Everyone looked at us with interest, but some tourists on the trail stopped in their tracks to gawk slack-jawed.

I felt like wildlife.

"What are those?" they'd ask us.

Peter Beal, my climbing companion for the day, had a canned answer that explained bouldering, and why we carried crash pads on our backs. He's climbed in the park a lot and is used to the questions.

The tourists often still looked confused after the explanation.

Peter is a prolific local boulderer -- and artist and writer -- and when he offered to give me a tour of the bouldering in Chaos Canyon in Rocky Mountain National Park, I couldn't refuse. Chaos is a world-class bouldering destination, but true to its name, it's difficult to navigate.

I'm not much of a boulderer, I told Peter, but I'd love a tour. I'm capable of hauling my pad and giving you a spot, I added -- what else could I do to sweeten the deal of taking a noob boulderer out?

Fortunately, no sweetening was needed. Peter is a gentleman.

In May, I bought my first crash pad with lunch breaks on Flagstaff in mind. But when Peter wowed at my monstrous crash pad, I knew it wasn't appropriate for the 40-minute approach at altitude.

"I've never carried it further than the Monkey Traverse," I said.

"That's a big crash pad for just going to Flagstaff," he said.

"I'm chicken."

Instead of making fun of me, which I deserved, Peter's answer was to haul the monster to Chaos Canyon himself (Me: "No, I'll carry it." Peter: "No, chivalry isn't dead.").

I carried his two smaller pads strapped together. My load was still lighter.

The way up

We departed from Bear Lake toting our rectangles, and the gawking continued.

"Are you camping?" a woman asked us near Dream Lake.

"No, we're bouldering," we said, motoring past.

She whispered to a companion: "What did they say they were doing?"

When we arrived at Chaos Canyon -- me gassed, Peter fresh -- he guided us through the woods, into the maze of talus and dropped my monster pad.

At higher than 10,000 feet, it was a surreal bouldering setting for me, noob boulderer. I was out of breath as soon as I got on the rock. The only sound was wind, which whipped my hair into my face. I couldn't decide which visual I liked better: the neon lichen dotted among the black swirls of gneiss on our routes, or the gargantuan peaks-and-valley backdrop.

It was a wilderness experience, with padding -- a bouldering Shangri-La.

Peter wove us further in, and I teetered behind him. Crash pads are unwieldy, unbalanced sails when the wind kicks.

Teacher and student

When we arrive at the Gobot boulder, we see our first fellow boulderers, a young couple. They disappear and a solo boulderer arrives that Peter's met up here before.

Solo boulderer is 21, a student. Peter is 46, a professor. Peter tells me this is typical and calls himself an old man bouldering with 20-year-olds.

"You're not old, Peter," I say, knowing he's about to prove it. Sure enough, a few minutes later, we're at his V12 project, where Professor Beal transforms into Spiderman.

Climbing will keep teaching you if you stay open to the continued learning experience it offers -- so say "old" climbers.

Solo boulderer struggles to get off the ground. It's his first day on this problem, but I can't help thinking he just got served by his art history prof.

He's not bothered. He and Peter banter about possible ways to work the problem -- both are open to the learning experience.

Jenn Fields' Field Notes runs every Monday in the Colorado Daily.