Face Time: Longs Peak’s Diamond calls to climbers craving a big wall alpine experience—and keeps them coming back for its secrets. Photo: John Dickey
Trust is the heart of any relationship. Without trust, it’s all up for grabs. Trust requires intimacy—and the risk of harm. If that’s the case, I’ve had a rich relationship over 15 years with The Diamond. I’ve climbed the famed face via new routes, in the cold clutches of winter and as a summer free climb. It’s given me epics, hospitalized me and taken a friend’s life. For many rock climbers, it’s an end in itself—and a worthy one at that. As Matt Samet, former editor of Climbing magazine says, “It’s the premier, most committing high-alpine cliff in the Lower 48.”
Welcome to life on the Diamond.
2:30 a.m.
An ascent of the Rockies’ most storied alpine face usually starts when most days end. I’ve done the commute many times and now I almost enjoy the drive through Boulder in the wee hours of Sunday morning, when the last dregs of the weekend are tottering home. They’ll face inevitable hangover or walk of shame, while my climbing partner Andy Donson and I will be elevated above the whole Front Range. Our goal is a true alpine rock climbing experience on Longs Diamond face. It’s not our first time, and it won’t be our last. But we treat it with a deference born of hard experience and anticipation informed by past success.
Even in mid-summer, there’s a chill in the air since the parking lot is at 9,400 feet. I’ve been here as early as 1 a.m. and as late as 6 a.m. Either way, the days seem stretched out. If the Diamond had an easily defined quality it’s the long day—and this parking lot serves both as a starting point and a psychological nadir. At least once, I’ve actually bailed from this very point, even before starting up the trail.
The lot is already full—the curse of Longs Peak on a summer weekend. Andy and I silently collect our gear and stride into the forest. The woods are monochrome and our headlamps cast Blair-Witch funnels as we bob up the trail. Andy has a wry, British sense of humor, though for some reason—maybe it’s the thin air—we begin our usual cackle of endless and nonsensical banter. It’s the kind of humor that bears misery well.
3:30 a.m.
Shortcuts. On a winter attempt on the Diamond, I once got lost in these woods. We spent an extra hour trolling through waist deep snow before getting spit out in a drainage a quarter mile off the trail. Now, in August, even in the dark, it’s hard to get lost since the trail is full of climbers. On any given Sunday, more than 100 people will gun for the summit via the class 3 Keyhole Route. Some carry daypacks. Some shiver in shorts and cotton tees while clutching plastic shopping bags with bottled water and granola bars. We’ll see some of these folks on our way down, exhausted after a long fruitless day. Some will shine through their sunburn, having stood atop the prize summit. With our packs and harnesses, we like to think we give off a hard-core aura but who’s to say we are having more fun. When it comes to adventure, Longs Peak is an equal opportunity employer.
The gray sky eases into the first pinkish strains of dawn as we break through tree line. The Diamond is foreboding, even as the first sliver light dapples the face. I’ve been to the Himalayas, but hold an undiminished awe at this sight, a face so sheer, Samet says of it: “you could drive a Mini Cooper along it were it tilted horizontally.” First climbed by Dave Rearick and Bob Kamps in 1960, the Diamond has been the focal point of groundbreaking climbs and scene of countless epics. And it keeps calling me back.
5:00 a.m.
We bust out along the old trail through jumbled moraine. The Diamond fills the horizon. The air is redolent of pine and mountain air until a cloying, mock-fruity tinge of chemical toilet wafts in. We clamber above the dwarf pines where the trail to the Keyhole, the most climbed route of any fourteener in Colorado, splits from our track. I take a coffee-driven break in the open-air privy, enjoying the scenic wonders at 11,500 feet.
The routes on the right side of the Diamond often require overnight bivouacs on the face or the long ledge bisecting it, called Broadway, But one—I think better—alternative is to hike with heavy loads through the endless switchbacks up to the juncture between the east face and the long sloping incline of the north face called Chasm View Overlook which looms above The Boulderfield camp.
From here, a few rappels onto Broadway save the arduous semi-technical load humping required by a direct approach. I’ve done the Chasm Overlook option more than once, rappelling in for a new aid line, spending several nights cowering under a tarp with lighting blasting Chasm View. At one point, the lightning was so close that the flash and the sound of thunder were indistinguishable.
Such memories are a reminder that climbing the Diamond by any means, season or time frame epitomizes an ideal: it’s a test not of how you function when everything is perfect, but how you manage when everything is wrong. If there’s any lesson to learn here, it’s the knowledge of how you dealt, not what you did.
Today, we try to spare ourselves that kind of epic. We’re going light and fast—the day trip strategy most climbers adopt, tracking for the Yellow Wall and one of the three most popular routes. Don’t be fooled. Popular does not mean easy and fast is never fast enough. In summer, the Diamond, often wet or frozen, is blindsided nearly every afternoon by monster thunderstorms. Add to that the technical difficulty. Samet says, “Most of the free climbs—many the work of the tireless Roger Briggs—are stout, from 5.11 to 5.13,” adding, “All begin on the exposed Broadway Ledge, at 13,000 feet—you’ll be huffing like a glue fiend.” Yep.
6:00 a.m.
True sunrise. We reach the stream-laced meadows below Chasm Lake. We’ve now entered the amphitheater and the treeless, rocky terrain shimmers in the early morning light. We filter water, skirt the lake and traverse up rocky slabs.
In winter, this lake freezes solid and it’s easy to cross it and access climbs up along ethereal and transient ice features, to classic alpine routes like Keiner’s and the Notch Couloir. Indeed, the first time I ever climbed Longs Peak was via a winter ascent of the Diamond.
That three-day effort was training for bigger things and though meaningful for me, it was just another insignificant blip in a long pageant of climbs here by both the famous and the unknown. Significantly, Tom Hornbein, used Longs as training for first ascents like Everest’s West Ridge in 1963. He’s climbed Longs more than 70 times, including the Diamond, at the age of 65, noting, “It has all the flavors of so many different mountains.”
Above Chasm Lake we enter yet another iteration of the alpine environment. Now about five miles in with an altitude gain of nearly 3,000 feet, its time to find a second wind—the day is just starting.
6:30 a.m.
We stop for a breather and scope the face. Last time we were here, Andy was in a stretcher, waiting for a helicopter. We’d been attempting a new free ascent when Andy, rappelling, dislodged a rock and was struck in the head. He lost consciousness and slid down the rope until he miraculously hit a ledge where he stuck with about 25 feet left in the rappel rope and another 800 feet to the ground. Immediately after the accident (the rock cracked his fiberglass helmet), it was hard to tell which of us had the sharper acuity. The dialogue upon Andy’s return to consciousness,
Andy: Pete what are you doing here?
Pete: Do you know who I am?
Andy: Yes, you’re Pete.
Pete: Do you know where we are?
Andy: Hmm… (looks around at the unmistakable cleaved wall, the view of Denver’s brown cloud, and the massive exposure), the Diamond?
Pete: Do you know what time it is?
Andy: No, do you?
Pete: Well, no. But that’s not the point.
Despite its popularity the Diamond still can provide pure adventure, with first ascents and first free ascents. For those seeking other challenges, the Lower East Face, which is as massive as the upper Diamond, claims established fright-fests and copious climbing options. To the right, the Chasm View Wall has two of the amphitheater’s best moderates—excellent warm-ups for bigger routes and great options if the Diamond is crowded.
The trickiest part of our climb is the North Chimney, a 400-foot trough of rubble-strewn slabs and rock steps rated 5.4. Andy and I choose to free solo, trading the safety of the climbing rope in favor of speed. It’s the scariest part of the day. The rock is loose and fussy, and the real danger comes from the climbers above us and their predilection to drop or dislodge rocks in the narrow confines of the chimney. It’s like playing pinball with boulders. The only safe options are to get in the chimney early, late or improve your chances by climbing on the weekday. It’s only a matter of time before there will be a serious rockfall related accident here in the North Chimney.
7:00 a.m.
We’ve ended up in the middle of a queue for D-7, one of the Yellow Wall routes encompass most summer Diamond traffic. The masses tend to flock to The Casual Route—he 1978 link up of existing pitches via an improbable and spectacular traverse—the easiest route on the Diamond. For those seeking more edge, the 5.11’s to the left include Pervertical Sanctuary, Curving Vine, and D-7. Ariana on the far left margin of the wall is a prize at 5.12a.
As we start up, we pull out the rope, a precaution given the patches of ice and treacherous footing. I remember a friend who died here soloing the “easy” ground to the base of the technical part of the climb. The guy who did the first free ascent of the route we are currently climbing, died free soloing last year. But we find the rhythmn of ascent as the wall takes on the aura of a place haunted by ghosts and memories of accidents and near fatalities. To our right, a decade ago, I nearly rappelled off a rope, pinching the slippery ends with fingertips as I swung about, looking for an anchor. Last year, in the shady corner 100 feet to the left I lost my front teeth in a big fall. Farther right I had half our belay explode from a rotten crack.
I won’t bore you with descriptions of climbing, adrenalin, etc. Lets just say that the climbing is a pleasant blend of face holds and jams. The sun is warm while it lasts. The climb is classic, well within our abilities.It’s still tense and vaguely terrifying because, the actual climbing is secondary to the totality of the experience. It’s a reminder that ascending the Diamond by any means, season or timeframe epitomizes an ideal, not a test of how you function when everything is perfect, but how you function when everything is wrong.
9:30 a.m.
Anticlimax. Halfway up the route, I drop a climbing shoe. After a brief chat Andy and I rappel down. We’ve both climbed the route, so rather than tempting the weather gods we opt to head home.
The definition of classic is, “something of lasting worth or with a timeless quality.” The Diamond provides value for those who have come before and those who will come after. It’s that way for Andy and I. Even on this, the most benign of days, getting to Mills Glacier is like getting out on parole.
Pete Takeda lives in Boulder, Colorado. He’s an author, writer and climber. Check out his latest adventures here and here.
Online Resources:
• A definitive Diamond History by Roger Briggs.
• Description and suggestions on the “easiest” route.
Books:
• Classic Rock Climbs No. 08 The Diamond of Longs Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park by Richard Rossiter (Falcon, 1997)
• Longs Peak: The Story of Colorado’s Favorite Fourteener by Dougald Macdonald (Westcliffe, 2004)
• Rocky Mountain Naional Park: High Peaks: The Climber’s Guide by Bernard Gillett (Earhbound Sports, 2001)
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