics sorting out a van, we began easy on 'The Bulge', a typically bold yet straightforward (if we ignore Natalie questing off in a clearly erroneous direction on the final pitch) slab. We seemed to be finding our feet, moving quickly. Perfect.
Day 2 and we became aware of a rapidly deteriorating forecast. That day was forecast to be perfect, yet a large amount of snow fall (enough it turns out to keep the ski season open for a further few weeks) was predicted for that night. Whilst I was pushing to get on something a little more 'interesting' (read harder), Nat was keen for 'Bastille' Crack which we'd seen the previous day with a line of climbers at every stance. We compromised on 'Yellow Spur' at the more interesting yet still amenable grade of 5.9+.
The day started out well with perfect sunshine and a gentle breeze as we approached the route. The first pitch involved a strenuous move through a short roof, which Nat managed with a bit of grunting and then we were away. Or so we thought. Above us a team of 3 were chaining (linking) pitches with a long rope. It seemed like an age until their leader would shout for them to begin climbing but yet we played catchup for the entire route, pausing for long periods at every other belay. The wind was gradually building and our decision to carry nothing more than a Rab Vapourise quickly looked foolish (likewise the lack of sustenance, as we would SURELY be done by lunch). Turning the corner I once again found the team above at an intermediate belay (one I'd hoped not to need) and this time we sat for hours. When they finally cleared the stance, the reason became viscously apparent; the wind. Fearing Nat would be unable to hear me if I proceeded too far I moved up to the next stance, a small pillar right on the arete. As the wind gusted I was repeatedly smashed from one side of the arête to the other until I had the good idea to straddle it in a very undignified yet effective hanging position. Above, the 'not hard enough for my liking' crux looked as if it was to be problematic. A line of rotting pegs led up an indistinct seam which terminated at a bolt (spinning of course) and an exposed traverse off left. If you haven't yet grasped how strong this wind was I've only ever experienced wind like it once before; on the top of a tower in Riglos where neither Nat or I could walk standing up, and instead had to crawl back to shelter. At this point going down was the sensible option which we foolishly ignored for fear of losing our shiny gear (which realistically should never be a factor in making such decisions).
Nat joined me at the stance and I began up the seam, sprinting between relative rests when gusts allowed. I was soon at the bolt with only the traverse left. Again, sprinting between gusts, I made it to a large flat hold in the middle of the face and at this point was forced to wait for at least half an hour, the wind making my eyes stream (instead I opted to close them unless moving). The belay on the arête offered little shelter as Nat began the same process with the joy of an unprotected gusty traverse awaiting her after the last pro(tection).
One more pitch to go, surely we were out of the woods now? Well actually, no. The last pitch although easy (5.6), is a totally unprotectable jaunt up the final arete, an absolute impossibility in the prevaling conditions. Instead we chose to quest off around the corner in hope of an easier life. This (although adding another pitch to gain the summit) seemed to work, yet communication at this point was out of the question, a frustrating reality for both ends of the rope. Natalie stubbornly refused to take me off belay and instead fed the entirety of one of the ropes through the plate. To add to our 'fun', the other had snagged somewhere due to the wind. Unable to free it, and with Natalie unable to determine whether I was safe, we didn't move for quite some time (cue lots of cursing into the wind and consideration of fixing the rope and descending to 'express my thoughts' clearly).
At some point I was joined at the belay and we begun the final pitch to the summit. Now, the guidebook reads "traverse the knife edge ridge, most parties remain roped". We'd taken that to mean that some don't and thus 'how bad can it be?'. Likely in less windy conditions, insignificant. Yet again, traversing this ridge hand-over-hand (mildly sloping downward) for a fair way with limited protection (and limited footholds if you're the size of Nat), was far from insignificant (the wind alternating between which way it would like you to fall, neither a good prospect). Again this took some time and a storm was clearly building behind us, but no worries, we were surely fine now we were on top? Or not.
It turns out the descent path (or the start of it) had collapsed. A nearby tree (well, half a rope length back the way we'd come) clearly showed that now most people ab to the path proper. Phew, a path at last. We quickly sauntered down the path exclaiming at our luck (for we had limited light left and believed we'd done this descent the day before). Paths soon turned to rock and we began scrambling down 3rd class, which rapidly steepened to 4th class. Hmmm. Steepening yet more we took out one of the half ropes and began moving in tandem. Yet the slabs steepened some more. At this point a guidebook, or photo thereof would have been useful had it not been on the dashboard of our parked van. Finally with the last of the light the slabs steepened yet more. We began pitching out the descent, I would sit firmly braced and Nat descended into the darkness on a vaguely tight rope until she found some modicum of security at which point I would descend, by touch. The final straw came when she reached the lip of a large roof believing that it was above the topout from the previous day. "It's OK, there's a tree to ab off". Fantastic I thought until I arrived to find the tree looked about as healthy as a supermarket herb plant and similar in stature.
It was cold, and very dark (remember we were going to be down by lunch so the headtorches languished in the van, with our warm clothes, waterproofs, mobile phone, food and guidebook). This was not good. We established a small stance (the wire I placed was seated so hard that sparks flew) and we set up the ropes ready to rap into the darkness (we couldn't tell how far the ropes went, nor where they went to, and thus had to wait until morning) should cold become a serious issue. The rope was then flaked out to make an insulating barrier between us and the rapidly cooling rock with the other thrown all over in some hope that it may offer some further insulation. It then began to snow.
Obviously, reading this and knowing we didn't succumb to our own stupidity you're probably enjoying this little tale, yet being a) British and b) having some form of ego, I was unwilling to ask for assistance. Thankfully Nat wasn't, and armed with a shrill set of lungs and the flash from our camera (yes we had a damn camera) managed to attract the attention of a car passing through the canyon. Well, we thought so. It paused briefly (being the last lights visible) and soon sped off into the night.
A little while later, another car drove through the canyon, this time driving slowly, pausing at the parking areas. This one was clearly looking for something. Nat bellowed yet again and if we were at all uncertain whether or not she'd been heard the answer soon became apparent. To access Eldorado canyon you drive down a dirt road through a small sleepy town. This town was soon fully illuminated with red and blue flashing lights to an embarrassing level. "Two head torches and we'd have been fine", we both thought as the fire service turned up with large batman style search lights (apparently they don't get to play much so when they do, they bring the toys). Police, ambulance, rescue truck, private trucks. You name it, they were on their way.
Our camera flash beckoned the way and soon after establishing that we weren't badly injured (both of us only suffering from the early stages of hypothermia and the full force of embaressment) and that we were 'competent' to ascend and descend fixed lines (600m of) once provided, the mass in the car park soon diminished to a helpful rescue crew (armed with chocolate and strawberries) and a Sheriff complete with his Mustang and a few stern words.
We arrived back to the car park at 2 am as the snow began to fall in earnest thanks to the help of the rescue crew who were unbelievably nice and understanding (to quote one rescuer, after apologising for ruining his Sunday night "the film was shit anyway", and the second "I live for this shit"). Unlike in Yosemite we weren't charged.
We were planning on leaving Eldo the next day anyway. However, this pretty much sealed the deal.
Back in the Foundry I talked with Joe about his trip and professed how much I didn't want to have a proper epic. He laughed and pointed out it was pretty much guaranteed. How right he was (and on Day 2).
Now that you've read this (at our expense whilst wasting 15 minutes or so of work time), take a further 10 minutes to read Staying Alive written by veteran rescuer John Dill. It may be written specifically for Yosemite yet it applies to many other areas in part.
Thanks (obviously) go to the Rocky Mountain Rescue Group.
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