A rope, a rack, and Brooklyn. Will Hummel photo.

I spent Independence Day at Independence Pass. This was no happy coincidence, but the result of my eccentric affinity for all vaguely homographic relationships I can make between When It Is and Where I Am. Over the years, I have spent Cinco de Mayo at the Mayo Clinic, 9/11 at 7/11, and damn near every Friday at T.G.I.F.’s. I know no greater joy.

From glam Aspen, Highway 82 winds up and into precipitous alpine terrain, snaking around steep granite walls and at least 8,000 14-foot peaks (aka boulders). The Pass as we locals call this serpentine stretch of roadway, is mostly frequented by climbers, gawking Midwestern grannies, and either leather- or spandex-clad bikers (petrol vs. pedal).

It is one of the most jumbled, scattered messes of a climbing area that I’ve ever seen. There is no motherlode crag. Instead, small hidden spots define Pass climbing, each with some great routes among the over-bolted scrap. Boulders, sport routes and trad climbs are intimately braided at each zone. Seemingly anywhere you can rope up, plug gear, clip bolts, or lay down some Mondo mat. This is surely one of the Pass’s greatest gifts, but also one of its biggest curses since you will inevitably find yourself lugging around every piece of rock-climbing gear that you own.

Jen and I packed the car with two pads, a rack of “widgets” and “plug-ins,” “clippy things,” a stick clip, camping gear, and one big, ole floppy puppy. We started out with an anonymous 5.11a finger crack, and it felt great, with just a handful of lightweight TCUs on my harness, to do some jamming and be able to place gear wherever I wanted (there are no run-outs in crack climbing!)

Later we moved onto Cryogenics, a 5.10a hand crack that climbs more like a face route. The gear was trickier, but the line is so good and a local classic. 5.10 trad really is one of those special grades that everyone can strive for, achieve and then still find challenging no matter how experienced you are.

Right beside the 5.10a was a 5.12b sport line that I had tried to flash a week earlier, but fell when I couldn’t bring myself to do the heinous one-move crux involving a razor-sharp scale of friable granite. No matter. I pulled through, clipped the chains and easily cleaned my draws. Onto the next one …

When it started to rain, we spent the rest of the Fourth bouldering. Bouldering is often touted as being the simplest climbing discipline. “All you need are shoes, a chalk bag and a mat!” This is bullshit.

It takes a village to climb 12 feet of rock!

The sheer logistics of bouldering—especially in alpine Colorado, where the landings involve jagged, ankle-snapping talus—far surpass any type of single-pitch roped climbing that you could ever do, in which you just need one other person to belay and all your gear fits into a daypack.

Conversely, the number of people and pads you need—not to mention tarps (to keep the pads dry), tree limbs (to flatten out landings), and tripods/video cameras (to record uncut footage of yourself sending the V-sickness!)—make the alpine bouldering in Colorado one of the most complicated, logistically annoying disciplines in all of climbing.

Further, it seems that boulderers, above all other faction of climbers, nitpick more about grades and climbing rules, such as the precise position of your hands when you start the problem. Ironically, bouldering grades are by far the most subjective of all climbing grades; the most open to variation. Therefore, they ought to be taken least seriously.

Instead, the opposite has happened. Today’s boulderers seem to want to define this slippery V-scale so, so badly. They want a way to define the difficulty of what they are doing, not so they can understand how they measure up to the rock, per se, but instead how they measure up against each other. Trying to legitimize the V-Scale, to me, is no different than chasing pots of gold while remaining blind to the beauty of the rainbow. Bouldering—what should be climbing’s simplest experience, just you and your own interaction with the rock—has suffered from the primal compulsion we have to make order out of chaos, even if that “order” comes at the expense of the environment, or a core human experience, or just simple natural beauty.

Ben Spannuth on his sick, new V6 in the Ice Caves.

At the Gollum’s Cave we found a roof with two rad problems that were staying dry despite the deluge. Two other boulderers walked by.

“Are these the Ice Caves?” one asked.

“Nope, those are just down the trail that way,” I replied.

“The Ice Caves look so sick,” the other said. “We saw them in the new Louder Than 11 video, and came to check them out.”

As they walked off, I felt bad knowing that they wouldn’t climb a single one of those problems—which are unique in that they get more highball as the cave’s floor of ice slowly melts away over the course of the season (it had already dropped about five feet since the LT11 video was made). These two guys only had two medium-sized pads, no tarps to keep their pads dry on the ice, and no tripods/video cameras to record themselves not sending. They were doomed.

Joined by our friends Will and CiCi, Jen and I placed our three and a half medium-sized pads (barely adequate, and already requiring two cars to transport) down beneath Choke Hold, the right roof problem, and began to work out the beta. Earlier that week, I had casually glanced at an online video of this particular problem, but in the moment couldn’t remember the beta specifics. It seemed improbable at first. I scrubbed some chalk off the dank rock.

Here’s another dirty little secret in climbing that no one talks about: The most permanent “damage” that climbers do to the stone isn’t bolting, chipping, gluing or cleaning. It’s chalk.

Bolts? So easy to take out and then fill in a little half-inch hole.

Chipped holds? Any expert with some epoxy and paint could erase the damage so you’d never know what happened.

But chalk? Just try restoring a rock to its natural pigment after 10-plus years of relentless magnesium-carbonate speckling. The Story of Two Worlds is an egregious example that comes to mind. Pretty soon, the whole thing will be so white that climbers will have to switch to colored tick-marks.

I thought about this as I brushed only a year’s worth of chalk, and began adding my own layer. Perhaps one day forensic scientists will be able to reveal the residual DNA embedded in the layers of chalk, like tree rings, and see how old the problem is and also decipher its chronology of ascents and number of tries for each person, which would put an end to a lot of the annoying hype, slander and spray that occupies so much of our online bouldering forums.

The four of us began working out the beta. Will pointed out that the problem “officially” tops out via a 25-foot free solo up and left on 5.6 jugs. But it was pouring rain, and this section was wet.

From reading various bouldering blogs, I also knew that I needed to start the problem with my hands in the same exact spot as the first ascentionst. Apparently, this is an important rule in bouldering if you want to get full credit. However, I forgot to ask the first ascentionst before coming out here about these scrupulous details; so I just started the problem in the way that made the most sense to me: both hands on the jug in the back of the roof. My hands were six inches apart from each other. Perhaps the first ascentionsts’ hands were eight inches apart?

Choke Hold is rated V10. I know the first ascentionist, and given his impressive credentials, I have no doubt that the way it was originally climbed warrants the double-digit grade. However the beta I figured out involved one knee bar, and seemed to lower the grade by a few notches.

After spending an hour figuring out the individual moves, I did the problem from the start on my first try. I didn’t top out on the 5.6 free-solo section, so I can’t actually claim a complete ascent. Plus I used a knee-bar that probably lowered the climbing to soft V7. I was psyched because I felt as if I had accomplished something—but what that was, exactly, I wasn’t sure. The rain stopped, we packed up and walked out. Overall, I felt conflicted.

I was most psyched about the process of starting with nothing, then figuring out this really improbable sequence with my friends (the best part). Climbing out the steep 20-foot roof, from start to lip, was a nice surprise, too (and the second best part).

But then, I was left with all these nagging little elements that somehow needed reconciliation:

What was the grade, because despite being so subjective, it somehow still mattered?

The difference in beta: should I avoid climbing the way that fits my body in order to contrive the difficulty/grade as set by the first ascentionst?

Not topping out the 5.6 free solo finish: does my ascent not “count” and, if so, will it bother me enough to return to the problem and do it again when the top is dry?

I shooed away those pesky quandaries buzzing around my head like flies. It was Independence Day, after all, and I decided that I should be free to climb how I want, the way I want, especially when it comes to bouldering.