Spearhead, Syke's Sickle Route

By: Gary Clark | Climbers: Gary & Lynn Clark, Rick Whipple |Trip Dates: August 17-18, 2002

Photo: Gary Clark

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I had heard of this route a few times over the years, but Rick finally really got my attention when, after our climb of the Culp-Bossier on Hallett Peak, he mentioned casually "Syke's Sickle is a better route." Rick is not given to hyperbole, and he has been around the block, so I asked if he'd like to climb it again. He was willing, but said it would make for a very long day if we didn't split it up with a bivouac at the base.

Our opportunity came on my next 3-day weekend. The plan was to drive to Denver on Friday, hike in on Saturday, and climb on Sunday. I wasn't quite sure when I would find the time to drive back home, but I figured that would work itself out. One of the joys of working a 40-hour week is stumbling back in to work every Monday morning after a marathon climb, hike, and drive. The biggest challenge, besides trying to stay awake through interminable "meetings of the bored" is remembering what someone told me the week before that I should remember. I think climbers should get credit just for remembering what their jobs are on Mondays.

We met at the Backcountry Office at the East Entrance to the Park at 8:30am. Lynn and I had been fighting the traffic and the crowds in Denver and Boulder for a full day prior to that, so we weren't surprised at all when the ranger announced that all the bivy permits were already taken for the Spearhead area and for the next area to the west. There was one permit left, however, for the base of McHenry's Peak. OK, now to figure out from the USGS map whether this was a reasonable option. Ultimately, we concluded there was no way to tell other than just going and seeing. We filled out the forms, paid our money, put the tags on our packs, and swore on our grandmother's grave that we wouldn't do anything environmentally degrading, such as sleeping on dirt or gravel. I'm usually the first to embrace protections for the mountain environment, but we couldn't help but grumble over the fact that simple overpopulation was going to force us to sleep on a slab of granite a half-mile from the base of our objective, a situation that would have been unfathomable when I started in the sport (The biggest concern then was the wooly mammoths and sabertooth tigers.)

The Glacier Gorge Junction parking lot was full of course, so we drove on up to the Bear Lake Parking lot, which is about the size of a WalMart SuperCenter. It was filling fast. We had dropped our packs at the lower lot, but it hardly seemed necessary, as the hike between the two is very short. Now up the interstate-grade trail toward Cascade Falls, and on to Mills Lake. This is about the limit of the casual tourist day hikes; the trail starts to assume more of a wilderness nature beyond here. The lake is a scenic jewel, with a panoramic backdrop of Long's Peak to the east, Spearhead and Chief's Head to the south, McHenry's to the southwest, and Arrowhead Peak to the west. It is no surprise that so many casual hikers persist to this point, which is several miles in from the parking lot.

The trail continued in well-maintained form to Black Lake, another beautiful glacier tarn situated at the head of the cirque defined by the big peaks. Spearhead was straight ahead, but we needed to climb the steep unmaintained trail to gain a big granite bench running beneath its north face and over to McHenry's. Once on the bench, it would have been natural to camp near one of the many ponds or streams that cross the basin, but like I said before, our bivouac permit was for the base of McHenry's Peak. I don't believe I've ever hiked all day to get to the base of a climb, then deliberately walked away from it to camp in a much less desirable spot. An hour later we were searching for a flat spot large enough for 3 people on rock. Not grass, not dirt, not gravel, but pure granite. It would have been very nice to find such a place that was also protected from the persistent wind, but it was not to be. We each selected a separate spot next to a boulder and lay down our pads. Rick, the local, was wise to this situation, so he had brought a cushy foam pad. We were in "going light" mode, and had 3/8" closed-cell foam pads. We had several hours to waste before dark, and I used them in conducting an extensive but futile search for better accommodations. Finally I gave up and engaged in some casual bouldering. I found the rock encouraging - solid high-country granite with abundant surface features formed by millennia of wind and water. The steep face of Spearhead to the east seemed less intimidating with this kind of rock. We planned a 4:30 alarm.

4:30am: It is very dark, the wind is very sharp, and I conclude that climbing would be most unpleasant, if not impossible, with the light clothing I have along. There are plenty of clothes down in the car, but the day before had been calm and very hot, so I scaled back when contemplating the backpack into the cirque. I talk the others into simply waiting for the dawn. Thus, we arrive at the base at the unfashionably late hour of 8:30, fully expecting to see several parties well up the route. The guidebook had warned that there were often queues on a summer weekend, and the lack of availability of bivouac permits sealed the conclusion that it would be a crowded classic. Much to our surprise, we find a single rope team of two on the first pitch! Don't they know better than to start so late?

We are a party of three, so I'm not about to suggest climbing through, but it becomes obvious that we'll be sharing some stances with them; both the leader and the follower climb slowly and cautiously, placing lots of protection and communicating frequently. I'm used to exchanging only a minimalist set of belay signals when climbing with experienced people, so it always amuses me to hear shouted remarks such as "OK, I'm putting in a yellow Alien here!" or "I'm breaking down the anchor now!" Still, they are super nice guys having a good time, the weather is stable with no recent history of afternoon thundershowers, and we decide to just go with the flow and enjoy a casual pace. We hang back at each belay until the second leaves the stance above before starting the lead.

The climb begins with a soaring lieback flake up a moderately angled slab. At first very easy, both the slab and the flake gradually steepen until it turns into an undercling, ending in a semi-hanging belay, the poorest stance of the route. We flip a rock to decide leading order, and Rick wins the first pitch. I wait until well up the wall to check the description and conclude that the natural order of swinging leads will give me the crux pitch. The first pitch is exemplary of the route - solid, relatively continuous 5.7 with classic granite technique. The second pitch is the only atypical pitch, as it wanders about on small ledges and up easy corners to gain "Middle Earth Ledge". Called 5.5 in some guides, and a ridiculous "3rd Class" in the Rossiter book, it is not a memorable piece of climbing, but I enjoy easy rock as much as anyone.

Starting with the 3rd pitch, the climbing would be continuous to the summit. Never below 5.7, this section contains some of the best granite climbing I've ever done at this grade. There are delicate traverses, flakes (lots of flakes), and steep faces covered with rugosities. Just put some quality rubber on it, stand up, and don't look down. The party above us is either not paying close attention to the description, or is inexperienced in route finding, and we wait substantial periods while they get off route and correct their mistakes three times. I pay special attention to these spots in sketching a topo for the route. The one I brought was obviously done from the ground, probably by someone who had never climbed the route. It is pretty bad, but with careful route finding and Rick's experience from having climbed it before, we have no trouble staying on route all day.

Looming above is the "out of character" crux, a formidable roof at the top of the Sickle. There is a sharp notch through the roof. A rather surprising feature, it seems created to allow passage through what would otherwise be a total impasse. The belay spot is about 20 feet below in the shadow of the roof, at the base of a chimney leading up to it. The problem is obvious once you arrive at the belay. The giant flake edges of which I had grown so fond disappear, replaced instead by a thin crack on the right wall of the chimney, and the chimney is closed at the top. There will be no easy passage here.

We had gotten out of sequence a little by this point, but I want to lead the crux, so we flip the ropes so I can take two pitches in a row. Rick contributes some beta, but his last ascent was over 3 years ago, so it is sketchy. The encouraging thing is that the protection looks good. He had remembered a "death fall", which didn't do much for my confidence, but it seems clear in retrospect that he just didn't take the time to sew it up. I am determined to leave the entire rack in the rock if possible on this section, since I knew the rest of the pitch above would revert to the characteristic 5.7, where I'd need little protection. No sense carrying all that hardware all the way up there.

Starting with a difficult finger-tip lieback, I get to a small stance on the very steep slab at the back of the chimney, decorating the crack with colorful gear as if I'm trimming a Christmas tree. I keep expecting the protection to run out, but it doesn't. In the end, I have a ridiculous amount of protection, and actually remove some to try to clean up the spider's web I've created. After a long stretch to a foothold on the left, I begin stemming the chimney. The stem would have been routine and classic if it had not been for two things. First, the chimney is off-width: too wide for back-to-the wall technique, and too narrow for extended legs. Second, the wall on the left is overhanging with no obvious holds. Stemming against an overhanging wall requires more technique than I can usually muster. I'm facing outwards toward the valley, and as I stem out into wider and wider stances, I reach an impasse. I fumble with the biggest cam I have, a 3" Camalot, stuffing it blindly into a restriction in the crack above my head. Now begins an embarrassing sequence where I have to climb through the web of slings and rope I've created in my zeal to keep any potential fall to a few millimeters. Dealing with this, I finally run out of energy and options, and sag back onto the cam, hoping it had engaged without my being able to actually see it. It had. After a rest, I extricate myself from the rope wrapped around my neck, and give it another go. To my surprise, the edge about a foot above is a perfect jug. Had I known it was so close, I might have gotten there without a hang. Next time. Above the roof, it is easy going up yet another perfectly classic 5.7 lieback flake. When I arrive at the end of the pitch, I again find our traveling companions engaged in off-route adventure leading. This was supposed to be the 5.7R pitch, but they turned it into 5.9X by going too high on the flake before committing to the face traverse to the right to a hidden bolt. Again, I carefully document this on the notes I'm taking for the topo diagram I will draw for the North American Classics CD.

Rick got the famous R-rated traverse, and spent about a minute on it. Lynn didn't fare so well. She had trouble below the bolt, which might have had serious ramifications had she been leading. When I followed third, I discovered that height and long arms help here. I rather expected the rest of the pitch to be a scramble, but not so: more nice 5.7 cracks all the way to the top of the route, which ends on the North Ridge about 200 feet below the summit. The summit is not to be missed! It is a spectacular spire overhanging the North Face with just enough space for two people to stand for the summit photo.

The descent down the West Flank is straightforward, with a crude trail starting to form. We stay more to the rock than the gullies to avoid knocking rocks down. Now to pick up our packs from the base and retrace the 7-mile trail back to our cars. We push it until the light is totally gone, then get out the headlamps for the last "baby-carriage" section of trail.

Postscript:

This route is one of my personal favorites. It should be thought of as a 5.7 classic with one difficult passage to keep the crowds in check. The entire experience was strongly reminiscent of classic climbs in the high Sierras - a good trail through beautiful glacially-formed alpine terrain dotted with world-class tarn lakes, then a superb climb up perfect granite. Rick is right, it is better than Hallett Peak.