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Alpine starts are the absolute worst.

As my alarm blared with the urgency of a code-red nuclear meltdown, my climbing partner, Mayan Smith-Gobat, groaned to my right. I wished I felt as groggy as she sounded, but I’d spent most of the night begging my overanxious mind for sleep. In less than four hours, I’d be on my first big wall: the East face of Long’s Peak, The Diamond. Our goal was to onsight a newly established route called Hearts and Arrows (5.12b), equipped and freed by Bruce Miller and Chris Weidner. The nine-pitch granite masterpiece takes the center overhang of the wall and tops out at 14,000 feet.

I checked the time: 2:30 a.m. I sat up in our rented minivan—my Jeep Wrangler had thrown an engine rod a few days earlier on my way to pick up Mayan from Denver International Airport. When I flicked on my headlamp, its beam cut through the inky darkness. The cargo door clicked, and with a mechanical whir, slid open. I slithered out of my sleeping bag, my feet finding cold asphalt. Above, a dusting of starlight scattered between the branches of alpine needles, faintly highlighting the thin path that marked the beginning of what would become a very long day.

“We need to get moving,” Mayan said, her trademark Kiwi accent cutting through the stillness.

New Zealand-raised, Mayan had honed her skills on the granite walls of the Darran Mountains near Milford Sound on the South Island. Quickly outgrowing her experiences Down Under, she pursued big wall climbing, ticking some of the most notable and sought-after lines in Yosemite Valley—namely, The Salathé on El Capitan, and eventually, the women’s speed record on The Nose.

I stuffed our meager rations of water and bars into my hastily packed bag, along with a 60-meter rope, shoes, a harness, and a rain jacket.

“Where’s the gear?” I asked, looking around the van.

“I borrowed some from a friend who’s working a line up there; it should be stashed,” she replied.

“That’s convenient,” I thought as I slung my bag onto my shoulders and clipped the waist belt.

In retrospect, I should have asked for more details, what gear we were taking, or what we would need in case of emergency. I can now conjure a slew of other questions that would help me be my own advocate for my safety, or for our little party of two. But no, this was just the beginning of a series of inexperienced and arrogant decisions that occurred for the rest of the day.

Instead of leaning into my inexperience, I had the “fake it ‘til you make it,” mentality. My partner was a true pro-climber. I thought I had all the experience I needed to be a bold and adventurous big wall climber. While I barely knew how to tie a clove hitch, it was only eight or nine pitches of climbing, none of which were harder than 5.12. Surely, my days in Rifle Mountain Park sport climbing would prepare me for this Alpine Big Wall.

The Approach

We trekked through darkness, each step rhythmic to my labored breath. As we gained elevation, we came across spring-watered marshes, a flowing brook, and thankfully, a small pit stop to hydrate.

“The most important thing, Ben, is to stay hydrated,” Mayan reminded.

“I know, it’s not like this is my first time climbing outside,” I replied, dry mouthed and thirsty.

Genuinely embarrassed by this small chiding, I admit that I hadn’t taken a single sip of water throughout our three-hours hike. I drank half of a Nalgene and refilled it in the spring.

An hour later, dawn’s light painted the tapestry of the Diamond; the reflection of the 1,000-foot giant rippled on the surface of Chasm Lake. A talus field of broken granite giants littered the base of the wall—a testament to time and the chaos of loose stone freed from the cliffs surrounding us.

Navigating the maze of talus pitfalls and car-sized blocks, Mayan disappeared from view to unearth the hidden gear stash. Already exhausted from the elevation, I sat and searched the wall for our line. I could see other parties already headed up the left side of the face, having bivied the previous night. I felt a pang of jealousy that they were starting somewhat fresh, or at least more caffeinated.

“So we didn’t walk as fast as I’d thought,” Mayan said as she approached with a small stash of gear in her hand. “We can solo up to the Broadway Ledge, which wouldn’t be too terrible, or we can rope up, but that will take more time.”

I’d never free soloed before, let alone the 300-400 feet of somewhat scary, broken, low-angle granite. Most parties rope up for the fifth class approach pitches to the top of the Broadway Ledge and what are considered the beginning pitches of the Diamond’s East Face. But I was confident in my ability and didn’t think too much of it.

To be honest, I felt that I needed to perform for Mayan and act the part of an experienced partner, even though I lacked the acumen. “Is that all the gear we’re taking?” I asked, seeing the fistful of cams. (I would soon learn the gear she took from the stash consisted of slightly less than a single rack, from Black Diamond Camalot #3s to a sparse smattering of C3 finger-sized cams).

“Yup, we are going light and fast today,” Mayan replied.

“Great.” I said, with a pertinent question catching in my throat, and a bit of unease in my chest.

“Thoughts?” Mayan questioned, opening the floor dissent.

I’d met Mayan just a handful of weeks earlier and climbed with her only a few times, so we were still in the initial “feeling out” stages of our climbing partnership. Calling my knowledge of systems, trad, and mountains “green” would be giving me too much credit. Mayan, on the other hand, was famous for her wall climbing, bold ascents, and general mastery of this form of climbing, putting me in the dangerous position of blind trust.

“You’re the expert!” I said, switching the subject, wanting to pretend that I was equally ready.

A sound of thunder broke the stillness around us. Confused, I looked up at a bluebird sky, only to glance back at Mayan and watch her eyes go wide as she quickly moved to our right.

“Rock!” The shout from above came from an unknown source as I watched a series of microwave-sized blocks tumble down the wall. We were close enough for it to be dangerous, but far enough away that I didn’t understand why Mayan took off so quickly.

“Get over here, you idiot!” she called out.

Without hesitation, I started to move toward her, though I was confused, because it really didn’t seem like a super dangerous situation.

“Why the concern?” I asked as we took shelter behind a large boulder.

“Rocks can bounce around and be unpredictable; better safe than sorry,” she said.

Years later, I still remember that sage advice, as well as the sheer lunacy of holding that mentality, while simultaneously carrying less than a single rack for what we were about to accomplish.

Safe from the rockfall, Mayan clipped what I’d dubbed the “diet rack” to her harness and began walking directly toward the part of the wall where the blocks had just tumbled down.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“That’s where our route starts. Let’s go,” Mayan trailed off.

Grabbing the rope and slinging it onto my back, I smiled and started the grand adventure of my first big wall climbing. It was 5.12b and I’d just climbed my first 5.14 on sport—how hard could this be?

The Humbling

Tears streaked my cheeks as the wind whipped against my rain jacket. The valley floor, a little over a thousand feet below, felt perilously distant. I was sitting on a hanging belay in space, on a single Black Diamond Green C3 (a cam about the width of a finger). The wind rocked me in my harness like a cradle, just waiting for me to fall and crash down upon the rocks below.

I’d just witnessed the most inspiring and fucked-up climbing performance of my life. This holds true even today, a little over a decade later, as I recount this story. Mayan had entered the crux—pitch seven, the dreaded 12b—full of vigor. However, before she started up on the pitch, she swapped my perfectly equalized three-cam trad-anchor for a single Green C3 cam. Her rationale for this significant anchor downgrade? She curtly noted that she needed the gear, before questing off into space for an onsight attempt.

Due to a lack of natural protection, Mayan endeavored to make it to a single rusted pin, wedged into the wall an uncomfortable distance from the belay. She moved 10 feet up without a single placement, then 15, then 20.

“Umm, can you place something?” I politely shouted up to her.

“Nowhere to place. I’m focusing. It’s chossy here,” she shot back.

Small rocks crumbled under her foot as she navigated the sea of overhung rock. I side-eyed the one Green C3 Cam I was anchored into, sunk into a shallow-thin crack. This was the only gear that would potentially keep me and Mayan on the wall if she fell. As Mayan came within five feet of the fixed pin, a wave of relief started to wash over me. A grunt, then a curse emanated from Mayan as a baseball-sized rock broke off in her hand. She began to “barn door,” the right side of her torso hinging outward by the momentum of the unexpected break.

Two appendages, a foot, and a hand were all that kept her from launching into the void, leaving me to wonder: Would our single finger-sized anchor sustain a 40-foot, factor two fall? Overwhelming dread sank into my bones, cutting deeper than the glacial winds sweeping the wall.

“This is how I fucking die,” I thought.

Slow motion and crisis mode hit me as I prepped to … I don’t know. To this day, I actually have no idea what I would have done. There was truly nothing I could do but imagine all the scenarios where, in the valley below The Diamond, I had the capacity to ask this half-baked, deranged, unhinged Kiwi to maybe take more than a fucking barebones rack up the wall.

Cursing the gods, I’d just spent the last six hours in a meat grinder, exhausting my mind, body, and resilience. All I wanted to do was go home, but that was no longer an option. On the pitch before, Mayan had made a casual statement, that in retrospect, should have been a question.

“This is the point of no return. We either go down now, or we have to summit, because our rope isn’t long enough for retreat.” Mayan said, as she collected the gear to re-rack for the crux pitch.

Did I even have an option? Was there even the possibility of discussion in that statement? Was the subtext, “We can go down if you want, but that is most certainly not what I want.”

Mayan was close to achieving her goal of onsighting the wall, so who was I to hold her back? Guilt for feeling scared, being unable to keep up, and generally feeling inferior took hold of my decision-making. I knew that the idea of no retreat is never a good thing in the mountains. But I considered Mayan the expert, far superior in judgment and skill. Surely, there was no way that she would put us in unnecessary danger.

Right?!

Not wanting to seem weak and bail on our arrangement, I decided to err on the side of my frail masculinity and lead with, “For sure! I’m great. Let’s fucking roll!” I pasted on the feigned confidence that I’d lost on the first pitch of this godforsaken day.

So there I sat, a mess of snot and tears, shivering as my breaking point brick-walled me into becoming a lemming. I watched Mayan teeter us toward a dirt nap that I didn’t know I’d signed up for. I’m no physicist, but it didn’t take a lot of calculations to know that if she fell, it was game over. We would certainly bolo our way to the teeth of jagged rock below. What poisonous internal rhetoric got me into this position, where my anxious snot dripped uncontrollably to the valley below, you may ask?

Blind trust

As I contemplated my life’s end, I looked up to see Mayan kick her left leg behind her as if in a choreographed action movie stunt, then counterbalance the swing, re-establishing her control after her barn door. She latched her left hand back onto the wall.

Quickly moving to the pin, she slammed a quickdraw into the eye of protection and whipped the rope into place.

“Oh, thank god!” I exclaimed, as I almost passed out from relief.

“Hold on a tick,” Mayan said and gently slid the pin out of place and held it in her hand before she reinserted it back into its original state.

My jaw dropped. My hope died.

“How long until you can get a placement?” I asked, sliding a mask of apathy in place. The emotions were just too much, and I had nothing left in the tank.

“Not for another 10 feet or so,” Mayan replied, trying to gauge her distance to the alluring twin cracks above her and the first solid placement.

“Well, hopefully, that was as exciting as it gets,” I prayed.

Mayan quickly dispatched the rest of the pitch without much incident and soon I was pulling on my downsized, downturned sport climbing shoes. Feet aching, I met Mayan at the anchor.

“I’m fried. I am not going to be able to lead if we want to get to the top,” I said.

“That’s fine, just do your best and we will get there.” Mayan said with a finality that I didn’t like.

The Loop

To my chagrin, the next pitch went about as well as the last pitch. Pitch eight was an overhanging roof crack with fingers and hand sizes—features with which I had zero experience. Mayan had easily sent pitch eight, making it look like 5.8. She was well on her way to onsighting her objective. Meanwhile, I had long ago given up, opting for pure survival, and changing my objective to “make it to the top.”

Inspired by her tenacity and strength, I felt a fourth or fifth wind hit as I disassembled the anchor, pulled my heels onto the iron-maidens I called my shoes, and prepped to climb. As Mayan put me on belay and took out extra slack, my life line cinched down in the crevice of the roof 15-20 meters above. In an attempt to take in slack, she yanked the rope through the belay device, further welding the rope into the crack and sealing my fate.

“Up rope!” I yelled, chalk dusting my fingertips.

The wind carried Mayan’s voice as a whisper from above: “Rope’s stuck …”

“What? Up rope!” I yelled again.

“I can’t, the rope is jammed …” Mayan shouted down.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“You climb and don’t fall! It could cut the rope!” she yelled.

“No! Absolutely not! What the hell?” I screamed in protest, even though we both knew there was no other choice. We couldn’t go down, and I would basically have to solo 15-plus meters of the pitch to make it to the end of the roof and hopefully dislodge the rope.

I couldn’t even get angry after the initial shock. I was just sad.

Resigned to my fate, I began to climb. The opening of the pitch was an off-vertical incline that led to a jutted roof, so I had to climb both into, then out of the rock. As I inched my way to the climb, my loop of impending doom grew. But so did my determination. To avoid slips and slides, I moved methodically and carefully.

I drained more of my luck bucket as I navigated the slick granite, noticing and avoiding small pockets of seepage—the alpine wall adding more spice to my situation. At the back of the roof, I prepped and planned for a series of jams and layback techniques, then quested to the pinch point. The death loop was about 15 meters below me. Mayan had been able to wrench a few precious handfuls of line through the wedge, but ultimately not enough. My feet stayed melded to the rock, my toes curled through the rubber, trying to increase any purchase as I eased my way toward the end of the roof.

I hit the choke point at the end of the roof flawlessly and jammed back into the crack to anchor my body, trying to position myself to free the rope. I refused to move upward until I released that line from the jaws of Pitch Eight. It took a few extremely hard yanks to feel the give of the line as it freed.

“Up rope, please dear god, please!” I cried in joy.

I felt the rope slide upward quickly as Mayan marathoned the line through the belay device. The comfortable tug against my harness signaled that I was okay for another moment of this day. My savior and tormentor smiled as I clipped the anchor a few minutes later.

“Last pitch of 5.9,” she said, beaming at the prospect of onsighting the line.

“How can you be so calm?” I wanted to ask. But by the time I got around to it, she had already taken off and 20 minutes later, called for me to climb.

We stood atop The Diamond looking at the Rocky Mountain Chain. Mayan had onsighted Hearts and Arrows and was elated. I was just happy not to have shit my pants in fear and to have made it to the top.

The Lesson

In retrospect, I can’t say I was happy as I thought about how that day on The Diamond had unfolded. I was angry at some of the risks we took. I blamed Mayan for a lack of consideration, before I realized that we had very different levels of acceptable risk and danger mitigation. A lot of what had happened wasn’t her fault.

Of course, I also bore some responsibility to ask questions and not just placate a new partner—especially a pro. My own arrogance of thinking that climbing on a rope was the same, regardless of the discipline, is laughable now. And my misguided ego of grades and environments humbled me.

With Mayan, or with any mentor, I learned that day that I needed to advocate for my own thoughts and forge a partnership, not just a guided tour or a lesson in a classroom.

I could barely understand Mayan’s vast ocean of knowledge and experience, especially considering the outcome of our attitudes at the top. For Mayan, this was just another day out in the mountains that lit a fire in her heart for more. There was no malice, or intentional hazing from her—she was just sharing her excitement.

Our experience on The Diamond was something I wanted to learn from. In a weird way, I had found not the mentor I wanted, but the one I needed to help foster what I wanted to do in the mountains. To be honest, I got lucky. My job now was to put that luck that I’d used up into my “experience bucket.”

In all of my adventures that followed with Mayan, she would put me through the wringer, testing me, terrifying me, and growing my climbing experience. But, unbeknownst to Mayan, the greatest lesson she gave me during my experience on the Diamond was the seed of responsibility to take care of my own well-being. She taught me to ask questions of people who I perceive to have more authority in situations where my life is—for a lack of better word—affected. That, and, of course, to take a bigger rack and a longer rope.