Hull Cook at Chasm View, where his most dramatic rescue on Longs Peak began. Photo by H.P. Ziedema

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

Fatalities on the peak were depressing, even though they were beyond our realm of responsibility. One day some frightened youths rushed into the cabin with the unwelcome news that one of their group had fallen. They indicated that he had apparently mistaken the Transom, or False Keyhole, for the real Keyhole. When they saw him fall, they had backed off and regained the usual route.

I hastened to the spot where I expected the body to lodge, the long ledge about 100 feet below the Transom that slopes down to the Agnes Vaile shelter hut. Here, indeed, was the crumpled body of a youth in his late teens. I wondered why he had fallen. The descent from the Transom is not technically difficult. Then I noticed a large box camera nearby. Perhaps it had hampered his descent.

As soon as I had determined there was no doubt about his being dead, I hoisted him up on my shoulder for the half-mile carry back to the cabin. A step away from where his body had lodged the ledge is very narrow, and as I swung around to head downward, the boy’s big climbing boots struck the rock wall, pushing me outward. Off balance, I stared down the near-vertical cliff at the rocks over 300 feet below, and I thought, “I’m going to have to throw him overboard to regain my balance, or we’ll both go over.” Thoughts come fast at such a time. I remembered then that his face was undamaged. What a pity it would be to smash it on those rocks. I teetered apprehensively, straining every muscle to regain stability while the debate—“to toss or not to toss” raged in my head. Moments that seemed like minutes passed until I finally rocked back to a safer stance, and could begin the sad trek down to the cabin.

The boy’s name was Grey Secor. His father soon came up from Longmont to the Hewes-Kirkwood Inn to learn what I could tell him of the accident. I was especially moved because I imagined my own father in that role should I become too careless.

One evening after dinner I thought I heard a most unwelcome sound, the yodeling signal which we used as a call for help. I rushed outside, hoping that I was mistaken, but there it was again. Gilly was at Chasm View, descending with a small group and avoiding the longer descent via the Keyhole to escape the onset of darkness. And Gilly was telling me that he needed help.

Brochure for the Boulderfield hotel. Lodging for one night: $2. A guide for the north face of Longs Peak: $2.50.

I quickly assembled first-aid kit, warm jacket, flashlight, and our longest rope, and set out for Chasm View at a trot. The trot lasted until the ascent became steeper, forcing a slight slowing of pace, but I was still pushing myself to the limit. About this time my stomach rebelled and said in effect, “You cannot expect me to digest that gluttonous meal while you are shunting all the blood to your lungs and legs. I quit!” And with a great whoosh, up came the dinner. Oddly enough, I felt no nausea, just the need to abruptly unload my dinner, and I was moving again.

When I met Gilly’s people on their descent from Chasm View to Boulderfield cabin, they advised me that he was waiting for my help in rescuing an injured climber who was lying on Broadway Ledge, calling for help. From Gilly’s vantage point at Chasm View, looking down and across the Diamond, the approaching darkness made it difficult to even see the victim. Gilly and I decided at once that he could be reached more quickly from above rather than having to go clear around Mt. Lady Washington, past Chasm Lake, and up from there. Accordingly, we climbed to the top of the peak, or nearly so, crossed southward above the Diamond, and descended to Broadway. Gilly remained about our rope’s length above Broadway to belay me with the injured climber up the first pitch. I found the injured man huddled on a rather narrow section of Broadway, babbling incoherently about falling. A cursory examination by flashlight revealed no deforming injuries, and as I talked to him he became more lucid.

He had evidently tried to climb the north side of the Notch Couloir. Just before slipping he had changed from hob-nailed boots to hemp soles, putting the boots in his pack. Where then was his pack? He had somehow fallen out of it, and when he hit the narrow ledge, the pack had gone on over and enjoyed the full thousand-foot drop to the waiting rocks below, a close call for him. After securing the rope around his middle, I called up to Gilly to take up the slack. Then, after explaining the shoulder carry to him, I hoisted him into position. We were not far from the spot where we had to leave Broadway and start our vertical ascent near the left side of the Diamond, but between us and that spot was a bulging corner of rock which we had to work around. Here the ledge underfoot was especially narrow and rather smooth, and it sloped alarmingly toward the black abyss behind us. I told my passenger to tuck his toes behind my back so that his shoes would not push us out into space.

As you start around this bulging corner it is necessary to plant one foot on the sloping ledge and commit weight on it while groping around the corner for a hand hold that you cannot see, but which you know from past experience to be there. When Gilly tightened the rope it provided the reassurance that if I slipped the man would be saved by the rope. He would no longer be my responsibility; he would become Gilly’s problem. Holding a flashlight in clenched teeth made it necessary for me to keep my head turned to the side. My fingers were really tingling as I flattened myself against the cliff!

After successfully negotiating that scary corner, I felt that we were home-free as I began the nearly vertical climb up the Kiener route to Gilly’s position. Hand and foot holds here were comfortingly adequate. Gilly moved on up for another belay, and we continued in like manner to the top of the peak, crossing above the Diamond and rounding over to the top of the North Face.

As we descended the cables, Gilly again belayed our injured climber, whom I can now call Leonard, since we had learned that his name was Leonard Thomas. He was still riding on my shoulders—I had not bothered to set him down yet—and as we descended the cables he tired of tucking his feet behind my back. Instead, he kept dragging his toes on the rock in front of me, but here I had hold of the cable for security. However, twice his toes swung free as we passed over inverted ledges, and each time he apparently relived the terror associated with his fall, for each time he let out a shriek that would frighten a banshee.

At Chasm View I accepted Gilly’s offer to carry Leonard, which he did all the rest of the way on down to the cabin. By morning Leonard was quite rational and we were able to determine that beside scrapes and bruises his only injury was a broken collar bone. Of course there was the concussion, but when Leonard’s father interviewed me a couple of weeks later he made no mention of complications.

Leonard had evidently remembered enough of my carry to give his father an earful, because the senior Mr. Thomas brought with him a man from the Carnegie who was to determine whether I was entitled to a Carnegie medal. The man’s reaction was favorable until he learned that I was a professional guide. That killed the whole idea, even though my responsibility to Leonard was zero, except for purely humanitarian reasons. Mr. Thomas ended the interview by giving me $50 (at least $800 in today’s dollars). Later, my father said, “You should have taken that Carnegie fellow up there. He might have changed his mind.”

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros
Youth
The Power of Love

By Rob Coppolillo

Initial reports indicated that La Sportiva—the Italian maker of boots and shoes whose North American HQ is in Boulder—had a new approach rig called the Gandalf, presumably named after the king-honch sorcerer in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. By the time I spied a look at ’em, they’d been renamed the Ganda, so we can reasonably assume a few lawyers made some dough and the folks at La Sportiva had to rename the shoe.

The good news is the Ganda is a work of art. We’ve grown to expect nothing less from La Sportiva’s Italian-crafted footwear: tight, regular stitching; supple leather; a stellar fit; an innovation or two; and plain-old kick-butt performance.

The Ganda’s downsides? Well, the euro hasn’t fully released its stranglehold on the dollar, and paying skilled craftsmen (and providing health care!) isn’t cheap, so the shoe ain’t either: $215 for a pair. The Ganda also feels a tad clunky (14.74 oz/418g) at first—but there’s a method to the design, and by the end of a week of thrashing around in them, I was sold on the construction.

(Full disclosure: La Sportiva provided me a pair of Gandas free of charge…and I pray I get to keep ’em.)

The artisans at La Sportiva build a couple shoes into one with the Ganda. The rear of the shoe is board-lasted (like a lightweight hiker), and there’s a substantial layer between the shock-absorption goo of the lower shoe and the upper. The forefoot is then slip-lasted (like sensitive climbing shoes), putting your foot in closer contact with the sole.

The result? The rear of the shoe feels like a well-supported hiking shoe (pronators and supinators need not worry), definitely a notch beefier than a lighter and softer approach shoe like a Cirque Pro, a La Sportiva model I’ve worn for the past five years. The Ganda has a deepish heel cup which affords zero heel-slip, and plenty of protection for hiking with a pack or rock-hopping, or both at the same time.

The lacing extends to the toe-box of the shoe, helping to hunker down the forefoot when you’re sketching on slabby terrain (consider cinching the laces before you’re run out on Satan’s Slab). The additional padding in the forefoot sole (a godsend while hiking) certainly sacrifices some sensitivity on the rock, though I noticed it mostly in terms of deformation. That is, there’s enough soft, cushiony material in the shoe that torquing the forefoot or edging to the side “gooshes” the upper toward the outside of the sole. The harder you climb in the shoe, the more you’ll notice it, but in general it’s a minor gripe.

I did a few pitches of up to 5.8 climbing and bouldered on harder terrain for a week while testing the Ganda. This was my first go-round with Vibram’s “dot” sole, and it’s certainly climbable. I’d be talking smack if I ranked it against 5.10’s version—not enough time climbing to render a verdict. But nothing about the rubber raised a skeptical eyebrow, durability- or performance-wise. The Gandas feel a lot like the ’80s-era Fires: tons of protection, a sacrifice in sensitivity, but not bad for a boot made for walking. Hand-cracks? Forget it: Toe in, cam over, and float upward. The Gandas smear well enough to keep your sanity on slabs, but tiptoeing along a finger crack might be a challenge. I also loaded a pack with a grade IV–worthy rack, and I felt I could’ve added another 15 pounds without any control or stability problems. What felt “clunky” out of the box makes a ton of sense on the trail—you could easily hike into the Grand or the Incredible Hulk with the Gandas.

As with all of La Sportiva’s hand-crafted models (the Asian-made stuff doesn’t show quite the quality of the Italian goods, in my opinion), the shoes offer impeccable construction. I’d expect several resoles out of a pair, and I’d be mightily surprised if I blew a stitch in the first few seasons.

La Sportiva ships the Ganda with a standard-issue, flimsy insole. The marketing stuff suggests hiking without it, then inserting the insole to take up some volume and improve sensitivity while climbing. I’m not sure I buy that shtick.

I used my custom orthotics, lovingly prepared by Chuck Bird, pedorthist and boot fitter at Neptune Mountaineering (birdman@earthnet.net). His insoles probably add a bit more material to the whole foot-midsole-sole sandwich, and that’s probably part of my “gooshing” problem mentioned above. It’s my foot, though, and I’m babying it how I like!

I fit my Gandas a bit snug in the forefoot (with said orthotic, not the OEM insole). I can’t stand too much play in the toe box of a shoe in which I’m climbing, but I also wonder if my feet wouldn’t suffer a bit on a Grand Teton day. For what it’s worth, I chose the exact size of my Nepal Extremes and Trangos, so La Sportiva’s sizing seems consistent through their line, as far as I can tell.

Bottom Line?

Those accustomed to a Cirque Pro, 5.10’s Daescent, or Scarpa’s Expresso, will find the Ganda one notch less sensitive, but if you’re doing alpine days or hiking to a bivy before ridge scrambling, the Ganda will vastly outperform lighter models…and probably last for years longer.

La Sportiva will also offer a higher-cut version, the Ganda Guide, starting this summer ($235). I haven’t handled a pair, but they appear to have a less climbing-friendly sole and a bit more heft (20.2 oz/572g)—think fourth-class ridges and maybe enough beef on which to strap a crampon.

Hull Cook (left) and Clerin Zumwalt horsing around on the cabin walls. Each morning the guides used to shout, "Indian's a-comin'!" as they spotted the first hikers at the edge of the Boulderfield.

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

Bathing facilities at Boulderfield were limited. Usually we stood with one foot in each of two wash pans of warm, soapy water, with a third wash pan between the other two to help catch run-off, an arrangement that would have been less efficient in the case of a female bather. A kettle of clean water was placed nearby for rinsing off the soap. Bathing was sometimes interrupted by the unexpected arrival of tourists, who usually barged right in without knocking, thereby creating an entertaining scramble for cover.

After the brief but heavy afternoon rain showers that are frequent in the mountains, we would often reach the cabin drenched, and wish to change into dry clothes, only to find the place crowded with tourists seeking shelter. My wife believes that this is where I lost my modesty, because we boys changed to dry clothes, crowds or not. We would step to a corner of the room, and while facing away from the people, we would peel down to the bare facts and dry off. Women showed surprise, shock, and embarrassment until, seemingly reassured by our confident composure, their discomfort was usually converted to amusement.

When no overnight guests were present, Zumie [Clerin Zumwalt, another guide] often enjoyed starting the day by flinging open the heavy front door, stepping outside, and shouting as loudly as he could, “Hello, world!” And for this brief ritual Zum felt that the appropriate attire was complete nudity.

One morning, as Zum hailed the world in his usual manner, he failed to notice a small group of early-morning climbers lounging nearby, before roaring out his challenging greeting. Of course his loud cry commanded the attention of the group, both male and female, and while Zum was coming to grips with the realization that he was playing to a live audience they were entertained by the sight of a very surprised and very naked young man who suddenly wished for oblivion, or at least a G-string. A bit later, the act of serving this group breakfast did little to minimize his embarrassment.

We Boulderfield boys enjoyed a level of physical fitness that most people are not privileged to experience. Some act such as carrying people off the mountain, which might look like a stunt, was merely everyday living. Or if someone down at Hewes-Kirkwood Inn advised by phone that one of us had received a letter on the incoming mail, the recipient would eagerly jog the six and a half miles down trail to get it, and of course regain the 3,700 feet of altitude on the long trek back up again. Carrying people on rescues seemed almost a casual routine.

I recall one evening when I had a date to attend a dance in the Village [Estes Park] at around nine o’clock. I planned to leave the cabin as soon as supper cleanup was accomplished. I could jog down trail, take a three-pan bath, and make it on time.

Among our dinner guests that evening was a couple who had straggled in after having climbed the peak. They had hoped to go down trail after eating, but were so tired that we advised them to stay over. It promised to be a very dark night, heavily overcast, and without a light they feared getting lost, so they agreed to spend the night.

As soon as our guests had eaten, one of my fellow guides asked how soon I was going down trail. On hearing this, the tired woman brightened up and asked, “Oh, are you going down tonight? We can go with you! You know the way.”

“Lord save me,” I thought. I knew that these people could not maintain a pace that would get me down in time. They had no idea how fast I was planning to travel. Yet what could I say that would not sound selfish and inhospitable? “Yes,” I replied resignedly, “I’m going down trail right away.” On hearing this the couple assumed that I would guide them down. They arose eagerly from the table, trying to appear rested and ready for action.

Boulderfield guides Hull Cook, Ev Long, and Clerin Zumwalt (l to r). "I don't know what it is to feel tired."

And so we set out. I let them go ahead to set the pace while I provided direction with the beam of a flashlight. In 40 minutes we reached the far edge of the Boulderfield, a distance of one half mile. Our miserably slow progress prompted a bit of mental arithmetic. Eleven more half miles…over seven hours! Something had to be done. I knew that they would be crushed by the idea of returning to the cabin, yet my position deserved consideration also.

I said to the man, “You seem more tired than your wife. I’ll carry you. She can walk behind and flash the light ahead of me.” He objected, of course, not realizing how often we carried people. But with a firmness that he hesitated to contest I said, “That’s how we are going to do it.” So I hoisted him up on my shoulders, gave the light to the wife, and we took off again. Carrying someone in that position is not particularly fatiguing because your breathing is not restricted. We soon left the trail and followed the phone line, a very rough and rocky course, but shorter than the trail.

Before long the wife was having a pitiful struggle with exhaustion, so I said to the man, “Looks like it’s your turn to walk.” I set him down and picked up his wife, saying, “Give him the light.”

This method of alternately carrying first one, then the other, enabled us to make fairly good time. Before we reached Jim’s Grove we had switched back and forth several times, and the couple had accepted this intermittent riding as the way to go.

Below the Alpine Brook bridge, where the cutoff rejoins the main trail and becomes easy to follow, I set the current passenger down and said, “You cannot get lost from here. I’ll have to hurry on. I have an appointment in the Village. Just leave the flashlight in front of the cabin at the parking lot.”

I ran the rest of the way to base camp, managed the customary three-pan bath (but with cold water), and was only a half-hour late for my date in the Village. After dancing till nearly 3 a.m., I drove back to the base camp cabin, swallowed four raw eggs, and headed back up trail, arriving in plenty of time to take an early guide party up the peak. Any fatigue we Boulderfield boys felt from this kind of foolishness would be almost completely relieved by 10 or 15 minutes’ rest. I remember a comment made by John Cross after he had worked all summer on a trail crew. He said, “I don’t know what it is to feel tired.” Youth is wonderful.

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros

Hallett Peak's east buttress, from the east ridge of Flattop, March 21. Photo by Dougald MacDonald

By Eli Helmuth, Climbing Life Guides

Tyndall Gorge has long been a favorite destination in Rocky Mountain National Park for high-quality backcountry skiing, ice testpieces such as the Squid, abundant bouldering, and classic big-wall cragging on Hallett’s north buttress. Easily accessed from the Bear Lake parking lot, the Tyndall is truly a mountain playground for all seasons and interests. But few climbers explore beyond the crowded classics. One of my favorite alpine play spots in the park is the east buttress of Hallett Peak—specifically the many little-known moderate mixed climbs on the north face of this couloir-striped buttress. And we’re just getting into prime season for these fun spring mixed routes.

Short rock step near the top of Left Gully Edge. Courtesy of Eli Helmuth

Located at a relatively low elevation—the base of this shaded buttress lies near 10,200 feet and the “summit” ridge crest is about 11,000 feet—the east buttress of Hallett is small and accessible enough to be climbed in a more relaxed manner than the typical alpine wall. Or you can do multiple morning laps while training for bigger terrain. One of my favorite aspects is that the east buttress has the shortest approach in RMNP for a significant alpine climb— just two miles from the Bear Lake trailhead at 9,540 feet. And with a well-traveled trail system to Emerald Lake, you don’t even need flotation during most weeks of the year, even though most of the trail will likely be snow-covered from November into mid-June.

Like the other spring routes in the park, the mixed climbs on the east buttress come into best shape from mid-April to late May or early June. Clear nights lead to frozen névé snow conditions. Still, very early starts are key for avoiding the problems associated with heat in the mountains: cornice collapses, avalanches, rockfall, deep snow climbing, and unconsolidated ice. Plus, the descent couloir to the west of the buttress, splitting the east buttress and the First Buttress on Hallett, is steep and avalanche-prone near the top, so be prepared to stay engaged until the parking lot is reached.

Of the half dozen or so lines on the right-most side of the buttress, the Cleft is the most dramatic one I’ve done to date. Be aware that the second pitch quickly becomes a funnel for sloughing avalanches when snow is falling. Other directissima lines on this wall beg to be explored. The rock quality deteriorates as one moves farther east, and so the right side is most recommended for routes where one can get in a few interesting mixed moves per pitch.

Courtesy of Eli Helmuth

The routes:

1. Left Gully Edge, 250m, M1 60°
2. Left of Cleft, 300m, M3-4 60°
3. The Cleft, 300m, M3-4 60°
4.  Right Bypass, 300m, M1 60°
5.  Right Runnel, 250m, M1-2 60°

Editor’s note: In addition to these routes, there’s also the good-looking line called Tastee Freeze (3 pitches, M4), which follows a left-trending chimney on a cliff left of the main east buttress. No doubt other lines have been climbed on these accessible buttresses.

Internationally certified mountain guide Eli Helmuth is the founder of ClimbingLife Guides. Click here for more info about Hallett’s east buttress and other alpine routes in Rocky Mountain National Park.

The pack burro Jake on an early-summer trip up trail.

Hull Cook worked at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin on Longs Peak during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

The Boulderfield Hotel, or shelter, or cabin, whatever you may call it, was constructed in 1926 and 1927 by the National Park Service, and was operated during its 10-year existence by the Colliers. The construction was not an easy task. Everything but the actual rock had to be laboriously packed in on horses or mules over a very rough and rocky six-mile trail at high altitude. I believe Jack Moomaw, an early park ranger and guide, supervised the construction of the trail across the Boulderfield to the hotel site, which enabled pack mules and horses to negotiate this jumble of rocks without suffering broken legs. The workmen stayed at Timberline Cabin, so a good part of their day was spent in hiking the three miles each way to and from Boulderfield.

Problems, of course, arose later, some of which were quite unexpected. For example, one would not expect a small, rugged granite building to be easily pulled apart. Yet a little of that happened each year. Cracks up to a half-inch in width in walls and floor would open up, necessitating a caulking job every spring. To account for this instability, I believe that there must be an underground, glacier-like ice flow that is constantly replenished by seepage from the Dove snowfield.

Wind was another problem, its effects having been underestimated. The first winter was educational. The whole roof went off, smashed, dismembered, and scattered for miles. The cabin became a large solid block of hard-packed snow enclosed in granite walls, a rather discouraging spring discovery. To avoid a repetition of this disaster, the new roof was reinforced with small logs laid horizontally on the gabled roof, and held down with a row of head-sized boulders above each log.

The stable had a single-slant roof covered with sheets of corrugated iron roofing. When some of these iron sheets were found as far away as three miles, it was decided to bolt them in position in such a way that they could be removed each fall and stored in a rock-weighted stack, there to await reassembly the following spring when winds were less severe. However, a generous sprinkling of large rocks was necessary here also.

Pack train on the Boulderfield.

To fulfill the need for a base camp, Bob Collier, at his own expense, built a small house at the Longs Peak trailhead. Here supplies could be stored awaiting transport up trail on the pack burros or donkeys. The first burros were Jack and Cootie, but they were too small to handle the volume of freight, so they were replaced the next year by the larger burros, Jake and Dammit. Whoever was on packing duty often spent the night at base camp, resting the burros overnight if they had just come down trail. The packer may have brought down a big load of dirty sheets destined for the Estes Park Laundry, where they would be exchanged for clean. While in town he would purchase whatever supplies were needed, and then return to base camp, usually enjoying the trill of driving Dorothy’s car, a sleek Chevy convertible that to Bob was the “pneumonia buggy.”

He would also pick up mail at the Hewes-Kirkwood Inn (now a music camp.) A visit with Charlie Hewes, hospitable owner of the inn, would frequently ensue, followed by an invitation from Julia Morrissey, Charlie’s cook of many years, to stay for dinner, a welcome invitation that we boys never refused. It beat batching at the base camp.

Following the pack burros the six miles up trail was usually three hours of plodding drudgery, except for the pleasure derived from the cool, fresh air and the inspiring scenery, although it was not unusual to have the view obscured by rain, sleet, and low-lying clouds. On the trail a burro may occasionally rebel and grunt in burro language, “To Hell with all this!” and lie down. And if his load is heavy it will have to be unloaded before the animal can get up. Then, during the time it takes to accomplish the repacking, one or more of your other animals may decide to lie down too, thus compounding the problem.

Getting a recalcitrant burro back on his feet may require ingenuity. “Tailing him up,” such as one might do with a cow, is of no help because horses and burros get up front end first. Beating is usually ineffective, and seems cruel. For the less fastidious, twisting a rock in the burro’s anus will work, although this method always seemed to me a bit uncouth. Pouring a little water in an ear works better. If I’m giving away professional secrets here I should add a word of caution: do not use very cold water. If the water is quite cold it may induce vertigo, and that will give the animal the “blind staggers,” making him incapacitated for an hour or more. We never bothered with carrying water on the six-mile trek to Boulderfield, so if the need arose to encourage a burro to get back up on his feet, I found it helpful to have a full bladder. If the aesthetically minded find this idea offensive, I defend it by assuring them that warm water is much more comfortable than cold.

Hull Cook in his nailed boots, 1933.

During the seasons when I worked at Boulderfield the care of the pack string was chiefly my responsibility. I had previous packing experience, and I had worked for a livery stable. Also, I volunteered to keep the burros shod to avoid the expense of bringing in a professional farrier. I was no expert, but I had the advantage of having received instruction in horseshoeing from an old blacksmith.

Jake would permit work being done on his front feet, but his hind feet were something else. He would kick viciously at anyone who was brash enough to touch a hind foot, and on our rough, rocky trail shoes were necessary to prevent hooves from wearing down to an incapacitating tenderness. In order to nail shoes on Jake’s hind feet I had to throw him down as a bulldogger throws a steer. Then, with someone sitting on his head, I could tie his upper front foot to the upper hind foot. A pole could then be slid across his ribs with its end placed under the tied feet, and with another helper sitting on the opposite end of the pole the feet would be pried up to where I could accomplish the shoeing. Hot shoeing provides a more tailor-made, professional job, but without forge or anvil I had to be content with cold shoeing, and it proved adequate.

We boys were pretty much iron-shod too. We wore heavy shoes with thick, built-up soles and heels, fashioned to accommodate Swiss edging nails on which we depended for sure footing on rough rock. Such a shoe made a track that has been copied by today’s “waffle stompers.” We loved those edging nails because we felt that they kept us alive on dangerous cliffs. In fact one climber to whom I had loaned my boots for an East Face ascent said, “There were places up there where those nails were worth five thousand dollars a nail!”

It was the low places that were dangerous, because that is where a falling body would get hurt. We boys admonished one another that in case of a fall to be sure to remember to enjoy the view on the way down.

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin

Jack Roberts begins the cave pitch on Brain Freeze, Rocky Mountain National Park.

As winter’s powder metamorphoses into névé and melt-freeze ice from April though mid-June, couloir and chimney routes in the high mountains come into prime condition. Jack Roberts in Boulder is the author of the Colorado Ice guidebook and is one of Colorado’s most experienced mountain guides. We asked him for his five favorite spring alpine routes, all of which happened to be in Rocky Mountain National Park.

• Dreamweaver. For me, Dreamweaver on Mt. Meeker is the perfect high-mountain couloir route. The steep hike to it usually takes three hours. The climbing in the couloir isn’t difficult, but you still need to pay attention. Exposure is constant but never overwhelming. Once you complete the climb, you can either go home or link it up with Martha on Mt. Lady Washington or the Notch Couloir on Longs.  Which is also the beauty of Dreamweaver. You can ascend it and enjoy it for its own merit or you can push your luck.

• Hallett Chimney. An ultimate classic. Forget the fact that it doesn’t always come into the perfect condition that you want for an intermediate mixed alpine route. Forget for a second that the climbing isn’t really very technically demanding. That it is a climb that requires skill and cunning rather than the brute strength and power developed on a campus board. Success on this climb is more dependent on the ability of the experienced leader to figure out how to tread gently on snow/ice and rock when conditions are less than ideal and protection is not always exactly where you would like it to be. But the length of the climb (1,000 feet) comfortable belays, interesting climbing positions, and total alpine feel make this one of the top five alpine routes to do in RMNP.

• Right-side Chimney of Mt. Ypisilon. Often overlooked and ignored due to a lengthy approach and its remoteness, this climb is simular in character to combining Alexander’s Chimney to Field’s Chimney. Perhaps the best eight pitch mixed chimney climb in all of RMNP. The climbing is in a prominent chimney system that drops from the right side of the summit wall. The snowpatch at the top often holds enough snow that there is a constant drip into the gully, and the desired ice and snow conditions continue for seven pitches.  Never more difficult than WI4 and usually easier with good protection. The best overlooked classic in RMNP. Similar to Vanquished but technically easier and probably more dependable conditions-wise.  I did it with Michael Bearzi in 1997 and we couldn’t believe our luck.  Something to consider when there is a lot of snow late in March and April…

East face of Notchtop, on the right.

• East Face of Notchtop. Usually done in the fall, but it’s a great spring route. In fact, it’s better in the spring than in early winter because the avalanche conditions are safer and the days are warmer and  longer.  Also there can be snow melt further to the left of the regular route and that can open up other mixed variations. The exposure on this route is spectacular. The approach is not more than a couple of hours, and unless the weather is changing, there is no need to rush and spoil the experience of being on a beautiful alpine climb

• Brain Freeze. This new route on the south face of Mt. Otis has five or six pitches of ice and snow, chimneys and chockstones. It appears that it came into shape last week. I think this has got to be the kind of route that will come into condition almost every spring when the snowpack is average or better than average…whatever average is!

Visit the Jack Roberts Climbing Adventures website for conditions reports, tech tips, and information on guided climbs.

Hull Cook at Chasm View on Longs Peak. Photo by H.P. Ziedema

Starting next week, we’ve got a real treat in store for Colorado MoJo readers. During the late 1920s and early ’30s, a small hut stood at the Boulderfield on Longs Peak, at about 12,750 feet. Guests could hike or ride horseback to the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, spend the night in relative comfort with bunks and hot meals, and climb the 14,259-foot peak in the morning, usually by the north face, which was equipped in those days with steel cables for hand rails. For two or three years during the early ’30s, Hull Cook worked at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, and his feats as a guide and rescuer have become legendary. Now, thanks to his son, Hull “Cactus” Cook from Bellingham, Washington, we are able to bring you Cook’s first-person, never-published tales.

Cook was born in 1911 and grew up in Boulder, not far from the Flatirons. He worked at the Boulderfield during summer breaks from the University of Colorado School of Medicine, which he attended from 1931 through 1935. Cook and the other young climbers living at the Boulderfield were among the first professional mountain guides in the U.S. (He and Ev Long placed the first bolts on the famous east face of the Third Flatiron, hoping to establish a guiding route that never took off.) “My father led a full life after his time on Longs, including many years as a country physician in small-town Nebraska,” Cactus Cook said. “I have no doubt, however, that the acme of his lifetime was those summers spent scampering above timberline on Longs Peak. He, Zumie [Clerin Zumwalt], and my godfather, Ev Long, remained fast friends for life.”

In Hull Cook’s introduction to the stories he called The Boulderfield Hotel: My Recollections of a Legend, he writes, “Some of the events which I have described suggest egotistical bragging…. Maybe I am bragging, but I hasten to concede that everything that we Boulderfield boys did could be equaled or exceeded by almost any determined person who is in top-notch physical condition. Our climbs were actually far less technically difficult than many that are performed almost routinely today…. I make no claim to our being supermen. We were just a bunch of young fellows reveling in the strength and exuberance of youth.”

Many thanks to Cactus Cook for sharing his father’s wonderful tales. We’ll begin publishing chapters from the memoir next Wednesday, continuing each week through the spring.

The south face of Arrowhead in May 2008. Deborah takes the obvious vertical snow couloir. Photo by Greg Sievers

Climbers Scotty Nelson and Gil Weiss have discovered (or maybe rediscovered) a great-looking moderate mixed route in Rocky Mountain National Park that might take pressure off overcrowded climbs like Dream Weaver or Martha. The line, which they called Deborah, splits the south face of Arrowhead above the high bench to the west of Black Lake in Glacier Gorge, with almost 1,000 feet of steep snow and short mixed steps (M3/4); some ice might form in the spring. At the top, two exits give a hard or easy finish, and Arrowhead’s superb 12,642-foot summit is just a few yards away. Descend by following the ridge west toward McHenrys and look for rappel anchors near the saddle; rappel to the south. This route may have been climbed before, but no previous winter ascent has been reported. It’s likely in good mixed condition from January through early May.

Nelson and Weiss climbed the route in mid-March as the middle leg of a very long day in which they climbed the West Gully ice route above Black Lake (with a nearly disastrous slip), then Arrowhead, and then continued up the northeast ridge of McHenrys. They named the Arrowhead route after Weiss’ mother, Deborah, who recently died from melanoma. Weiss has written a touching essay about his mother’s death and this climb at the excellent Pullharder blog.

Cold day at Hidden Valley, RMNP. Photo by Doug Schnitzspahn

By Dougald MacDonald

I’ve been wearing the Bombshell Jacket, the flagship waterproof-breathable shell from Backcountry.com’s new Stoic line, for much of this winter. And after months of backcountry skiing, mountaineering, and a bit of ice climbing, I’m definitely impressed.

At first, I wasn’t at all psyched with the jacket’s fit. At a trailhead in the Indian Peaks, as I pulled on the coat, my female skiing partner gave me that look I know oh-too-well from my wife—the look that says: “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” Don’t get me wrong: The jacket looks sharp. Mine is black with turquoise highlights, and the cut and detailing are fine. The problem is the super-trim fit around the waist, which would have looked great when I was a 145-pounder in college but looks and feels a bit snug as a 162-pounder (OK, 164-pounder).

I almost always wear a medium jacket, and the Bombshell fit me perfectly in the chest, shoulders, and arms; if I sized up, I think there would be too much fabric bunched around these areas. I grew to appreciate the trim cut on long ski tours and while climbing; the jacket fit great under a harness, for example. But it limits your options for layering. If you wear your jacket as a true shell, over multiple insulating layers, think about a larger size. If you wear the shell over light inner layers while moving and throw a puffy over the top when you stop, as I increasingly do, this fit might be perfect. If you’re just thinking about taking up ski touring to lose a few years of accumulated paunch, consider another coat.

Despite my quibbles about the fit, the Bombshell hits nearly every other note perfectly. The weight (about 1.5 pounds for the medium on my postage scale) is perfect for winter, providing a measure of insulation as well as full wind and water protection from the 3-layer, slightly stretchy fabric. Five clean and well-placed external pockets give ample storage options, without adding bulk, and there’s a slick media pocket inside. The jacket’s zips are super-smooth and easy to grab. The powder skirt zips out (which seems to help with the fit, by the way). The hood fits well over most helmets, with a short, stiff brim for visibility, and it has effective adjustments; it feels like there’s a bit too much extra fabric around the neck and chin when the hood is up and the front zip is down, but I appreciated the protection and comfort when I had to zip up completely while skinning into a ground blizzard in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Wrist gaiter.

The jacket seemed to breathe well, with mid-length pit zips; unfortunately, the Bombshell failed one of my standard shell-jacket tests, which is ease of use for pit zips. I like to be able to grab the zippers and open or shut the pit openings with gloves and pack on and with no yoga contortions; the Bombshell required too much stopping and fiddling to make adjustments—it seems like the zips are placed slightly too far toward the back. On the other hand, I loved the jacket’s elastic wrist gaiter / monkey paw thingambobs. Normally I feel like these just get in the way, but the Bombshell’s are so clean and unobtrusive that I slipped into the thumb hole and slid into my gloves more often than not, and they definitely kept my hands warmer and drier; when I wasn’t using the gaiters, they seemed to vanish. Thumbs up! (Or is that thumbs in?) Note that I have fairly small hands; guys with bigger mitts might find these cuffs constricting.

After a winter of fairly hard use, including several days of multiple close encounters with the pines on nearby ski hills, my final observation is that the jacket still looks like it just came out of the box. I suspect the Bombshell will last for years, and that makes the quite reasonable $259 retail price look even better. Plus, right now you can get the jacket in most sizes and colors for $181.30 (30 percent off) at Backcountry.com. That’s a steal.

Photo by Claudia López

Last weekend, the third annual Gimps on Ice event brought about 15 disabled athletes to climb at the Ouray Ice Park, opening the minds of participants and spectators alike. The event is organized by Paradox Sports, an organization founded by Iraq war vet DJ Skelton and climber/comedian Timmy O’Neill, along with Ouray-based Amped Outdoors. In the past several years, Paradox has helped more than 500 people with equipment, training, and opportunities to re-enter the world of outdoor sports. “With each new event and participant, our goal is to use muscle-powered outdoor sports as a vehicle to heal and reintroduce as much of a normal life as possible,” says Malcolm Daly, executive director of Paradox. “In turn, these activities reignite each participant’s confidence.”

The extraordinary Boulder-based photographer Claudia López was on hand in Ouray and provided us with this small, inspirational gallery:

Chad Jukes lost his lower leg in Iraq in 2006 when a mine exploded under his truck. Since then he has climbed Mt. Rainier, rock climbed all over the U.S., and competed successfully in Nordic skiing. Last year he climbed Bridalveil Falls with blind climber Erik Weihenmayer.

Paraplegic Vijay Viswanathan broke his back in a rappelling accident. Afterward, he learned to ride a mono-ski through the Breckenridge Outdoor Education Center, and now he pursues multiple adaptive sports and volunteers for Paradox.

Christa Brelsford, a Ph.D. student at Arizona State University, lost her right leg below the knee in Haiti. She had been volunteering at Heads for Haiti, an adult literacy project, when the devastating January earthquake struck. A very strong rock climber before her accident, she began using a prosthetic seven weeks after the earthquake.

Maureen Whalley, a student at the University of Vermont, is missing her left arm below the elbow but still enjoys climbing, skiing, and hiking around Burlington.

Pete Davis (left) checks out crampon prosthetics with fellow climber Tom Carroll. Davis, a Paradox volunteer, was born missing most of his lower right arm, yet styles hard rock climbs and also loves skiing, snowboarding, and cycling. He took second in advanced rock climbing at the 2007 Extremity Games. Carroll is a prosthetist who volunteers with Eldora’s adaptive sports program.

There’s another gallery of good photos from Gimps on Ice at Michael Seamans’ blog.