27 July 1991, 4:45 AM MDT
Room 410, The Stanley Hotel, Estes Park, Colorado

I awoke to the persistent sound of my travel alarm. "Early. Oh yea, we're gonna climb that big cliff today." It took only a few seconds for that thought to register. "Oh Shit." Apprehension would be a collective understatement for the thoughts that had been going through my mind the night before. "Hey, I'm a pretty good climber." I tried to reassure myself. "What I was REALLY feeling at a gut level was more akin to "Yea, right Keith. This is a whole new level of climbing you're about to do. Don't kid yourself. This is gonna be the mother of all climbs."

Oh well. It was too early to worry about such profound things just yet. Time enough for that later. My thoughts turned to getting my clothes on and searching out a cup of coffee.

I am not a world-class climber, but I am a competent climber. I know the tricks enough to use them without too much forethought, own the tools, and adhere to the cardinal rules of climbing: Don't be afraid to discover that you have exceeded your current capabilities, but be damned sure you know when you are. Overconfidence kills.

I met Kevin and Tim in the main lobby of the Stanley Hotel at 5:30 AM. This hotel is rather qwirky. I had to stay there to attend a NASA conference. Being used to ultramodern hotels with everything controlled by computers, it was charmingly inconvenient to be staying in a place where no two rooms were alike, where all doors had a one inch clearance on all sides, and where the elevator only operated if there was someone to turn some sort of crank. This anachronistic flair for the absurd had only slightly diminished my annoyance at the hotel's continued attempts to overbill me.

Kevin is an aerospace engineer who works with me at NASA's Space Station Freedom Program Office in Reston, Virginia. Kevin and I manage to climb once or twice a week at the cliffs which rise above the Potomac in Great Falls National Park .

After getting strange looks from a few early risers in the lobby, we loaded up the cars with our climbing gizmos and took off to meet Luke, our fourth climbing team member. Tim is an aerospace physicist who owns a consulting firm south of Denver. Luke is a patent attorney from Fort Collins and is a former aerospace physicist. As we were to find out shortly, Luke is also a certifiable chatterbox. Good. Its always nice to have people like yourself on an escapade such as this. Both Tim and Luke are well-seasoned climbers who have been climbing with each other since 1978. These guys were obviously committed to this sport - the best sort of people to have when you attempt something as extreme as this.

On the way out of town we discovered, much to our chagrin, that there were no stores open. Ergo, no food on the climb except for the hard candy and dried fruit Tim thought that he might still have somewhere at the bottom on his backpack. We had gone out the night before to load up on carbos. We ended up doing Mexican and got my daily load of fat which was now sitting in my stomach like so much ballast. I ate as much as I could of my Fajitas, with added hot jalapenos for good luck. Ug. Hot ballast at that.

We drove past empty guard gates as we entered the park. I told Kevin that I had some doubts about my ability to keep up the stamina to do this. His advice was to go for it. Hell, if he was committed, then so was I. Sounds rather simplistic - like a John Wayne movie. Oh well. Climbers often think this way. Loyalty to one's partner is something taken very seriously. There are days when Kevin is less than willing to go climbing but goes with me anyways and vice versa.

It is a lot easier to just decide to do things and then simply go and do them. Extrapolating what-if scenarios tends to leave a cloud over things. Better to make a choice and then run the full distance with it. My doubts had nothing to do with the height of the climb. Once you are above 60 or 70 feet, any unarrested fall is a lethal event. I had long since adapted to that. No. My concern was centered upon my endurance.

The day was starting off nicely with a picturesque full moon setting in a crimson sky over bluish mountains. Luke and Tim were ahead of us. As soon as they saw the moon they pulled over. They knew we'd be scrambling for our cameras. We did. We arrived at the parking lot cum staging site at 6:00 AM and were off hiking in a few minutes.

We were scrupulously economical in what we were carrying. You take only what you must take on one of these climbs because you carry everything on your back the whole way. Rain gear (borrowed from Tim), water (from the hotel and probably tainted with some lead from the "nostalgic" plumbing), sweater (borrowed -Tim again), and, of course, a camera. No food though (oops!). Boy what I would have traded for a cup of coffee and a candy bar.

The hike to the base of the climb took us 2 1/2 hours. At this altitude, things that would be simple at sea level are surprisingly tedious. I run 30 - 40 miles a week and have this reflexive expectation of fitness - it was quickly invalidated as we hiked in. There is 30% less Oxygen here than at sea level. Even with my body's reserves, I have only 80% of my maximal sea level exercise capability. I had looked this stuff up before I left. Now, as it kept popping up in my mind, I began to wish I hadn't looked it up - it only served as quantifiable proof that I was attempting something foolish - or something amazing. I still hadn't quite decided which.

On the way to the cliff we were greeted by screeching marmots, waterfalls, and scenery that just didn't stop. Every percentage point's drop in Oxygen seemed to be accompanied by an equal increase in crisp alpine beauty. A fair trade - so far. After an eternity of forward progress earned a step at a time, we arrived in the valley which contained our target: Petit Grepon - "little grepon (whatever that is)" in French. First climbed (and therefore named) in 19-who-knows-when by someone with a climber's typical, slightly warped sense of the sublime. Its namesake is a larger peak located near Mt. Blanc in France and supposedly has a similar shape to the Petit Grepon. Neither rock is small by any means.

Petit Grepon is a massive lichen-covered pillar of schist which rises 800 feet off of a glacial valley to punch a hole in the deep blue alpine sky. Across from it, across a snow-filled circ, is the continental divide. The Petit Grepon sits on a base which is itself 200 feet above a small pond. Its back side is only several hundred feet above a boulder field allowing a comparatively easy descent. But we were concerned with the business side of the pillar. The base is located at 11,300 feet above sea level - above 2/3 of the Earth's atmosphere. There is less air between me and the stars than there is between me and the sea. Ug. Too early for such profound thoughts. Only a &*%$ing rocket scientist would be thinking such things.

So big is this thing, that the scale is not registered by my already weary brain. "Here I am guys" it almost says to you. "Gee, impressive." I thought to myself. "800 feet. Why not 8000. If only I could be a little more energetic, pl e a s e." All I wanted at that point was a cup of coffee. Visions of Juan Valdez and his java-in-burlap toting burro conversing with Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks flashed before my eyes. Oh yea - I craved one of those sugary donuts that always seem to confront me at NASA meetings too - we call them belly bombs. Two of the four food groups - sugar and caffeine - was all I needed and I could climb any silly French pillar. Hell, I 'd even take the coffee cold and black.

We scrambled up some "scree" - loose rock - to the bottom of the cliff. No one else here. Weird: this is a very popular climb. Normally, there'd be several climbing parties climbing Petit Grepon on on any given day. Must be the weather; it rained all week. The timid have been turned away. Only the pure of faith show up - or the foolish.

The ritual begins - as with any sport wherein the potential for serious mishap lurks. How you prepare your mind is as important as how you prepare your gear. The night before we had sat on the floor of Kevin's room and spread out all of our toys -er -gear. Now we sat silently (OK OK, Luke and I were being silly doing various accents ala Monty Python) and got ourselves ready. First the harness. Then the special ultra-high friction shoes, then the taping of the hands (with athletic tape to prevent abrasion and to support some finger tendons I had ruined last Winter). Then you assemble what is left in your backpack so as to put the most needed items within easy reach. I put the water bottle on top. I then strapped my el-cheapo camera to my side. Gotta have those photos ("hero shots") to provide the folks at work with certifiable proof that Kevin and I need a keeper.

Tim and I were the first team to go up. Kevin and Luke would follow. The route we were taking was more or less rated at 5.7 although some stretches would no doubt be more challenging owing to the sheer length of time required to complete the climb.

Climbs are rated on a numerical scale which is somewhat subjective. A 1.0 climb is a hike. a 3.0 climb is a cliff which any human in marginally good health could climb. At 5.0, you need ropes and someone who knows what they are doing. A 5.9 climb kind of marks the border between what an occasional competent climber and a rather good one. I had done short stretches of 5.9 rated climbs before. An 800 foot 5.7 was something beyond my experience.