A Flatiron Encounter with One of America’s Top Scientists

Ferocious Chris Sharma-style grunting echoed across the cliff. I looked toward the source of the noise: a lone soloist in the middle of the face.

From my vantage point, I could see the debilitating combination of Elvis Legs and chicken winging we’ve all experienced when fear and pump collide into one brutal moment. With 400 feet of less than vertical slab below him, a slip would result in a tumbling, likely fatal, fall to the popular hiking trail below.

The Flatirons overlooking Boulder, Colorado, have long been regarded as a playground for free soloing. Their easy access attracts a diverse range of climbers, from pros running hot laps up the First Flatiron to half-drunk Colorado University students in tennis shoes bumbling their way up the Second.

However, even soloing the supposedly moderate routes on any Flatiron carries risks that are often underestimated. This is evident in the yearly accidents and rescues. Last Fourth of July weekend, I found myself in the position to prevent one such accident.

With only a little time before I was expected at a cookout, I tried to beat the holiday crowds descending on Chautauqua Park. I planned to run a lap up the Freeway (5.0) on the Second Flatiron, followed by Baker’s Way (5.3) on the First Flatiron. Shouldering a small pack—containing a liter of water, a snack, and a chalk bag—I set out from the parking lot and began my climb.

As always, I passed a few clusters of soloists struggling with route-finding, who looked like they regretted leaving the rope in the car. I asked my obligatory Flatiron “You good?” and received the proper response of “Uh, yeah, all good.”

I finished the Second and made my way down the descent trail to the start of my next solo. Baker’s Way traverses the First Flatiron from left to right by way of a large scrambling ramp. If you continue to follow the ramp climbers’s right, you eventually reach the ridge that takes you up fourth-class terrain to the summit of the most prominent Flatiron. It was around this point that the source of the power screaming caught my attention.

The free soloist in question looked like he was on the Direct Route (5.6). His running shoes—the no-sticky-rubber Nike variety—were slipping and sliding every time he attempted to smear. His lack of a chalk bag forced him to wipe his hands frequently across his greasy-looking shorts. It quickly became clear that this dude had found his way to a place he didn’t belong.

I was also soloing; therefore, I had no rope or gear to assist this guy. So, unsure how I could help, I stood quietly and watched from my place on the ridge, praying he made it through whatever crux he was working on in one piece. Each desperate throw to the next handhold was accompanied by a blind foot placement that inevitably missed its mark. When he would land a usable foothold, he’d then assume an awkward squatting position,  frantically shaking while building the courage to lunge for the next hold. After a few more tense minutes of this, he dragged himself to the top of the ridge and performed the world’s most unathletic mantle, belly crawling into a position to straddle a large block.

“Hey dude, you good?” I called out.

“Nah, man. I’m super dehydrated and cramping,” he replied.

I decided he probably needed my water more than I did and approached slowly to offer it to him. He was in his mid-thirties, shirtless, and lacked what one would consider a “traditional” climber’s physique. A greasy mop of hair hung down over his eyes. Around his waist he wore a red Gold’s Gym fanny pack that appeared empty. The only thing that screamed climber about this guy was his bright green pair of Prana Mojo shorts.

As I got closer, he began to explain that he and his roommate had decided to do a spontaneous nighttime free soloing session. They each drank a six-pack of beer and planned to climb the Third, Second, and First Flatirons in succession—a linkup totaling around 3,000 vertical feet. His roommate had called it quits after the Second Flatiron and was asleep in the woods somewhere at its base.

At this point in his story, he grabbed my Nalgene, chugged half the liter, and proceeded to dry heave. He mumbled something about the importance of drinking water slowly when you’re dehydrated, then finished the liter and immediately spit some of it back up.

Apparently, my gift of water had earned the trust of my new friend, and he launched into his life story, completely unprompted, as if he had expected me to ask.

He declared he was a physicist working for DARPA, the highly classified research branch of the US military. Recently, he had lost his wife, father, and dog within weeks of each other. To heal,  he’d been doing “lots of mountain climbing.” At this point, he began name-dropping all the professional skiers with whom he’d gone to boarding school and proudly declared that everything he knew about the mountains he’d learned from them.

It was nearly 9 a.m., and the physicist claimed he had been going since 3 a.m without food or water. The sun was beginning to burn the back of my neck, and the rock was starting to feel hot and greasy. The cool comfort of the the night air that the physicist had enjoyed up to this point was gone, replaced by the heat of the day, expected to reach over ninety degrees. I realized there was no way I could leave him here. It was time to end this impromptu therapy session and get him back onto the ground where he belonged.

“Hey dude, what’s your plan?” I asked, interrupting the physicist’s life story.

“You know there’s a mandatory downclimb from the summit, right?”

“Oh yeah, man, it’s all good. I downclimb stuff all the time,” he answered.

I told him I was going to hang with him and make sure he made it down alright. The physicist tried to tell me it was unnecessary, that he was all set and planned on taking his time. He said he felt much better after the drink of water, but I continued to insist. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and began to move at a snail’s pace up the ridge.

The climbing from this point normally goes fairly quickly. There are a handful of fifth-class moves, but the majority of the ridge is fourth-class scrambling around large blocks. On a normal day, I thoroughly enjoy the exposure and the view of Boulder you get from being hundreds of feet off the deck. But today, I was too focused on coaching the physicist’s every move to take in the views.

He moved slowly and unsteadily, lurching from hold to hold and pausing frequently to catch his breath. He was rambling again—something about hoping his backpack, which contained his work laptop (probably full of top secret data), was still at the base of the First Flatiron where he had left it. I was only half listening; I seriously doubted that the mandatory downclimb was going to go well and was beginning to wonder if this situation warranted calling for a rescue.

Fortunately, we were moving so slowly that we had created an Everest-style summit back-up. The first two climbers to reach us were two other soloists: a Boulder hardo with a gigantic Garmin watch and Pit Viper sunglasses, and an older gentleman with a ZZ Top-style beard and a 55-liter pack.

I quickly introduced them to the physicist, asked if they had any water, and wondered if they could give me a hand getting him down. The hardo begrudgingly agreed; the old man seemed happy to help.

It took the three of us the better part of an hour to coach the physicist through the final few moves to the summit and down the backside to the ground. We took turns leading the way and watching the internal struggle the physicist had with each move on the exposed west side of the Flatiron. It was a tedious and, at times, horrifying ordeal. Once on the ground, the hardo and the old man quickly bid us farewell.

I felt committed to getting the physicist as close to the parking lot as I could. Though I felt responsible for his safety, more so, I felt a larger obligation to the climbing community as a whole to ensure the physicist didn’t climb anything else that day. So I stayed with him as he began to shuffle down the trail. At one point, he stopped, took off his sneakers, grabbed a walking stick, and launched into an explanation about the importance of touching the earth with bare feet. He must have forgotten that the earth, particularly gravel, hurts on bare feet, and quickly put his shoes back on.

After what felt like hours, we reached the base of the First Flatiron. The physicist, who by now was a bundle of nerves about his laptop, yelled at a group of people nearby, inquiring if they’d seen his bag. Being the talker he was, he once again began to share his life, unprompted. His listeners responded with genuine concern and offered water. With the physicist now safely in the care of a new group of friends, I seized the moment to make my exit.

“Hey dude, I’m taking off. You good?”

“Yeah man all good! You want to climb sometime?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I replied.

Though I keep an eye out for him at local crags, I have yet to reencounter the physicist. To this day, I doubt much of what he told me to be true. No amount of Facebook stalking or Googling has been able to confirm his existence, and certainly not his claim to be a scientist employed by a secret government laboratory.

The Flatirons lull many climbers, regardless of experience level, into a false sense of security. Every year, there are accidents and fatalities. This past December, two climbers lost their lives on the Flatirons in a single week. I would be lying if I said I’d never had a sketchy moment up there. Overconfidence and poor decision making can be a toxic combination.

As climbers, we have all done something dumb or dangerous at some point out of sheer ignorance. Luckily, for many of us, a more seasoned climber was there to offer some support. I love the climbing community’s unspoken moral obligation to intervene when we observe a less-experienced climber—or on in a temporary lapse of judgement—about to make a grave mistake. With how frequently the First Flatiron is climbed, I like to think that anyone else encountering the physicist would have stepped up to help, too. Hopefully, this story highlights the importance of asking “you good?” even if the answer makes you late for a Fourth of July cookout.

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