Guidebooks Are Still a Problem
My favorite note on a topo came from a guide buddy, Todd Vogel. Next to his line drawn up a particular pitch he wrote, “A little weird here.”
Get there and anything could happen, but at least you’ve been warned. It’s advice that could apply to using any guidebook. The convolutions of the natural world don’t lend themselves to two-dimensional linear representation. … Here’s a story.
So we drove into Boulder last fall, prime climbing time. We had eight days, an Airbnb. We went straight up to the Third Flatiron to warm up. That would be my fourth time up it. We carried the Flatiron guidebook from California. It’s satisfyingly dog-eared from being stuffed into climbing packs. I know the Chautauqua—I love saying that word—trails, a little. Hiking up out of the parking lot over meadows can feel like The Sound of Music. So classic you half expect to see Julie Andrews skipping along holding the sides of a flouncy skirt. Or maybe John Denver will offer you a joint.
Our chosen line was lesser known, furthest left along the slab. And we got lost.
Our fault, maybe, for desiring a whole new approach to a familiar place. We switched to Mountain Project to get us there. But, nose to phone, we couldn’t decipher the directions, where one wrong step off a steep sidehill trail and climbing wouldn’t be an option, for a while.
How far is 200 yards when it’s so steep? All we knew for sure was that we needed to cross this ravine. We improvised, finding a spot where we could barely descend without rapping, and managed a creek crossing on the third try by scuttling over a humongous chockstone that’s “only” 4th class.
I won’t go into the bushwhacking that followed. The climb itself was really fun. Descending, we were grateful at last to read word-for-word directions to the rap chains. And happy to squeak through the steepest talus below on a well-built trail before twilight shut us down. The Access Fund had clearly been there, because a chaos of talus was subtly reworked into heroic-sized steps. Nice! Also nice was the sumptuous choice of brewpubs and the Sherpa-owned restaurant we settled on.
That little scene underscores my first takeaway about guidebooks: The rough approach wasn’t a guidebook (or app) problem at all. It was a mountaineering problem. It took replaying that realization over our first beer to fully understand. But truly, it’s an easy, knee-jerk response to slide into the blame game. Stupid guidebook! Inept Mountain Project! We would have had an easier approach if we had relied on our innate mountain sense right from the start. Not that hard. We could see the Third, right up there. And how to weave through deadfall is not the kind of problem you should expect even a Strava line to help with. You just figure it out, one high-step at a time. Just go. Instead, we kept searching for clues on the tiny screen.
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