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The White Raven

Descent: 1. Walk off in 25 minutes. From the top anchors, scramble 30 feet or so to the top where there is a nice broad area to relax in. From there, walk to the north along the ridge crest for 2 to 3 minutes passing 4 small trees, a vertical stick set in stones, and a survey pipe. Reach a broad area where an obvious, right traverse leads down to the talus via an obvious and easy path. Continue on down the left side of the talus and around Castaway Crag. Then traverse up and back to the base of Wizard's Gate. Rap the route. With a 60m rope, there are 5 raps to the base via 2-bolt anchors with chains: Rap 1 - 95 feet to rap anchors with chains about 10 feet above and left of the pitch 3 belay.

Rap 2 - 95 feet to the pitch 2 anchors with chains. Rap 3 - 80 feet to rap anchors with chains about 35 feet above the pitch 1 belay. Rap 4 - 35 feet to the pitch 1 anchors with chains. Rap 5 - 95 feet to the ground. With a 70m rope, the descent can be done with only 4 raps going from the pitch belay anchors.

The route begins with the established route, Riding with the Ravens , which is located in the left center of the main face at the Wizard's Gate. Protection The entire route is sport and protected with bolts and two-bolt anchors. Add New Photo Photo Photo copy. Dan working the opening overlap moves at the be…. The face area of Wizard's Gate on the Lower Gre…. Lauren in the distance leaving the belay at the…. View of Long's Peak and the high peaks from hig….

A topo of The White Raven. Comment Type:. Mountain Project Mountain Project. Please Confirm. Cancel OK. I am unable to hide my true self for very long, and I am either revealed by my actions or by my simple confession.


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I will not deceive my lover with lies and trickery. I have told myself time and time again to stay away from love but the pangs and yearnings cannot be ignored, not even by one such as myself. There is no fear on my face as I glare at the five men who have invaded my little home. Each one averts his eyes. As I inhale, my lungs fill with the thick, heavy air the men brought with them—full of sweat, dirt, whiskey, and anger. I glower at the still grinning man. The sound makes the men jump and look around, wide-eyed.

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Morris grunts and spits a brown mass onto the floor. I scoff.

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Feeling the mood of his men shift, Morris lurches forward. Emboldened by Morris, three other men follow.

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I do not cry out as they grip my arms and shoulders with rough, dirty hands. Morris binds my hands in front of me. The smell of their breath and body odor stings my nose. I am ushered from my home with shouts and laughter. The night is fresh and crisp after the all-day rain. I welcome the clean air into my lungs. He grips the boy by his collar.

Several men follow suit; some punctuate their exuberance with gunshots into the air. The horse underneath me snorts and pulls back from the man holding the reins, jerking her head from side to side. He yells obscenities at her and yanks her bridle. I run my hands along her taut neck and make her listen to my words in her mind.

She calms to the song I sing to her. I am paraded down the main street through town towards the cemetery where the gallows stands. Many outlaws have met their end in this manner, and it appears so will I. The cemetery is unusually bright this evening with torches on every fence post. They cast a harsh yellow glow onto the weathered wood of the gallows. I am aware of the shouts, calls, and other verbal assaults around me, but I hear nothing except the steady beating of my heart.

I focus on controlling my movements and breathing. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. While I am not afraid of death itself as I have done it eleven times before, it is the act of dying I fear. But I am pleased by the method they have chosen, for it is a fast end if done properly. I am shoved up the steps and I will my legs to keep up. I am jerked around into position in front of the freshly tied noose of new rope.


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  • Morris presents it and me to the crowd—the ringmaster to this circus. I catch the eye of the town preacher at the far end of the massive throng.

    Robert Wilson

    His face is smug and his eyes dance with spiteful glee. Morris continues to speak random sentences describing my unnatural and ungodly ways, inciting the crowd further. I look upon their hateful faces, devoid of any resemblance to the humans they were earlier in the day. I pity them all for their small, feeble minds. I become aware that Morris is attempting to put the noose around my neck.

    Much to his dismay, I am stronger than I have led him to believe. I am booed and hissed at, and the crowd calls for my immediate death. I clench my teeth and hiss back at them.

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    Their eyes do not meet mine. I have done only good deeds. Refute that, anyone! The people in the front look at the ground. In the silence, I hear the flapping of large wings and see the heavy flames of the torches dance in the air currents. I cannot see the creature but I know it. I have always known it. A sharp, angry cry from the bird peals out above the crowd. There are gasps and cries of fear; some crouch down as they stare into the black sky.

    Morris steps forward to speak, and my thoughts close his windpipe. He grips his throat, his eyes widening. My eyes warn him not to proceed.

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    I will be allowed to speak, Morris, but you no longer will. Your minds are small and petty. The only danger here is you. You believe you are ridding the world of some great evil tonight. But all you are doing is worsening your own lives. Ponder that as you lay your heads on your pillows. The evil here is you, for there is none in me. I release Morris from where he stands still gasping for air. As he tries to recover himself, he waves several men forward to put me back into place. Coughing is all he can manage as he puts the noose over my head and jerks it tight.

    When he is close to my face, he spits at me. The smell of it would be nauseating if I could feel anything other than rage. He shoves each man out of the way so he is the one to pull the lever that controls the trap door upon which I stand.


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    • He stumbles and is still sputtering to get words out, but he can only cough and spit. As my last act of defiance, I make those the only sounds that will ever come out of his mouth. My petty revenge makes me smile.