Never a fan of guidebooks, I’ve long had a “just pick a route that looks good and climb“ mentality. “It’s supposed to be an adventure!“ I’d tell myself. This attitude carried me haphazardly (yet miraculously without incident) through many climbing trips. Until one fateful day at Colorado‘s Eldorado Canyon.

In early May of 2008, antsy from a snowy, frigid winter, My friend and I got a late start on the 6-pitch Yellow Spur (5.9 or 5.10b), opting not to bring the guidebook — we figured the line of least resistance would be obvious on this classic trade route. Six off-route pitches later, we collapsed onto a ridge, slightly below Tower One‘s summit. Benighted, we now faced what seemed like an impossibly treacherous slab descent. Even with headlamps, the ordeal took several hours. With the aid of a guidebook, we would have finished climbing while the sun still shone — or at least have known the best way down.

It was then that I realized with unfortunate clarity: of all the tools and tricks climbers have developed over the decades, the most important thing to bring on any vertical outing remains knowledge. Without knowledge of an area — its climate, formation, rock type, routes, and how to get from point A to point B — navigating even a straightforward “roadside” climbing area like Eldo can become an exercise in epic tenacity. As I peered down into the darkness from that ridge, no clear line of descent in sight, I began to revise my enthusiasm for adventure. Climbing, I decided, is adventurious enough with a guidebook.

After stumbling down from the East Slabs of the Redgarden Wall, shivering, exhausted, and adrenaline dosed, the first thing I did was fish the guidebook out of the back of my car — I wanted to know where the hell we’d gone astray. Sure enough, the topo showed clearly our mistake, namely bypassing the fourth pitch belay and veering right onto the 5.10b bolted variation. It also told of a bolted rappel route that could have spared us from our sketchy, multi-hour descent.

Although the knowledge was cold comfort, I could at least rest easier knowing that in the future, I wouldn’t wing it. Our epic was merely the result of ignorance. Fortunately, with so many good guidebooks — written or online — ignorance is easily dispelled.

Armed with my newfound appreciation for the guidebook, I decided to do some research into the topic and see what goes in to making one. In the course of interviews with several prominent guidebook authors, I discovered that creating a guidebook is not only time consuming but also expensive, frustrating, and, often, thankless. Any aspiring author must face a series of hurdles. To wit, he must keep as up-to-date as possible while getting his book to print (which can take 2-3 years); he must gather accurate information regarding route names, grades, history, and even location — this involves both climbing many of the routes or problems listed and/or conferring with locals and developers, some of whom may not agree with each other; further, he must ensure that access issues are properly dealt with (i.e., noting closures or omitting areas with sensitivities)... And ultimatley, the author must weather the slings and arrows of opinionated climbers who see and critique mercilessly his finished product. The intrepid few that still choose to undertake the task do so out of pure love — for an area or climbing in general, paving the way with their books for the rest of us.