As a young climber, David Roberts believed in the greatness of risk. Then death came suddenly, too easily. And it came again and again. A day in early

Moments of Doubt | Outside Online

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2021-08-25 22:30:02

As a young climber, David Roberts believed in the greatness of risk. Then death came suddenly, too easily. And it came again and again.

A day in early July, perfect for climbing. From the mesas above Boulder, a heatcutting breeze drove the smell of the pines up onto the great tilting slabs of the Flatirons. 

It was 1961; I was 18, had been climbing about a year, Gabe even less. We were about six hundred feet up, three-quarters of the way to the summit of the First Flatiron. There wasn’t a guidebook in those days; so we didn’t know how difficult our route was supposed to be or who had previously done it. But it had gone all right, despite the scarcity of places to bang in our Austrian Soft-iron pitons; sometimes we’d just wedge our bodies in a crack and yell “On belay!” 

It was a joy to be climbing. Climbing was one of the best things—maybe the best thing—in life, given that one would never play shortstop for the Dodgers. There was a risk, as my parents and friends kept pointing out; but I knew the risk was worth it. 

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