Tourists meandering to Boulder Falls beyond us seemed to move with a distinct lack of purpose. Sarah yelling for slack cut me away from the dull overwhelming lull of noise emanating from Boulder Creek below. For a second I was almost relaxed enough to nap, even despite the slight hanging position I was sitting in at the second belay on our way up Tonnere Tower in Boulder Canyon. We had considered climbing this jutting formation within BoCan many times before, as each time we’d whizz by on our way to Nip and Tuck, Sports Park, anywhere else, the dominating position it took above the hustle and bustle of the Boulder Falls lot cut through the normality of stopping your car simply to gander at water falling down. Each time we’d considered it though, as if guided by fate, weather moved in, or there was someone on the route we’d wished to do already. This time was different. The summit was clear. The sky was a nice hue of deep blue in the mid-May sun. It was a Monday. There was no specific
I tried to look past my headlamp in the very-early morning darkness, and in all honesty I couldn’t. Matt, Scott, and I had met in a parking lot only less than an hour before, three men on a mission to go to one of the most remote peaks in all of Rocky Mountain National Park. By the end of today, with a little luck and a whole lot of skill and toughness, we would summit Hayden Spire. Laying on a ridgeline extending from Sprague Peak and off of the western side of Stones Mountain lays a massive crater-like formation of rock and cliffside. Along that cliffside sits a series of huge spires above Hayden Lake, one of many year-round pockets of glaciated lake that sits quiet among the high peaks in the park. Hayden Spire is easily seen from Trail-Ridge Road, and the Forest Canyon Overlook, but never easily reached by any sort of insertion point into the park. On this particular morning, we had chosen to take the overland approach route to the spire from the Bear Lake Trailhead. This
I could feel the heat of the late-day sun, its rays giving a light burn to the tops of both of my arms. Below me fell away the rest of Wild Ridge for about 1000 feet with New York Peak beyond. Nary a cloud in the sky, the air was warm interspersed with the light breeze from the west. I couldn’t hear any of the cars below on highway 82. Some lady in Aspen was probably buying a martini for $35 about now. I couldn’t have been happier. For as much of the Indy Pass obsessive that I was, it had never occurred to me to give Amos Whiting’s long route “El Diablo de Oro” (5.8 III) on Wild Ridge a look. Having been established in about 2014 or 2015 or so, the route certainly wasn’t grand-spanking new, but it was definitely modern compared to the Harvey Carter classics that surrounded it. I was a fan of Mr. Whiting’s work, many of his newer additions to “The Pass” were near-perfect, with great bolt placements when needed and fantastic movement for whatever grade they went at. Sarah and I had c