Matt and I walk at a casual pace into the Flatirons, packs full of gear. The pine-scented air is warm and dusty as we cross the Mesa Trail and follow the meandering path into Fern Canyon. For now, the phone in my pocket is only for photos: no notifications, no checking email. Just good conversation with a friend and the sound of leaves crunching under our shoes.

Up at the crag, would-be views of Boulder, Denver and the eastern plains are obscured by towering sandstone walls full of color — the same walls we are here to climb. On one route I hang from a three-finger edge with my right hand while, for balance, my left heel pulls on a flat, red hold the size of an iPhone. My heart thumps audibly, the skin of my right hand scraping against the stone. I control my breath while deciphering the

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