It was 1973.  I was just about to graduate from high school but my my mind was not on college but on climbing.  I had completed the CMC climbing schools and had found some other climbers to hang with at school.  Life was good.

There weren't that many climbers around back then and we didn't really have a mentor.  We used to spend hours scratching our way up some of the classic 5.7 pitches in Eldo, slowly getting the hang of leading. We had a whole bunch of pins and even a few of those new-fangled nut thingies.  Hanging by one arm trying to swing a hammer gave us a lot of respect for the guys who had pioneered the local hard climbs.

At that time my nemesis was Ruper.  This used to be one of the big climbs to do in Eldo and the year before I had hooked up with a more experienced climber and followed the route.  Now we were ready to come back and lead it.

It was Memorial Day weekend.  Perfect weather.  We parked, crossed the ancient footbridge, and started the hike up.  I was in front when we arrived at the lower ramp, a long low-angle slab leading up to the climb.  Although you don't need to rope up for it, it's definitely not a nice place to take a fall.

I started climbing next to the wall on the right.  We had changed to our rock shoes - back then our grey klettershoes seemed pretty high-tech.  I was scrambling carelessly up, grabbing holds on the wall to keep my balance.  Suddenly the hold in my right hand gave away and I tumbled backward.  Time slowed down and I felt myself almost floating down into a niche followed by the large boulder that I had pulled off. I stopped - the boulder didn't.  It was long and pointy; the pointy part landed directly on my foot.  Fortunately both the rock and I stopped before we hit my friends but I was seriously messed up - no doubt about it.

Jim and Dennis immediately took out the rope and tied me in.  We were only about 80 feet up the ramp and they were able to slide me down to a nice little platform at the bottom.  Some other climbers were around and ran to call for a rescue.

My only visible wound was a large gash in my arm.  However, it was my foot that hurt like hell.  But all you could see was a small dot of blood in the grey suede near the arch of the shoe.  At this point I started going into shock and the whole affair became surreal.  I remember climbers milling around, looking at me and at the rock still wedged above on the ramp.  Unfortunately my foot didn't look injured so people kept bumping into it, leading to some serious screams on my part.  Many people donated jackets to keep me warm and that helped a lot.  Soon I heard sirens and various "rescuers" started to arrive.

First and most useless was the local sheriff (or highway patrol?  who knows!).  He was fat and out of shape and complained a lot about the hike up.  All he did was ask me where I fell and then play with his walkie-talkie.  I seem to remember another guy, a fireman or something, doing the same thing.  Totally useless!

But then the EMT arrived.  He told everyone I was in shock (duh!!) and put a nice inflatable splint on my foot so nobody would trip over it. Not long after his arrival, real help showed up.  A large RMR (Rocky Mountain Rescue) crew finally arrived with a litter and started the evacuation.  It had seemed like a long time before their arrival but the wait was well worth it.  They really knew exactly what they were doing.  There was no trail back then - just lots of talus and boulders.  They had been setting anchor points up and once I was loaded on the litter we moved quite efficiently.  At the steep bits someone was always ready to tie the litter into an anchor and help control it's speed.  The worst part for me was the rickety wooden bridge.  This thing was barely wide enough for the litter and scared the hell out of me.  Finally they shoved me in the ambulance I was off.  I never really got a chance to thank them but over the years I was involved in a couple of other rescues with RMR and was always impressed with their abilities.  Later when I was in Tucson a friend had to be rescued by the local sheriff and the whole thing was a fiasco - they took hours to carry a litter over about 5 minutes of trail.

So anyway, our attempt at Ruper ended with a week in the hospital, a major operation on my foot (I broke all 5 metatarsals!), and a summer without much climbing.  By July I was hopping up small climbs on one foot but it wasn't until that fall that I was really able to get back on the rocks.

"Peterson's Rock" is still there stuck at the back of the lower ramp. Seeing it always takes me back to the old days.  My kids are sick of having me show it to them and hearing the same old story.  Since then I've never needed a rescue but if I do get into a bad spot someday I hope RMR will be there to bail me out.