Fast Times In The Flyboys Conga Line

by Ryan Reed

The plan was to leave Saturday for an overdue rematch with Forbidden Peak. But my Thursday Beacon Rock partner came down hard with COVID the following day; we’d spent hours in the car together. “Sorry, Ryan,” said James. “We can’t take the chance you get sick high up on that route.” He went off to scare up another partner, and I made plans to quarantine.

Above: Ryan Reed on Flyboys.

Photo by James Pitkin.

An hour later James called back. “Hey, no takers yet. But what if I scrap Forbidden, and we do smaller objectives around Washington Pass? We can stick to routes with good bail options for a few days, in case you get sick.” We’d just have to drive up separately, and be ready to pull the plug.

The next day we were in the North Cascades, ticking off Washington Pass trad classics—the Beckey Route on Liberty Bell, the North Face of Concord Tower, the justifiably obscure Spontaneity Arete, the brilliant Southwest Rib on South Early Winters Spire.

Three days wore us out, but we figured on one more day of climbing. Over dinner at our dirtbag site, we settled on climbing trad routes near Leavenworth. But as darkness fell James had a brainstorm. “OK, consider this: We have mid-week, we have good weather, and we have two cars for the shuttle—why not Flyboys?” I pretended to think about it for a few seconds. “Hell yeah.”

I’d been hearing raves about Flyboys for a few years. Just down the road from Washington Pass, the 18-pitch bolted route snakes 1800 feet up Goat Wall, which looms over the Methow Valley near the tiny town of Mazama. Two locals, Bryan Burdo and Jerry Daniels, mapped out the line and spent two years installing 275 generously spaced bolts. Flyboys debuted in 2017 as one of the longest sport climbs in the country—perhaps the longest 5.9—and an instant classic. It’s on a whole lot of wish lists.

We checked out the approach on our rest day; the climber’s register recorded just one or two parties on most weekdays. “We still gotta be first on route,” said James. “We can’t afford to get stuck behind a slowpoke party.” We shuttled my car to the top of the hill for the trip down (rappelling the route

Flyboys debuted in 2017 as one of the longest sport climbs in the country—perhaps the longest 5.9—and an instant classic. It’s on a whole lot of wish lists.

Above: James Pitkin taking a break.

Photo by Ryan Reed. is possible but ill-advised), pushed our wakeup time back to 4 a.m., and went to bed early.

We parked at the pullout at 5:30, put on harnesses and backpacks full of food and water, grabbed 18 draws and a 60-meter rope, and pushed quickly up the trail. Fifteen minutes later, two young men appeared below us and quickly closed the gap. I was gasping for breath, but managed a cheery “Good morning!” as they approached. They could have passed and claimed the route, but instead politely fell in behind us.

We reached the dead tree marking the start at 6 a.m., and there was already a team there—a roadhardened couple from South Carolina. “They’re the ones in the camper in the pullout,” James whispered, “where it says No Camping.” While the Carolinians got ready, we eyed the young men, sizing them up as strong and dialed. The only thing worse than being third on this route would be having a fast team behind us, frustrated, making us feel rushed. We offered them our spot, and they gratefully accepted. It was 6:45 when I finally started up pitch 1, easy slab with a single tricky move. One of the lads was still at the belay; the first team hadn’t wanted to share the anchor, so his partner was up above waiting. But he was happy to share theirs with us; I clipped one unused bolt and a center bolt underneath their anchor, and got James started up.

We fell into a steady rhythm. James and I swung leads, and each time we found ourselves waiting with one of the lads while they waited for the Carolinians. “Those guys are slow as southern molasses,” drawled James, mostly just to say something.

James was leading pitch 4 when I saw two more teams below. The first leader linked pitches 1 and 2, presumably with a 70-meter rope, then quickly moved to link 3 and 4. Soon he was two bolts behind me. “Hey, good morning!” he called. “Mind if I pass?”

I looked back at him. He was thirtysomething, shirtless and muscular, wearing no backpack. “Yeah, I kind of do,” I said, alarmed. “There are two teams ahead of us, we’re moving fast, but it’s a conga line. You’ll just be stuck behind them.”

“No, we’ll just pass everyone. It’s how things work, fast teams just pass the slow ones.” Calling us slow wasn’t his best move; I felt my heels digging in.

“You want to pass me here, mid-pitch?” “Sure, if you don’t mind.” I’d passed and been passed at belay stations, but a midpitch pass was new to me. Do you clip under or over the first climber’s draws? What happens if the ropes tangle? How do you manage two, or potentially three team anchors clustered at a belay station? I tried to focus on the practical specifics, but mostly I was thinking: we got up two hours before you, we’re climbing well, and we need to wait for you because…you’re faster?

“Let me picture this,” I said. “You’re going to clip the same bolts, grab the anchor while we’re on the pitch, and then we wait a half hour for you to pass the other teams?” He shrugged. “Something like that.” At least he was honest. “Let me talk to my partner.”

James was less worked up about it, but ducked the issue by launching into his next lead. Shirtless Dude appeared after a while, now with a new tactic: puppy dog eyes. “Hey, sorry if I said something off. I just want everyone to have a good time.” He was going for empathy, but to my ears it just sounded like “Hey, I’m truly sorry you suck at climbing.”

“We’ll talk at the top of this,” I said, irritated. I heard James call on belay, so I yelled “Climbing!,” and charged up the pitch, lunging for holds and racking draws as fast as I could pull them.

When I reached the anchor James was grinning. “What a great pitch! The movement was so much fun…and the exposure!” I stared dumbly at him, unable to remember anything I’d just done. Was I rock climbing, or reliving some high school

drama? “We need to let these guys pass,” I said. “It’s messing up my head.”

We were coiling the rope when His Shirtlessness arrived at the anchor. “The next belay is a 40-meter walk from here,” I told him. “You can pass us there.” He agreed, shrugging a bit. It was a good compromise: I got to pretend it was my favor to grant, and he could continue to consider passing us his right.

We walked over to the base of Pitch 7, reputedly Flyboy’s hardest pitch. Some stemming, then small side pulls, then hang on a jug and swivel around to a blind foot. The lads were getting up it with remarkable grace. We told them our plan, and they decided to let Shirtless pass them as well. A fifth party of two now arrived, and we all settled in to watch the show.

Aware he had an audience, Shirtless started up in haste and immediately got caught under a low roof. “Damn,” he muttered. Having missed an easy stem move, he struggled for half a minute before muscling up a much harder way. “This sucks.” We chewed on our energy bars and enjoyed the Schadenfreude. He then blew through the crux, passed the lads at the belay, and continued up to link the next pitch. We never saw him again.

With respect for his belayer standing beside us, we kept the comments civil. I wondered out loud if he had a dentist appointment to get to, but left it at that.

The fifth team had watched it all, talking quietly to each other. The woman finally spoke up. “Actually, he’s kind of right. On a long route like this, faster climbers often pass slower ones. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” Her tone was disarming and direct, but pleasant.

After obsessing about being first on the route and then waiting to let others go ahead, I was surprised to find myself reconciled. “OK, if we head up this, can you link two and pass us on the pitch above?” She smiled and said yes, thank you. “Just clip underneath our draws if we pass you on the pitch. It’ll work out fine.”

My ego was now focused on another task: I hoped to cruise where the Dude had flailed. I started up confidently, avoided his mistake low down, then swung through some easy moves—and climbed right past the critical bolt below the crux. Unwilling to pull the move far above the last clip, I downclimbed and awkwardly clipped the bolt from above. This exhausted my fingertips, and I soon came off, a blissfully short fall smoothed by James’ soft catch.

I was gasping for breath, but could sense the audience below getting restive. One more take and I too muscled my way up, reaching the anchor, frustrated that I’d let pride spoil the pitch.

I brought James up, and he started up the pitch above. The woman on team 5 flew up the crux below and paused a moment at my belay. “Thank you for letting us pass,” she said. “If it’s done right it works pretty well.”

“Thanks for explaining things….you guys we’re happy to let through.” She sighed. “Diplomacy helps.”

Free of traffic at last, the next pitches were glorious. The lads were climbing at exactly our rate, so our leader would always have a few minutes to talk to their follower while sharing an anchor. We learned they were brothers, one a college sophomore, the other still in high school. The older had learned climbing at the university, the younger in a Mountaineer’s course for teenagers.

Another crux came at pitch 10; this time both youths struggled, pulling up on a high clip to get over a bulge. I led up after them and found jugs they’d missed. “Hey, nice work!” said the older brother when I arrived at the anchor. “Yeah, did it clean!” I blurted out—and then regretted it. The boast seemed like a violation of our fellowship.

But pitch after pitch brought new joys, and more fatigue. Pitch 14 offered a huge tower split by a squeeze chimney, with a sharp flake shoved into the mouth. The close bolting lowered the thrill factor, but made pulling up from a full-on lieback a pure delight, like a child on a jungle gym.

James wanted the last lead, the 5.9+ pitch 18, so I took 17 and arrived at the anchor in time to see the younger brother take off on lead. He struggled up a series of bouldery cruxes, slipping in a few spots. The wind had come up, making it hard for us to hear him, but we could tell he was tired. “He’s doing well,” I lied.

The older brother stared upward. “He’s just … amazing. He’s really stepping up … he’s just … just doing so great.” He was grasping for words, unable to fully express an untamed thought.

I felt a small shock of recognition. We’d sized them up at the start as fearless young men, brimming over with the athletic advantages of youth. They were decent climbers, they were thoughtful and welltrained—but they were also kids, alone together on an 1800-foot wall. Flyboys would be a nice feather in my cap, a trophy alongside others; for them, Flyboys seemed likely to be a brilliant moment in their young lives.

Far above and out of sight, we heard shouting. Through the fierce wind, the belayer couldn’t tell if his brother was topping out, or maybe in trouble and calling for a take. Doubt grew on his face, and he tightened his brake hand and leaned over, trying to listen above the gusts. The urgent shouting continued, then slowly resolved into whoops. The quiet kid above was roaring with joy.

After James led us up the last pitch, we all gathered for a moment to slap hands and praise the climb. Whatever great moment the brothers shared had already crystallized, they were again composed and happy. We were happy too, with the satisfaction of a goal achieved. But theirs was of a different order: the exhilaration of youth, when an achievement can throw open a window to a new version of yourself, and bust the door hinges onto a world of possibilities.

James Pitkin and the author climbed Flyboys on August 4, 2022. Thanks to Shirtless Dude for being a good strawman, and to the route developers for a true classic.