Orphans Preferred: How My Silent Game of Free Soloing Ended

No one would have found my body for days. Alone in the wilderness, 60 feet above broken talus at the top of a 5.4 chimney, I was one 5.6 move away from easy scrambling. The limestone had been solid up to that point. Above me, a suitcase-sized block promised a huge bucket hold just beyond. All I had to do was weight it briefly to step around a corner on a large foothold; then it would be over. The block appeared to be attached, but 30 years of climbing had taught me to be suspicious while free soloing.

I tested the hold from a safe position. It was solid. I gently weighted the hold and stepped left.

It broke.

To avoid the falling block, I spontaneously transferred my weight to the other foothold, managing to keep my balance. I had dodged a bullet.

Ropeless and anonymous 

Climbing was simpler in the early `60s; it was nearly impossible to become a celebrity. Few people climbed. No dedicated magazines existed solely to cover climbing. Sponsorships? Unheard of. Only two professional climbing schools and only three climbing guidebooks existed in the entire United States. Ninety-five percent of Americans believed that “mountain climbers” ascended difficult rock cruxes by throwing a grappling hook attached to a hemp rope 30 feet in the air, then scaling the rope hand-over-hand.

Before 1962, I had never seen a lug-soled mountain boot. I had never heard the word carabiner and I had never seen one. If an experienced climber put up a new route—even in a major area like the Tetons, the Gunks, or Yosemite—they might have to wait eight or 10 years to merely see their name in print, never mind to appear in a magazine or a movie. Many firsts, including solos, were never recorded. As a result, the people who were usually attracted to climbing had little desire to be famous.

Why would a climber create one of the hardest multi-pitch solos and not tell anyone for decades? Maybe he is delusional or senile. Probably just a liar.

My first chosen free solos were safe enough. It was deafeningly quiet at 5:30 a.m. at Devil’s Lake State Park in Wisconsin in May, 1966.  Unable to sleep due to heat and mosquitoes, I hiked up to the deserted cliffs. Since I had no partner, I took on my first solo: a 25-foot tall climb with a flat, dirt landing. The 5.8 crux was just six feet off the ground and I’d done it before. Twisted ankle at most if I fell. Route number two was also casual: a 60-foot high 5.3. I’d done scarier runouts with a rope.

Then I repeated the 70 stunning feet of the classic, dead-vertical Brinton’s Crack, first climbed by Bill Brinton and Fritz Wiessner in 1941. It was rated 5.5 in 1966, but it’s really 5.7 or 5.8, depending on hand size. I had climbed it before. At the very top, the crux consisted of an insecure traverse, followed by a strenuous bulge with a hand jam. Any mistake would be fatal. Hiking boots. No chalk. A bit scary, but under control.

Relaxing at the top, surveying the blanket of trees, colorful rocks, and pristine lake below, I felt I had rolled the dice and won. Enough of that shit, I thought. I strolled down the trail 500 feet to wake my partners, still entombed in their sleeping bags, for a day of safe rock climbing. I don’t remember telling them anything about my silly jaunt.

Orphans preferred

“Young, skinny, wiry fellows over 18. Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred. $25.00 per week.”

—Newspaper ad for Pony Express riders in 1860 (Editor’s note: That’s $920.00 per week in today’s money.)

Rock climbing alone, high above the ground in beautiful surroundings, can feel boundlessly free and immensely satisfying. But, free soloing is not a video game. When you reach a rest ledge, pass a crux, or reach the top, you do not get an extra life.  

Starting in 1887 and continuing for decades, European rock climbers free soloed big walls up to 5.9+ or 5.10a, occasionally onsight. In America, by the early `60s, John Gill had free soloed onsight a number of one-pitch first ascents now rated up to 5.10+, not to mention the very short but quite-dangerous Thimble, the world’s first 5.12a.

In the late sixties, British climbers ropelessly repeated a slew of cutting-edge desperates in the solid 5.10 range. A handful of Californians soon produced equally stout solos in Yosemite.

At that time, I had no interest in trying to keep up with these crazy ascents. When the world’s hardest climbs were rated 5.10+, even rehearsed free solos of 5.9 climbs seemed suicidal.

However, at 6 a.m. one morning in the spring of 1970, I found myself deeply in love for the first time. I transferred that unrequited, but overwhelming passion into climbing energy. Partnerless again, I rode my bike to Eldorado Springs Canyon and soloed a route I’d done once before: the six pitches of Ruper (5.7). Alone in the canyon that day, I chose to take a harder variation on pitch two. I veered onto the dihedral of Rover, the easiest 5.9 near Boulder. As I climbed, it did not escape my attention that the thin 5.7 Ruper Traverse felt much scarier than the 5.9 dihedral. Again, I was temporarily satisfied and told no one. It was my first 5.9 free solo.

If you survive a scary solo, maybe keep it on the down low.

Soon after, through my college roommate, I met Duncan Ferguson. A couple years younger than me, Ferguson had only been climbing for two years, but he was a gifted climber with a cool head. To this day, only when prodded will he relate any of his landmark exploits.

Later that year, as we were driving off to go roped climbing, I casually asked what climbs he’d done recently.

“Oh, not much,” he offered.  “I third classed [free soloed] Werk Supp a few days ago.”

I was shocked.

The Eldo classic Werk Supp entailed a 120-foot pitch of tricky vertical 5.8 face climbing, followed by a 50-foot leaning 5.9+ hand crack. No one else in Colorado who I knew of was free soloing harder than 5.7.

I felt I had to keep up with the “younger generation.” Peer pressure at its worst. Idiotically, I repeated his feat a few days later.

Duncan’s unpublicized 1972 free solo of Umph Slot, certainly at least 5.11a for all but the skinniest climbers, likely stands as one of the world’s exemplary firsts. Abjectly awed by his secret deed, I was not brave enough to attempt to repeat that one.

In the 1950s and 60s in America, all forms of soloing—protected or not—were considered irresponsible: the realm of unstable minds. Unequipped and unprotected soloing was called “third classing.” Protected soloing was called “rope soloing.” The term “free solo” was not generally used until the late 1980s.

Due to media exposure, today the view of free soloing is much different. It exists as a legitimate genre of rock climbing pursued by an increasing number of motivated climbers. While it is tautological that every climber “free solos” at some level of difficulty, even beginners are almost expected to free solo, or at least scramble. “You can do it, dude. It’s easy.”

The ultimate idea

In July of 1972, I traveled to Wales to climb with my brother and a couple friends. A week into the trip, I woke up feeling sick, so I bailed for the day from the group. By noon, however, I felt better, so I rode six miles on my friend’s three-speed klunker bike up to Llanberis Pass. With no one around, I free soloed Grond, a 5.10 route I had previously led. Somewhat embarrassed by my self-centered whim, I equivocated when my friends and brother queried about what I did that day.

Four days later, on the train back to London, I read in Mountain Magazine about the latest trend in British rock climbing: free solos at the hardest grades. I had already free soloed one 5.10a onsight in Boulder Canyon. Grabbing a piton or carabiner, hanging on a rope, or taking a leader fall might all be considered forms of aid climbing, since they put weight on equipment.

Therefore, the purest free climbing form is to create a new climb using no equipment: free soloing, maybe even barefoot. The amazing Austrian free soloist Paul Preuss created and practiced this ethic in the early 1900s. So I started to ponder, and then emulate, this ultimate idea.

When I returned to Colorado in August, I began to secretly pursue the most dangerous game in rock climbing. I initiated a string of free solo first ascents and first free ascents of multi-pitch routes: Blind Faith, Sooberb, and a few others. I consciously chose not to push too much. Whenever the route felt too insecure or the conditions weren’t right, I backed off.

But I had one final goal. For two months, I focused the bulk of my desire on a hidden gem: a wide, exposed roof, hovering 200 feet above massive talus boulders, cleaved by a 20-foot hand crack. Twelve miles south of Boulder stood the west wall of the so-called Coors Crag (aka, Ralston Buttes).

In October of 1972, my friend Steve Wunsch and I had hiked up to this little-known crag and did a probable first free ascent of a three-pitch 5.10 climb. We found piton scars in an obvious dihedral. After our ascent, Steve free soloed a nearby, two-pitch 5.7 up to the base of the aforementioned crack, walking off left to finish. He called his route Cassandra.

What we saw as the most impressive and difficult pitch—the roof crack—remained untouched. It appeared free climbable, certainly projectable, and possibly onsight-able by the best climbers of the day.  Nowhere else in the world had I yet seen a virgin pitch so striking and alluring. We talked of a return trip to this huge, undeveloped cliff someday, but I hid my secret ambitions.

The sapling

It was January 2, 1973. The approach required postholing 600 feet through thigh-deep, north-facing snow up a steep forested slope in shorts and running shoes. Just before the hike flattened, I followed an easy crack on the snow-covered, wet slabs. No living soul knew where I was; the landowner was the only person to whom I had talked all day.

Then I came to an abrupt halt. A stunted evergreen tree grew from the crack and its branches blocked my path. The slab on either side was too wet and snowy to climb in running shoes. Breaking off just one branch—perhaps five feet long and only an inch in diameter—would allow me to continue.

The alternative? Go back down 50 feet, kick steps to the right, and blaze a more strenuous, new trail up around the slab. Though not dangerous, it would be tiring and time-consuming. A deft chop with my right hand would murder the branch, saving time and allowing me to continue.

The plant was mute, so I looked into my heart. Today was to be the climbing adventure of a lifetime. I recognized the destructive power I wielded over the defenseless twig.  Jim Erickson: in all His Wrath, in all His Wisdom, in all His Mercy. The sapling embodied the wonder, beauty, and frailty of life. I made a deal.

For years, I had trained endurance, excelled at hand jamming, and possessed good mind control. Onsighting new climbs, ground-up, without resorting to chalk use brought me great satisfaction. Facing the ultimate consequence on a first ascent near the limit of possible would be emblematic, at least in my 23-year-old mind, of the beginnings of mastery.

The day held 50 degrees Fahrenheit temperatures, with clear, windless skies. Perfect rock climbing conditions allowed me to cruise Steve’s two warm-up pitches to a small ledge where I finally could see the roof up close. This was my last chance to bail to the left. Surprisingly, I felt no fear.

Exploding with excitement, I chose to continue. Taking a deep breath, I powered past a brief, thin-hands section to better jams. Halfway out, on bomber jams, a sharp, one-inch left foothold crumbled under my weight. But the jams held as I instinctively corrected, twisting the stiff toe box of my RD into the two-inch crack. I shook out on decent holds below a short—though still overhung—wider crack.

I was now committed. Reversing the roof I had just climbed would have been impossible. Luckily, the final 10 feet of overhanging crack hid a couple holds.

In my entire life, I have never felt more relieved than at that moment. Alone at the top on a perfect day, I surveyed the beauty and silence, feeling thankful to still be alive. I promised myself that I would never take that much risk again. No saplings had been harmed.

It did not seem necessary to tell anyone else. I reflected on the importance of the climb—and the ultimate unimportance of such a selfish feat. In addition, I worried that some young climber might die trying to keep up. So I remained quiet for decades. To this day, it remains my most satisfying climbing experience.

Soloing on a daily or regular basis is especially hazardous, even on moderate routes. A jiffy of inattention on a 5.2 slab after a hard crux. A foothold with unseen dampness or ice. An untested (or even a tested) jug that breaks off. A startling pigeon or hornet. An unexpected muscle pull. John Bachar and Derek Hersey, two legendary climbers I knew from the next generation—each a vibrant and deeply loved human being—tragically died on climbs well below their top grade. 

Today’s soloing standards would dub my routes moderate, even though no climber has probably repeated them in their original style: onsight, chalk-less, tape-less. Cassandra may have been the first multi-pitch free solo at 5.11a/b.

Or maybe not. Duncan and other climbers also quietly did outstanding onsight solos in that era and never told much of anyone. A few years later, with the help of chalk and slightly better shoes, American legend Henry Barber produced a number of impressive free solos, followed shortly after by the late American alpinist David Breashears, then John Bachar. A couple were onsight. And then came sticky rubber.

“He knew the odds”

Eight months later, on August 13, 1973, a sweltering Monday, I locked my road bike to a tree below the Third Flatiron in Boulder and headed up the Royal Arch Trail. A 25-minute hike brought me to a line I’d noticed on the shady north face of the Fourth Flatiron, 100 feet to the left of Roger Briggs’s classic 5.11 Death and Transfiguration. There, awaiting a first ascent, an easy 25-foot chimney guarded a more difficult, 30-foot thin-hands crack. It would be much safer than Cassandra, I reasoned, but I was already violating my oath to stop soloing.

Ironically, the ground fall that followed, yielding a concussion, two broken legs, and one broken wrist, probably saved my life. Had it happened on any of the 10 solos before, I would not be writing these words. It was simply dumb luck that I was not killed or crippled for life on that day.

Although I recovered almost totally, my cutting-edge free solo days essentially ended then and there. Six months later, the 1973 American Alpine Club Accident Report provided a sobering and quite accurate analysis: “He knew the odds, he gambled and he lost.”

Decades after his outrageous first ascent on the 30-foot Thimble, John Gill questioned the risk he had taken. Quite correctly, he posited that he could have been “wiped out” had he fallen at the upper crux. He chose to spend the next 20 years establishing the world’s hardest boulder problems, sometimes even using a toprope if he thought he might get injured. His Thimble route remained unrepeated for 25 years. Occasionally, bold boulderers climb it with several crashpads for protection. However, as far as I know, no one has ever done a ground-up solo recreating the 1961-era wooden fence directly in the landing zone.

Years after the heart-stopping 1967 first ascent of the 80-foot Super Pin (a virtual free solo dangling a rope), Pete Cleveland mused, “I could have been killed. How can you be proud of something when it was such a stupid thing?” He then spent the rest of his career mostly toproping safe, cutting-edge routes at Devil’s Lake in Wisconsin: Bagatelle (5.12c/d) in 1969 and Phlogiston (5.13a/b) in 1977. He also had nothing left to prove. In nearly 60 years, only one climber has repeated Super Pin.

Neither of these landmark ascents were recorded on video or sent to a magazine. John and Pete both seemed reluctant to even talk about them. Their feats did not appear in print until a few years later in the guidebook. We simply called them very dangerous 5.10s. The few who understood their lethality told hushed stories around campfires in Yosemite and the Tetons—the internet forums of the 1960s.

The rise of climbing media

In 1969, Mountain Magazine appeared in the UK to try to keep abreast of world climbing news. The late editor, Ken Wilson, contracted a couple U.S. correspondents to update him on the most current American climbs.

The following year, Harvey Carter decided to start an American magazine called Climbing. His local editor, Bob Grow, asked me if I would write a short story for the first issue. At first, I hesitated, not wanting to “prostitute” (promote) climbing to the general public. But he was a friend, so I agreed to do a few paragraphs for Climbing No. 1. He offered to pay me, but I refused the money. How naive I was in my youth.

The same year, the Yosemite Climbing School popularized the famous “Go Climb a Rock” on t-shirts soon seen all over California. Climbing, Mountain, and Ascent—an American Alpine Club magazine—all flourished. More guidebooks, first ascent reports, and even movies appeared. Gear improved, climbers traveled more to other areas, and rivalries—personal and regional—became more visible.

Some pioneers hid their climbing feats, while others only gave info, when asked, to legitimate guidebook authors. And some began immediately boasting after any perceived notable event. Improved communications turned some media darlings into famous climbers. The lag time from an event to its public “outing” shrank from years to weeks. Today, of course, it has shrunk to mere hours, perhaps minutes.

In the mid-1970s, free soloing for a camera first appeared. As early as 1973, Henry Barber wanted to be noticed. In the next few years, he produced an outstanding list of new climbs and repeated many of the hardest short routes in the world. He also executed spontaneous, unrehearsed free solos of many established climbs in the 5.9 and 5.10 range.

Then, in 1976, as the cameras rolled on ABC’s “American Sportsman”, he onsight soloed a solid 5.10 climb, The Strand, at Gogarth in the UK. In 1979, John Bachar, who wanted to be the best free climber in the world, possibly achieved his goal totally alone one day with his rehearsed free solo of Nabisco Wall via Butterballs (5.11c). During the early `80s, Bachar cruised the rehearsed solos of More Monkey than Funky (5.11c) and Leave It to Beaver (5.12a) at Joshua Tree for the TV show “That’s Incredible.”

We free soloists are not heroes

I am quite impressed that anyone can free solo while being observed or being filmed. It would have totally distracted me. I never soloed anything difficult unless I felt completely alone in a natural environment.

As climbing grows, many climbers want to be celebrities even if, as David Roberts pointed out over 50 years ago, they may have little to celebrate. Using the media, climbers quite understandably struggle for attention because it is their livelihood. In no other discipline is this more obvious, and more dangerous, than competitive free soloing.

Thankfully, I was never a sponsored climber, so I never felt beholden to anyone to do just one more spectacular or dangerous climb to earn my salary or stay relevant. I quit before it became too late. Most climbers have witnessed the self-promotion of Lincoln Knowles declaring that he’ll “free solo a harder route every day until I fall off.” But he, like many young men, is just trying to make a living doing what he loves. Today, this involves creating a unique public persona.

Competition, by turns friendly and ruthless, has always existed in climbing. It has generally inspired people to climb harder, but pushing too far has certainly caused fatalities. With social media constantly offering the latest milestone in roped climbing, bouldering, or free soloing, it is increasingly difficult to actually set a new standard in rock climbing. Every experienced climber makes his own (hopefully) sober choices on risk assessment balanced by goals.

Especially in their early years, when all their motivation came from within, free soloists like John Bachar, Peter Croft, Alain Robert, and Alex Honnold achieved mind-boggling landmarks.  At the same time, it now feels somehow inappropriate for climbers past the age of 40 with children to continue pushing perceived limits.

Yet, who am I to judge? I have not walked a mile in their Miuras. To every one of them, I wish a long and happy life.

I am so grateful to have experienced 77 wonderful years on this earth and to have had children and grandchildren. We soloists are not heroes; perhaps it is misleading that we are sometimes praised. In fact, some might call us out for youthful ignorance, unnecessarily gambling with the gift of life. In my 20s, I was too inexperienced to understand the enduring human values: family, friends, and helping—when we can—those less fortunate.

Do I regret my free soloing? Yes and no. Obviously, fame and fortune never drove my solos. Although I free climbed the more difficult Naked Edge and the face of Half Dome, the very obscure Cassandra remains the apotheosis of my 64-year climbing career. I am glad that I did it, but I was very lucky. I do regret continuing to free solo after January 2, 1973.

Every single free solo climber possesses the freedom to choose their danger. The true heroes in life selflessly risk, and sometimes relinquish, their own lives to help other human beings.

The post Orphans Preferred: How My Silent Game of Free Soloing Ended appeared first on Climbing.