Yellow Spur, Eldorado Canyon (attempt)

By: Cole Stanley | Climbers: Cole Stanley, Pat _?_ |Trip Dates: May 26, 2002

Photo: Gary Clark

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6:00am and Pat is at the front door of my Denver house and by 7:30am, the day before Memorial Day 2002, we are roped up and climbing the 5.10b direct start of the Yellow Spur in Eldorado Canyon. It was a wonderful day with not a cloud in the sky nor another party in sight, but we knew this was going to change given the great weather and the simple fact that it was a Sunday in Eldo. This was my third attempt at the Yellow Spur, the first thwarted by bad weather and the second by a bad hangover. The climbing was outstanding; destined to be a great day on a classic route with a good friend. I had known Pat for quite a while but this was the first time I had climbed with him. I knew that he was competent as we had mutual friends at the climbing gym that gave him great marks.

Pat led the first and second pitches and the plan was for me to take the sharp end for the third, fifth and sixth. As we swapped gear for Pat to take off on the fourth pitch the sun was making its presence known as it warmed this great canyon. I was longing to shed the hot helmet I was wearing as Pat took his fleece beanie off. He was not wearing a helmet. By now, with the sun and the later hour, the valley below was teeming with parties making their way to their chosen climb.

The fourth pitch starts out with an easy traverse to the right directly off the belay, and given the slow nature of our team, there was a party of two coming up the third pitch directly below me. Given the events that took place I don't know if I will ever see the rest of this classic climb that I have heard, read and dreamed about. You see as I started to follow the fourth pitch, with my left hand in a small finger crack, I reached up with my right hand to a big jug. As I weighted my right hand and stepped across the easy move I heard the unforgettable, heart sopping sound of cracking sandstone. I was falling. Not a normal fall, not like one I had ever experienced, I was joined by something else. "FALLING! ROCK! ROCK!" is all I could muster as I fell upside-down until the rope became taught and swung me 15 feet to the right. That 'something else' accompanying me on my flight was a boulder about half the size of a car. I then realized I was not dead but hanging, head first, with my back to a blank wall. I was struck with the terror that I must have killed someone below with a boulder that size. Amazingly no one on the deck was injured, to this day I don't know how.

"Are you okay, are YOU okay?" were the first words I heard, from a lady leading the third pitch. I was not; as I righted myself and tried to use my left hand to pull up on the rope I noticed I was missing a half inch of my middle finge; gone, just plain gone. Looking at my had, palm toward me, the white milky twig I was staring at was in fact the end of the bone, now the new end of my finger. Adrenaline had taken over my body. "That was me and my finger is gone" were the first words I uttered to Pat, now 125 feet above me. He of course had not a clue as to what I was talking about but he knew he had to lower me. I then gained some composure, and guts, and took another look at my now very bloody hand. Around the back side I did notice something - my finger I had forsaken as lost. I flopped it over into my palm much like the Mexican ball on a string game that kept me busy for hours as a child. I made a fist and put my hand above my head in an attempt to moderate the loss of blood. By this time I was back at the second belay and thankfully being clipped in, re-tied and prepared to be lowered to the ground by the party that was coming up on us.

The sound of a refrigerator-size boulder falling 250 feet in Eldorado is cause for every cell phone within earshot to come out dialing. By the time I did get to the ground there were at least 7 people there to help me, 3 park climbing rangers heading up the trail, and an ambulance leaving from Boulder. After initial smatterings that 8 people were hurt in a rockslide, the dust settled to the fact that a Denver climber lost his middle finger (and had a small chance of saving it).

The longest hike of my life began, being short-roped down the switchbacks and manmade stairs of the Redgarden trail to the awaiting ambulance. I was not thinking about the pain, but trying to remember those who were helping and wondering what my wife of 8 months was going to have to say about this whole thing. From time to time in my hand, now wrapped in an ace bandage and held over my head, I would feel the finger roll in my palm. It was held on by less than a millimeter of tissue.

At the ambulance Pat finally caught up to us; he was shaking worse than I was. I asked him to contact my wife and sugar coat the whole thing. He did a great job, when I spoke with her she was under the impression that it would be fixed with a couple of stitches and a Band-Aid. She wanted to know if I was going to be late for dinner. To her shock and my dismay I told her that the doctors were going to try and re-attach my finger. They did a great job putting me back together - although it is about a third of an inch shorter, I was out of the hospital 24 hours later.

Although I am not pulling off any Caldwell-esque 5.13 routes with my 9.7 fingers, I am climbing again and very thankful for that. I am thankful I am alive, thankful I wore my helmet and thankful for all the people in Eldorado that helped out.