Cirque of the Towers
Every photo shown here is from Ryan. I took a few too, but they sucked.
The traverse:
Pingora (5.6)
Wolf’s Head (5.6)
Overhanging Tower (4th)
Shark's Nose (North Summit 5.6, South Summit 5.8)
Block Tower (5.5)
Watchtower (class 3)
Pylon Pk (hike)
Warrior 2 (hike)
Warrior 1 (hike)
Warbonnet (hike)
Ryan: Casual one weekend am? [asking if I wanted to climb Long’s Pk.]
Danny: Sounds good. Sat?
R: Sorry, meant weekday.
D: Thought that was weird. Friday?
But it was too late. I had revealed a willingness and freedom to get out for something over the long weekend and Marsters had noticed. He asked if I wanted to do the Cirque of the Towers traverse in WY. I told him I was vaguely familiar with what that was but that I didn’t have the legs for big days since my accident. He continued to assume my modesty was false. In truth, I was beginning to think it was too. It had been too long since I tested myself with a big day and I had forgotten the pain of it. I was hungry to do something meaningful after a year in which I had lost all meaning in my outdoor pursuits.
We left home Friday afternoon and arrived to the packed trailhead around 10pm. Late. I slept in my trusty bivy in a clearing nearby Ryan in the back of his 4-runner. Alarms rang at 2am and we were hiking around 2:30am. Maybe a 4 hour hike to the base of the first climb, all of which was done in the dark. That’s a long approach. The cirque forms around an alpine paradise. Soft tundra, trickling streams, sharp rock and thin crisp air mix together and send the senses spinning while trying to interpret the scale of it all. Other climbers were stirring about and exiting their tents when we arrived. Sunrise was breathtaking, and lit the entire place on fire. I didn’t understand much about what I was getting into until exactly this moment when I could see the full traverse. This place is beautiful, the ridge long, the rock sharp.
At the car, we had negotiated over how exactly to manage the climbs. I argued for less rope and more cam. I didn’t know this place but I knew what I could do on 5.easy given enough cams and a short rope. Ryan wanted to carry a 70m and I laughed in his face. Madness. Although I was probably correct about the amount of cams we brought, Ryan would eventually be proven correct about the rope. I’ve made this exact mistake once prior in the alpine—thinking it will be just like Eldo. Hopefully that is the last time.
Our first route was the South Buttress of Pingora. Ryan led us up to hiking terrain in a single pitch with 3 micros and basically the entire rack. This climb is rated only 5.6 but I was surprised to find that it felt a bit hard. I don’t know why I was surprised, this is how it always goes when you arrive somewhere new. Rock climbing is a dance, and when you don’t know your dancing partner it can be clumsy. This summit is gained in multiple ways. The way we went is somewhat standard for people attempting to traverse the entire ridge, probably because it is easy and short. An alternative route (the Northeast Face) is a bit harder, a lot longer, and is considered one of the 50 classic climbs in North America. Something for another day, I suppose. The summit offered expansive views of the entire cirque, and like almost every other summit we would find here it was fairly involved getting down. Several rappels saw us off during which I simply followed Ryan’s lead.
Next came Wolf's Head. The East Ridge (our route) is also one of the 50 classic climbs of North America (like that longer Pingora route we didn’t climb). A list not without controversy, but which has nonetheless stood the test of time. Compiled by Steve Roper and Allen Steck in the late 70’s and published in a guidebook of sorts the list has inspired generations of climbers. To create it Roper and Steck solicited opinions from leading climbers of the day, with the following criteria: the peak or route must
appear striking from afar.
have a noteworthy history.
offer climbing of excellent quality.
No climb on the list was first completed prior to 1970 so that they could be assured of the historical significance. Even today, no single person has completed all 50 of them—largely because one of the routes (the Hummingbird Ridge of Mt. Logan) has never been repeated by it’s original route. My friend Bill has climbed nearly 40 of them, and he was among the first people to be inspired by the idea that nobody had completed them all. To have even done 4/5 of the routes is a significant accomplishment, and representative of a life dedicated to adventure. Myself, I had done exactly zero before this trip. A fact made even more embarrassing when closer inspection of the list reveals four of them are here in Colorado and three of those are well within my ability.
Arrival at the start of the East Ridge leant credence to another name for this list: “The 50 Crowded Climbs of North America”. It was absolutely crawling with people. At least 6 parties that we could see. This combined with the fact that it was starting to drizzle rain had us thinking that our chances of completing the cirque had plummeted to zero. Nonetheless Ryan handed me the rack and I tied in with 3 micros ready to see what I could see. As soon as we started chatting with the first party things began looking up. Elaine was from Boulder, and she was belaying the eternally psyched Eva Krchova! Eva is an ex-Olympian in the Steeplechase for her home country, Czech Republic. Brief research indicates that the sport originated in Ireland and you raced from the steeple in one town to the steeple in another (on a horse, I think). A steeple, as you may recall from the elementary school hand-game (here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and see all the people) is the tallest point on the church and assuredly the tallest point in these Irish towns. Along the way you could be expected to cross rivers and surmount stone walls. The modern event simulates this history with what appears to be contrived carnage and insanity. Ryan and I both know Eva because she raced in the Tour de Flatirons with us, another event full up with contrived carnage and insanity (probably why she won it in 2020). If so inclined, you may find more information about the reason Eva and Elaine were in the Cirque on this day here.
I leaned on our friendship a bit, and had no trouble bartering passage from them. Next I came upon a young lady that immediately offered to let me pass without me even asking. Cool! Eventually I landed at an anchor where two parties had gotten confused. The route actually is fairly confusing, but I was able to use their mistake and find the correct direction - passing them all. I got stuck briefly after this while a young lady struggled through a chimney type opening, movements laced with fear and doubt. Ryan took the opportunity to hand the rack back over to me, allowing me to lead the full route. A kindly gesture, and I was happy to do it.
I wandered up across cracks, foot traverses, hand traverses, through holes, along aretes, past another party and finally up to the summit. This climb was absolutely worthy of the 50 Classic Climb distinction, in my uninformed opinion. One last party was at the summit, and contained the somewhat famous River Barry. Her relative fame is derived from an event in which she was the hero for one of the craziest climbing stories I know, told here.
Several raps later had us at a decision point. We were now 10 hours deep into the day, and many miles from the car. I was content. This was my first time here so our success on the first two climbs was plenty for me. Ryan had been here a few times and was hungry for the traverse and something new. The sky had dried up and turned friendly and he had just spent a stretch following in my wake as I ran up 10 pitches and past 12 other climbers in performance of my one great trick. I voiced my opinion plainly; I would be psyched to head back now, but if he’s really wanting to continue I could buckle down. He voiced his own opinion as plainly as I had. I buckled down and we went on. I fully committed at that moment. We would share the burden of the decision to continue, whatever the burden may be.
That was the end of the fun. The rest was work.
The next summit is Overhanging Tower, and we felt comfortable scrambling to the top in our running shoes. We had several more raps to get down plus plenty of route finding bullshit. My tolerance for route finding is uncommonly low owing to the bulk of my time climbing being spent on routes for which I have long since found the route. Ryan would consider our time waisted in search of where to go throughout the day minimal and possibly even better than is to be expected. He is an adventurous fellow, which is another way of saying that he is accustomed to being lost all the damn time.
Next up was Shark's Nose, which actually has two summits (North and South). We started off scrambling but eventually Ryan found a spot of wet rock so we brought out the rope and changed into our climbing shoes. He then led to the summit in two blocks. It was two because we happened to bump into another party, which I must say was startling. We were no longer in a place that other people venture into with frequency. At the belay I started working my charm and got their story. It is insane.
They’re brothers from Brooklyn (although one of them now lives in Las Vegas). It would be a strange thing to see a climber from Brooklyn almost anywhere, but high up this granite face midway through a traverse of this nature is about as strange a place as I can imagine. The skills required to get here simply couldn’t be gained in a city, and certainly not THE city. They’ve each got the kind of mustaches that would get you a barista job anywhere in America without need for a resume, stylish glasses, and friendly demeanors. I ask the guy belaying what time they started. His answer? TWO FUCKING DAYS AGO. That’s just for the route, they had a camp in the cirque as well. They slept midway up Wolf’s Head and again at the notch between Shark’s Nose and Overhanging Tower. In other words, they took almost three days to make the distance we had covered in only 1/2 of a day. They were now rationing their food. I was tired but these guys were dead! Yet as he spoke he wore a proud smile under his carefully waxed mustache. They had intentions to finish this fucking thing hell or high water. He tells me that he's impressed by our speed. I tell him that he is far more impressive and mean it.
He lets Ryan by and we summit. We rap again. Constantly with these fucking rappels. Apart from the newly bolted Wolf’s Head every rappel anchor has looked suspicious. I am very tired now. Some accounts of others performing this traverse have led us to believe we are at the halfway point. From here however, shit broke down.
We sat at the saddle between the North and South summit. Ryan mentioned, not for the first or last time, that the South summit is frequently skipped in favor of a complicated set of rappels. Which of the two summits is true was apparently up for some debate. I could read the tea leaves. The South summit is guarded by what was described as a “5.8 boulder problem”. This should be easy, I thought. I have never seen a 5.8 that I was unable to climb, but I can see how such a guardian might lend a voice to the notion that a summit was not actually part of the traverse. It would be two steps more difficult than anything else found up here, and that could generate all sorts of cowardly excuses. It was my lead and so I took off to the South summit excited to learn what a 5.8 boulder problem was.
Trouble came before I even got to it. I traversed an unprotectable ridge line that gave me fits while Ryan shivered against a cold wind. Under ordinary circumstances I don’t think I would’ve even noticed this feature. Clearly, in hindsight, I was tired. It probably took me 20 minutes to gain 40 feet. When I finally found the section of 5.8 I tested my exhaustion further. I found a fixed nut which I backed up with a trusty black totem. Pulling up into my fingers with feet pressed to the wall, I got my head and shoulders up above the block of rock. I leaned further into my right hand and brought my left up above my head—feeling around repeatedly for something to grab. Nothing there for me. FUCK! SHIT! I backed down with wind ripping at my body. This I repeated over and over and over while Ryan continued to freeze out of sight around the corner. It became clear at some point I was going to have to close this broken loop, and so I called Ryan over to discuss options.
“I can’t fucking climb it dude. I tried everything.” Eyes lowered in shame, shoulders slumped, battered hands shaking with fading adrenaline and increasing malnourishment.
“Did you try aid climbing?”
“… I mean. Like I grabbed the sling a few times but I still couldn’t do it. Want to give it a try?”
“No.”
And so we began the complicated rappel option. Ryan mentioned again that the South summit isn’t actually part of the traverse. I nodded, but understood that whatever happened next I would consider the traverse incomplete. That summit was bypassed because of my failings, not because somebody brought a theodolite up there and revealed it to be 6” lower than the other one or because we had strategically planned our way around it for the sake of speed. It was here that I turned my effort toward just getting back to the car by whichever route might get me there soonest.
The first rappel anchor was a single nut wedged in a chockstone wrapped with faded tat. The stuff of nightmares. Ryan went first, backing it up with a cam, but realized he had dropped his belay device at some point. Bummer. Luckily I carried two, an ATC and a gri-gri. I did this because simul-climbing is safest with a gri-gri and rappelling is easiest with an ATC. From here on out we would need to block our line for a single strand rappel with the gri-gri. I gave Ryan my ATC and he went down. I blocked the line and followed. Then we did another rap much the same. Then the rope got stuck.
Fuck.
There is perhaps nothing in climbing that is as terrifying as this. Most likely, the problem came from the block I had made on the rope when I set it up for the gri-gri, getting stuck at some lip or feature. The fact that we had two ropes and needed to tie them together with a knot was another contender for our trouble but not as appealing to point fingers at, since we were stuck in an ocean and that particular boat full of holes was the only boat we had. We had become too tired to realize that I should be going first so that Ryan could unblock the line. Salvation came from the reality that we could ascend the rope with no fear of it coming free, thank God. I surveyed the terrain and felt I could probably free climb most of it and so I offered to go up the rope with a self belay using my gri-gri and one of our micros. When I couldn’t free climb Ryan bore witness to the worst aid skills he has ever seen. He would later write that I suck at this because I’m a good climber so I haven’t had to do it, but that’s bullshit. I suck at it because I haven’t spent the time to learn how to do it like he has and like all climbers should. Midway up the line I saw the Brooklyn guy sending the 5.8 above me, perhaps utilizing a weightlessness gained by three days rationing his food. Jesus fucking Christ.
This is a defeat most pure. I could cry just thinking about it.
I unstuck the rope. We continued. Raps, scrambles, climbs, stress, route finding and so on to Block Tower. This climb had a chimney. Ryan went first, rope-less, and when he heard me cussing up a storm he lowered the line to me. Visions of me ripping through the Epinephrine chimney (twice) probably spurned him on. I fucking hate chimneys and thanks to a morbid fascination with the Naked Edge I fall out of them routinely. The rappels from this summit had the worst anchors. All nuts. Many shallow and loose. We backed each up with a cam or two for the first guy (me on the gri-gri).
Another stuck rope. Ryan began performing a dance with the line, practiced and repeated many times. Changing angles, whipping a massive loop in concert with a release of tension. So forth and so on, while I sat and watched with a fool’s glaze over my face. It’s a single man job, and he was unquestionably the man for it. Sooner or later it came free much to his excitement. He explains the nature of how it got stuck and unstuck, but I’ve moved on and don’t listen. I’m so fucking tired.
One last rappel. I anchor into a collection of tat slung around a chockstone. The webbing runs against a microwave size block that is clearly loose and moves at the slightest touch. It’s a free hanging anchor, high up on the last sheer face of rock we will see. All day I had been anchoring in with a single alpine draw, comprised of two wire gate ‘biners. One clipped to my belay loop and the other to the anchor. On this last rappel, as I was unloading from my gri-gri and onto the anchor I accidentally opened the 'biner clipped to my harness such that it balanced, unseen by me, on the nose. Because of the loose block I was trying to weight the anchor very slowly and so I grabbed the tat and started leaning onto the draw slow to make sure I didn’t bump into the block. As the draw took weight I heard a “ping” and watched it shoot from my harness.
Understanding was immediate, primal and emotionless.
The temperature dropped in my body, 30 or maybe 40 degrees. The world around went dead silent and white noise filled my ears. I’m holding myself to the wall with one hand on the anchor and shoes pressed against the glassy wall. I was in the process of letting go with that hand. Certain death if I had. I felt a switch fire and my brain went silent. I stopped breathing. Slowly and deliberately I grabbed the sling still attached to the anchor with my free hand and clipped it to my harness. Never before has such a simple action been performed with a focus so pure. Then I grabbed another one from my harness and double it up. Then a third for good measure. It took an act of tremendous will to finally release my hand from the anchor.
What an idiot. This is a lazy way to anchor in and I could’ve used the same material to do it right. Dumb. Finally, off the wall, I dropped my harness and it fell to the ground with the weight of all my cams and stress. Thank fucking God we’re done with the hard shit. Right?
This next tower is a real piece of shit. Guarded by class 3 mud. We went off route and I reached a new low. I was in front and wandered up nightmare terrain to a dead end. Every hold loose—large or small. Feet slipping around. Fall consequences real. At one point I pulled a hold off and started slipping down. I had to quickly put the hold back and push it into the hole it made as the only form of '“positive” contact I had with Earth. Eventually we realized we were off route and after much swearing I donned my harness again and sunk a couple nuts into the wall where the rock was ok. Joy, another fucking rappel. Ryan hadn’t gotten far enough to have to rap and so that at least was good because he could leave me to find my temper alone, wherever I may have lost it.
When we got on route it was still bullshit. Mud. Sometimes everything I was on gave way and I had to leap onto all fours like a fucking cat to prevent sliding down. At the top of this mud col, the summit wasn’t far and Ryan asked if I cared about touching the tops of these next ones. I had abandoned notions of completion on the South summit of Shark’s Nose.
“Dude, I just learned what this traverse was like 24 hours ago, I don’t fucking care about that at all right now”.
Ryan wandered to the summit alone while I took a shit, each of us paying respect to this mountain in our own way. When we rejoined he started rattling off options while I stared blankly into the middle distance. As a father I appreciate what he was attempting here. Trying to let me come to the realization that we would need to continue traversing the ridge by offering several horrible alternatives. “Well we can probably cut that way into the unknown and eventually we might find a road”. I didn’t need to pretend we had a choice here. The next several summits are un-skippable. The sun set. The terrain was slow. I was trying just to keep sight of Ryan in a state of total exhaustion, my still broken body betraying my inadequacy for an effort of this magnitude.
The final summit (Warbonnet) was skippable. We skipped it. Ryan discovered some kind of shortcut so we took that. Hard miles followed. Later when I explained my phone battery only lasts like 2 hours, Ryan asked how I navigate. “With you” I said, which has been true for a decade or so now. In truth, I don’t know how long the phone battery lasts and it is unrelated to my navigation plans which I call RYAN or sometimes TONY or BILL. It drops to 1% within a few minutes of removing it from a charger (and can’t get above 80% no matter how long I plug it in). Walking out, I fire up my playlist to remove my mind from the situation as best I can. I have only one playlist, titled “random”. It sucks pretty bad.
I felt every fucking step. I understood this would happen when I agreed to do this, but now I’m here and wondering what kind of sadistic fuck agrees to this type of torment or makes a single shitty playlist. Cardi B at a time like this? How many times have I listened to that fucking Black Pumas song? Should I be looking for God here? People seem to find that sort of thing during times of need. Maybe God lurks over that next rise. Will I collapse before I get there? I’m not sure God can help me now, I need drugs to forget this kind of pain. Is it just pain separating me from a drug addict or a believer? I was told that God sometimes carried you on a beach if you needed him to. The beach of course is necessary to the story because you can use the footprints to advance the plot, but in theory he’s/she’s/they’re able to carry you in a mountainous environment too. Fuck that though. I’ve got too much of that deadly sin; pride. This will be a fully lucid odyssey of discomfort and exhaustion. Ryan asks me if I want to run. Fuck you Ryan.
We arrived back at the car 23.5 hours after we left it. I had probably 3 hours of fun. I will never repeat this type of bullshit outing. I am destined to repeat this type of bullshit outing soon, and for the rest of my life. I would consider doing this exact thing again actually. It wasn’t that bad was it? Load up the Cardi B.
I wouldn’t recommend this traverse to anyone that isn’t in great hiking shape, and competent on technical terrain. At around 26 miles attempting it without the former is painful, let me assure you. Attempting it without the later could prove fatal. This traverse is complicated and serious. Especially when you find yourself exhausted. I understand now that it is typically completed with a high camp in the Cirque, which makes a lot of sense now that I understand the area better. Despite several adventures together, this might have been the first time Ryan has seen me legitimately down and out, nearly overwhelmed by stress.
We got it done to a degree that I’m content with, but to be absolutely clear: we did not complete the Cirque Traverse having skipped Warbonnet. I also feel it is a mark against us that we skipped South Shark’s Nose. Technically I didn’t summit that mud pile in the middle too, but I’m unbothered by that.
Our rack:
Singles to 3
Doubles 0.2 - 1
Nuts
Two ropes, 35m-ish I think, one of them was longer than the other. Much as I'm loath to admit it, a single 70m rope would be smarter. The amount of rappels you need to do don't justify the short ropes and certainly the knot is a problem sometimes.