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Learning to Lead

Guest post by: Jeff Evans

Article Overview: A young mountaineer discovers his ability to lead...as climbing related to life.

Learning to Lead

After completing a few correspondence classes, I moved on to a full-time program at the University of Colorado. There, I spent the next three years trying to make my way through it by keeping up a schedule that would allow me to make academic progress, live indoors, and keep climbing. I would sign up for early classes so that I could attend in the morning, guide climbers in hills near campus during the afternoon, and then shuttle back home to study.

It was a great life, and it gave me a good outlet for all of my energy and ambition. Just as I’d learned I could enjoy my education, I came to discover I’d actually come to appreciate guiding as well. What I had begun pursuing for the money was turning out to give me deeper fulfillment. There was something amazing about working with my clients to make them stronger, better climbers. Many of them became interested in climbing because they had seen others scaling rocks and wanted to try the sport themselves. Often, however, they lacked the confidence that they would be able to learn, and would start out afraid and doubting themselves. Hour by hour, as their technical skills improved, I watched their hesitation melt away. Seeing the sense of accomplishment in their faces and watching fear turn into strength became worth more than the few dollars that were exchanged. What’s more, that fulfillment carried over into my coursework. My grades were better than they had ever been, even after I began taking extra classes to finish my degree more quickly. My only real question was what to do after graduation. I loved my studies in anthropology, but I couldn’t find anything in the field that would keep me outdoors, and I knew I wouldn’t function in an office environment. Luckily, the answer found me.

I woke up early one Saturday morning, reveling in the freedom and possibilities held by a morning without classes or clients. I decided to head to the outskirts of town to scale the Boulder Flatirons. The Flatirons are a set of massive stone walls that jump out at you from miles away. The array of jagged faces, all of them nearly vertical, make the small mountain that they sit upon look as if it had been carved open on its side. Like the Diamond, they have a geometry that makes them beautiful to hikers and irresistible to climbers. They were also convenient, requiring only a short drive and a few hours to complete. I had scaled the Flatirons dozens, if not hundreds of times, so I let my thoughts wander as I set out on the short trail that led to the first pitch. While my mind wrestled with all of my worries about the future, turning the possibilities over and over, I tread through the high grass and rough thickets that come to the Colorado backcountry in spring. I was so lost in my own thoughts, it wasn’t until I found myself a few yards away that I noticed the pieces of gear glinting and reflecting just off the gravel path. I leaned over for a closer look, examining small shards of shiny metal and bright fabric strewn across the green and brown surface. Slowly, I edged my way into the brush, already sure and afraid of what I would find. A few more steps revealed more scraps, and a large impression in the earth no more than three yards further. I couldn’t see into the bushes that had been smothered and depressed, but there was no longer any doubt. Bears didn’t wear bright orange. Finally, I reached my hand out to clear away the small twigs blocking my view and gazed upon the fallen climber. I prayed silently he would be alive and well, but he wasn’t making a sound. It was possible, I reasoned, that he might just be injured. Either way, I didn’t know what to do. I studied him for a moment, limp and unmoving, and then began to yell for help. My voice carried through to the trail, and soon half a dozen others had joined me, all of us screaming out for someone who could help. I could finally make out short breaths, but still wasn’t sure how to help. The only thing that came to mind was to keep clamoring, and so I did. After a few minutes of this, a man came rushing down the path and pushed us aside to reach the fallen climber. He moved in toward the body quickly, but with precision. He placed a finger to check the man’s pulse and lowered his ear to listen for breathing. His hands moved with practiced skill, in opposition to the panic around him. He began to check for breaks and bruises, and then spent time reviving his patient. Finally, he rose and stepped away from the climber and informed us the young man would be alright. He’d shattered an ankle and had the wind knocked out of him, but the injuries were much less serious than they could have been.

In that moment, my mind was flooded by all those dreams of medicine going all the way back to my childhood. The thought of so many years of school still seemed overwhelming, but I wanted to be a doctor just like this man. I overcame my shock of the last few minutes to walk with him as the injured younger man was carried to get medical attention. I wanted to find out where he worked, where he’d gone to medical school, and how I could learn the skills he had. His expression was one of slight surprise and amusement. “Oh, I’m not a doctor,” he explained. “I’m an EMT.”

I went straight home to find whatever I could about Emergency Medical Technicians. I found out that EMT’s were often the first line of medical care, especially in the backcountry. There was even a unique kind of tech, the Wilderness EMT, who specialized in situations like the one I’d seen. Courses were three months long, and taught in Colorado. I began to think and conjure up ways to afford the tuition. The course began just days after my graduation, and there wouldn’t be much time to save. I couldn’t find a way, but my mind wouldn’t let it go. I had finally found a track that would allow me to combine my love of medicine and my love of mountains. I couldn’t bear the thought of not going. As luck would have it, the perfect opportunity arrived. My parents, proud and relieved that I’d given up homelessness to work my way to a college degree, wanted to get me something special for graduation. They asked what it was that I was dying to have. Was it a car, a new computer, maybe a vacation abroad? I think they were stunned by my answer – tuition for another course. Like a five-year-old in the supermarket check-out line with a small toy in hand, I proceeded to list off all of wonderful benefits I could get from the program, and how it actually wasn’t that expensive at all if you really thought about it. It was an investment in my future, and I’d certainly learn skills that would carry over to a lucrative position. On and on I went, until they finally stopped me mid-sentence. They would cover my tuition. They were just happy I didn’t ask for a holiday in Amsterdam. The wilderness EMT course was a blast. In addition to learning about basic life support, wound care and other forms of medical treatment and the ins and outs of backcountry medical emergencies, I made close friends. I suddenly found myself in a community of men and women who understood me. The kind of people who sign up for a course like this do so because they want to help others, but also because they love those wild places. They could relate to the restlessness I felt in the classroom or an office. Like me, they’d decided they wanted lives filled with adventure, but not without the occasional shower or hot meal. The weeks went by like a dream. Mornings were filled with practical, hands-on medical training, usually outdoors. Our afternoons were free for climbing, kayaking and talking about the techniques we’d learned that day.

It was during the first week of class that I met Sam, a fellow climber and student. He was in his twenties, just like I was, and also looking for a way to make more out of his love for the backcountry. He was newer to climbing but shared my love of adventure. He would try anything. He’d been skydiving, windsurfing, and hiking through some of the most rugged terrain in the state. He was new to technical climbing, but was absorbing it passionately and with the same abandon. He took in new rocks and hills every week, going up with anyone who was interested. In his hometown of Phoenix, he had even gone climbing with a friend of his who was blind. I couldn’t imagine such a thing, although he had invited me along a couple of times. Sam and I hit it off right away, and would often spend time studying or climbing together. One Friday morning, just after classes, he asked if I’d be interested in taking in a longer technical climb over the weekend. With no plans in place, it seemed like a great idea.

We decided we would climb Lizard Head, a moderately difficult hunk of jagged stone cut out from the earth deep in the San Juan range of the Rocky Mountains. While not as high or technically challenging as many climbs in the Rockies, Lizard Head can be tough because it wears you down. Just to reach the base of the rock from the trailhead takes a hike lasting about a day. Then, when you set up for your actual ascent, the climb itself could take over eight hours. You only scale about eight-hundred vertical feet, but it twists and bends around craggy features with its base at twelve-thousand feet. Plus, the lack of oxygen at that starting altitude makes the ascent physically demanding. Add the unpredictable weather and the remote location, and you’ve got a tough haul with very little chance for help if you need it. The approach climb was long and grueling, the path leading to the face marked by worn trails that had often turned to scree, piles of small pebbles that easily gave way under foot. Relishing the challenge, we kept a steady pace on a path that crept first through a dense, forested corridor and then twisted and turned into nothing more than ashen gray rocks above tree line. There was no way through except to keep putting one foot after another, which we did until the vertical rope climb leading to the top was in sight. Here, we setup camp for the evening. Sam and I settled in, eager to go the rest of the way. We didn’t have to wait too long. In the early hours of the morning, our alarm went off and we set out towards the top. For several hours, we clawed our way up, inch by inch, conquering each of the thousand feet in small sips of breath and pain. We finally reached the summit, exhausted, but pleased to have made it. We sat together, taking in the silence and peace of the moment. I crouched on the ground and lay back to catch my breath and take in the afternoon sun. Sam pulled out his camera to snap a few photos, thus being the first one to spot the nasty weather brewing on the horizon. The ability to tell the difference between good or bad weather in the mountains can be a bit of a guessing game, as mountain clouds are notoriously ambiguous, but this wasn’t one of those times. The puffy, gray clouds approaching the summit were unmistakable. In our enjoyment of a hard route, we hadn’t noticed the day was reaching late into the afternoon - prime time for mountain storms. In other words, we had reached the summit just in time for the meteorological equivalent of rush hour traffic.

Our satisfaction melted into fear as we started to calculate the time it would take us to get down against the number of precious minutes left before the weather would arrive. Our only option was to hurry back down the rocky tower we’d just spent hours pulling ourselves up, exhausted from the climb and lack of rest afterward. Without spending any more of the usual time at a summit to enjoy the moment and take in the views, we started down. Moving quickly but not recklessly, we hoped the thunder we could hear in the distance would hold off just long enough. After about twenty minutes of frenzied movement, dodging sharp edges with tired legs and bleary eyes, we realized that we weren’t going to reach the safety of camp in time. Perched on a small, flat stone, I sat down with my legs folded to my chest to keep them from dangling over the side of a cliff that went down at least seven stories. We were in the thick of it, the sky rumbling above us, another three or four rope-lengths of descent laying below, and there was no easy way out. I wasn’t sure which way to go – the descent would be dangerous, but trying to wait out the storm on a too-small ledge might kill us. When you’re loaded down with climbing gear, thousands of pieces of jangling metal, a thunderstorm is not the place you want to find yourself. The wind was picking up, small pebbles stung my eyes, and I knew we couldn’t stay long. A loud clap of thunder came with a flash not far enough away, and the hairs on the back of my neck told me they understood the trouble. My nerves were starting to eat me alive, but just like when I was a child, I realized we had a choice: we could either lose our cool and almost certainly lose our lives, or stay calm and keep working toward the bottom. I decided that if I was going to die, I’d rather have it be on the way down. Sam had apparently arrived at the same conclusion but seemed to be dealing with it differently. As the seriousness of our trouble set in, he started talking more quickly and desperately. “I don’t want to get pasted here,” he murmured. I told him we should try to make our way down a bit further. We took a glance over the ledge where we would use our gear and ropes to try a descent, when I realized he was on the edge of losing his head. Fear is a natural emotion, and it has its place in any adventure. After all, without the sense of fear and risk, climbs would become nature walks and wouldn’t carry the excitement they do. But Sam’s fear had overcome him. He was becoming unhinged, and it was making the situation even more dangerous than it already was. As my climbing experience gave me a keen awareness of how dire things were, I was probably more afraid than he was. Nonetheless, I knew we needed to manage it and move on if we were to have any hope of surviving. So, in a gesture fit for Hollywood, I slapped him across the face and told him to pull it together. I explained that if we were going to be killed, better by a quick fall than waiting there to be blown off the cliff or struck by lightning. Sam didn’t speak, but nodded his head in agreement, and we started to move down. The rocks were smooth and worn, there was no where to grip or place any equipment. Our only option would be an old rappel that had been left in by a previous team. I didn’t like the looks of it. The small anchor that would hold our weight was nothing more than a piton, a tiny tool that looked like a small spike, driven into some loose rock. As I inserted the rope, it flexed and gave way. I couldn’t be sure if it would hold our weight, but we didn’t have any other options. I headed down on the first rappel. The wet rocks conspired with a biting wind to swing us from side to side as the anchor swiveled. I expected it to pop out at any moment, dropping us backward to the ground below. I felt petrified of the fall, but each time I came close to stopping, I would look up at the hard rain and lightning crashing up at the peak and find the courage to make my way a bit further down.

Of course, we eventually made it to the bottom with a few new scars and a story to tell. Sam had composed himself beautifully and actually went first on several of the rappels when I became too fatigued. Down at the base, he acknowledged he had lost his nerve for a moment and needed that slap to bring him back. Moments like those aren’t that uncommon between climbing buddies, and it wouldn’t have been a big deal if he hadn’t again mentioned his friend, Erik, the blind climber. He said after what we’d been through that day, he thought I should give working with him some more thought. Erik was a good friend, he told me, and someone who was ready to take his adventuring to the next level. But, he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. Sam said there was no one else with whom he’d rather trust his friend and that we might make a good team. I told him I would think about it, and for the first time, I actually did.

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Article Tags: academic progress, accomplishment, ambition, anthropology, boulder flatirons, climbers, correspondence classes, fulfillment, full time, hesitation, office environment, one saturday, outskirts of town, possibilities, rsquo, saturday morning, shuttle, time program, university of colorado, what to do after graduation



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