25,000 MEMBERS. 25 ICONIC CLIMBING AREAS. 25 MEMBER STORIES.

We’re excited to share these stories and photos from our members highlighting 25 of the United States’ iconic climbing areas to celebrate our community of over 25,000 climbers.

Acadia national park

Land of the Wabanaki, Penobscot, and Abenaki tribes

There's something about climbing next to the seaside, and hearing the waves crash behind and below you that makes you realize that climbing is one of the most wonderful sports in the world. On a whim, my partner, myself, and a few climbing pals decided to go to Otter Cliffs. We set up a toprope for a super neat climb called the Great Chimney, and tried our hand at shimmying up the sea-worn rock.

The sounds of the ocean echoed up the chimney with us as we climbed. By the end of it, we all made it through and were exhilarated, and as college kids, that kind of exhilaration is a much needed reprieve from the stresses of life. Acadia has many awesome spots to climb, but Otter Cliffs (and of course, Acadia as a whole) will always have a special place in my heart.

—Pierce Kempkes, member since 2019

Buttermilks

Land of the Northern Paiute and Eastern Mono/Monache tribes

A product of the Midwest, I was limited in my exposure to climbing and places with names like Yosemite and Indian Creek and the Eastern Sierra seemed infinitely far away, unreal even. This was back when climbing could barely still be called fringe, teetering as it was on the edge of popular appeal. Gyms were few and far between, nobody lived in $70k vans, and the community still felt like a band of misfits, dirty and exposed, blissfully unemployed, camped under the stars and huffing the sport’s fading counter-cultural vapors. These were my people.

So, as with many things, I was first exposed to the Buttermilks through the internet. I watched in awe when a young Chris Sharma established The Mandala, a 20-year test piece ascending a striking, single line of weakness up an otherwise blank and overhung granite prow; behind, an immeasurable sea of boulders extended beyond the frame.

My mind became forever imprinted, filled with dreams of house-sized boulders under sweeping mountain vistas and the cornfields outside my window filled me with an indescribable existential dread. So the same day they handed me a diploma, I stuffed my life into the back of a Ford Explorer, pointed it west, and drove to Bishop—stopping only when the car broke down, which was often. I arrived in the Buttermilks three weeks later, rolling to a stop in the small hours of the morning, bedded down to sleep in a clearing of decomposed granite and dust, a ceiling of stars overhead.

The dawn lifted the skirt on an alien landscape—upending my Midwestern, horizontal sensibilities. A vista of high-desert sage expanded before me, stretched taught across a narrow valley floor, quickly yielding to an abrupt rise of jagged mountains—the mighty Eastern Sierra Nevada—a confluence which exploded from the earth’s crust as a near vertical wall rising 14,000’ into the sky, snowcapped and towering. At their foot, and strewn about the hillsides everywhere, were the boulders which had haunted my dreams: The Buttermilks. Erratic, granite juggernauts warming themselves with the early light like hulking gorillas in the mist.

That first morning I’ll never forget. I sprinted back and forth—cow-eyed and eager—exploring the near infinite opportunities to test my cornfed tendons on the notoriously unforgiving Bishop stone. It was a climber’s dream. A lifetime of problems in a setting that was as surreal as it was breathtaking. A smile spread across my face that, even 12 years later, has yet to diminish.

—Jeff Deikis, AAC Creative & Branding Director

Cathedral ledge

Land of the wabanaki, abenaki, and pequawket tribes

I got married on this ledge. We climbed up thin air and met everyone at the top for a ceremony on the cliff. We'll climb it again for our fifth wedding anniversary. I led and my husband belayed me up the face. It was so meaningful for us since climbing is such a core part of our relationship. In a marriage trust is the most important aspect and there's nothing more meaningful than trusting your partner with your life and trusting yourself with theirs.

—Sophia Buell, member since 2017

Denali

Land of the dena’ina, koyukon, and ahtna tribes

I’ve climbed for over 35 years, but never had the opportunity to climb Denali until a couple of friends of a Canadian friend of mine graciously asked if I wanted to join them. After several days of acclimatizing at 14,200 feet on Denali’s West Buttress, my two Canadian buddies didn’t feel well and decided to descend. My subsequent solo summit attempt in poor weather didn't go far, and I decided to go down myself - a very disappointing proposition after the months of preparation and work to get there. 

I packed up my sled for the ski slog down to the Kahiltna Glacier camp. That's when I met two angels: Guerin, "G", a 26 year old extreme snowboarder from Jackson, and Lee, a 40 year old climber also from Jackson. They were both also recently "orphaned" on the mountain when their partners descended. I call them angels because their presence transformed my experience on the mountain. 

As I remember it now, it feels like they materialized out of the fog at the 14.2 camp. We created a new team, “Denali Orphans”, and after a quick re-pack, we cruised to the high camp at 17,200 feet within several hours. In many ways, the three of us could not have been more different—not only in age, but also in our life trajectories. Yet on the climb we easily became one, and our differences off the mountain didn't matter. 

For me, the summit was ethereal since I had convinced myself earlier that I would not be there. After the long ski down and the return home to Colorado, I felt indebted to G and Lee. I've since realized that they are actual people, if not true angels, and we even got to do a reunion Denali Orphans climb/ski of Mt. Hood this past March. I learned that despite the crazy, circus atmosphere of Denali's West Buttress route, there are going to be great people on the mountain, and it is still possible to have a magical experience.

—Ivar Reimanis, member since 1995

Devil’s lake

Land of the sauk and meskwaki, ho-chunk (winnebago), miami, and Očeti Šakówiŋ (Sioux) tribes

Devil’s lake is my “local” crag and my first exposure to outdoor climbing. The quartzite is smooth and slick, which adds a bit of complexity and head game. Last January, we had an unseasonably warm day in Wisconsin, reaching the 60s (averages typically are in the 20s-30s). My climbing partner and I hiked up the snow and ice-filled trail to get to the top of the bluffs to practice placing gear and building anchors for an upcoming trip to Red Rock Canyon. After topping out on one of the classic trade routes at Devil's Lake, we realized that the (typically easy) descent was covered in icy snow and we were only in climbing shoes. While downclimbing a small tower, I got too nervous about the consequences of a fall zone if I slipped on the ice at the base, and we ended up building an impromptu anchor so I could comfortably pull the moves and have protection if I lost my footing. 

This experience was one of many where the conditions at Devil's Lake mentally strengthened my climbing and built my problem solving techniques. The slick rock means you have to be very mindful with gear placements and trust your feet, and the weather in Wisconsin sometimes means you have to deal with the elements, whether that be hot and humid summers or freezing cold Craggin’ Classics. Being able to climb at the Lake in January is a rare opportunity, so that day was one for the memory books, not only because of the time of year, but also because of how efficiently my partner and I were able to get through adversity and stay safe while having fun. 

Devil's Lake will always hold a special place in my heart as the place I learned to trad climb, build anchors, and understand what sandbagging actually means. The bluffs at Devil's Lake are full of challenging climbs, both physically and mentally, and I will always cherish my days cragging at The Lake.

—Christine Grady, member since 2018

Photo: Barbara Noseworthy Collection

Devils tower

Land of the Apsaalooké (Crow), Cheyenne, Očeti Šakówiŋ (Sioux), and Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara tribes

The morning of the climb, I was quite nervous. Not because we were getting married, but because the route was harder than anything I had climbed. As a party of five, we were extremely slow, and several times my maid of honor and I had to get an assist from our belayer. It was probably my most inelegant climb, with lots of grunting, swearing, and occasionally even using my knees...

But I kept it together emotionally, and instead of looking down at the long drop, I stayed focused on the route and what I had to do next. After hours of climbing, we finally reached the top where the minister conducted a brief ceremony...

Next would come the long process of rappelling the route. For me, this was the most unnerving part—I really did not enjoy looking at a rope at my feet, trying hard to trust the anchors, and then leaning back. More frightened of rappelling than of getting married, I was so relieved to finally make it down as the sun was starting to set.

—Barbara Noseworthy (submitted by James Cunningham, member since 2010)
Excerpt from “A Marriage on the Rocks by Barbara Noseworthy”, published by The Climbing Zine

Eldorado canyon state park

Land of the cheyenne and ute tribes

Eldo is the closest iconic climbing area to me, and my favorite place to climb. I cut my trad teeth on these beautiful towers and fell in love with the sport. Being in recovery from alcoholism and an eating disorder, climbing has been instrumental in my recovery and in truly figuring out who I am and what I love. This year, I led all pitches on a few different multi-pitch classics in Eldo, including this picture of the beautiful hand traverse on Rewritten.

—Beth Sager, member since 2018

hueco tanks

Land of the Mansos and Mescalero Apache tribes

Hueco Tanks was where I went bouldering outside for the very first time! I was terrified and had no idea what it was going to be like, but I ended up meeting some really strong and kind climbers and having a great time. I was also very lucky to have had the opportunity to climb on such high quality boulders for my first time outside.

—Blair Wong, member since 2018

hyalite canyon

Land of the Apsaalooké (Crow), Salish Kootenai, and Cheyenne tribes

The House of Hyalite! This destination should be on every ice climber’s list of necessary pilgrimages. Providing both the accessibility of East Coast ice crags and the adventure of rugged Western landscapes, this ice climbing venue is world renown. A recent college graduate, I moved to Bozeman to spend a winter focused on ice climbing. During that winter, I attended my first Bozeman Ice Festival and was visited by a dear friend and Vermont crusher, Alden Pellet. We walked up the canyon to climb the Dribbles, a classic WI4 that offered a great warmup before heading over to an old Alex Lowe route called Responsible Family Men (RFM), WI5-. As we started up the Dribbles, we ran into multiple other parties (because of course, it's a climbing festival...) and we had the opportunity to chat with the up-and-coming Caroline Gleich, as well as Bozeman local-legend Doug Chabot. After completing a successful trip up RFM, we bumped into Joe Josephson, Conrad Anker, and local guide Sam Magro mingling with BIF participants in the Grotto Falls parking lot. Looming high above us was the iconic Winter Dance, a climb nearly every ice climber aspires to complete. 

Over the years I came to understand why so many well-known climbers have spent time in this special canyon. It provides a real sense of adventure in a way few other ice climbing destinations in the lower 48 do. On a cold day when the wind is whipping, Hyalite can beat you down, but when the sun comes out and the clouds lift, there's a certain magic to the place that overcomes you. This photo is of myself climbing The Good Looking One WI5 on a recent trip that my wife and I took to Bozeman. Few places offer such a feast of ice as early as Thanksgiving! Hyalite's appeal has come over many climbers. I know my wife and I visit every chance we can.

—Taylor Luneau, AAC Policy Manager

Photo: Harry Hahn

joshua tree

Land of the Cahuilla, Chemehuevi, Newe (Western Shoshone), and Yuhaviatam/Maarenga’yam (Serrano) tribes

Joshua Tree was one of the first places I climbed in my early 20s - it wasn't as crowded back then, and I recall it being stout and empty. There I learned to appreciate the un-empathetic desert and a piercing solitude that forces introspection. It was one of the last places I climbed before I left for the Navy, deploying all over the world. After an intense and life changing 6 years, I left the Navy and dove back into climbing as soon as I could. 

Climbing was a way to restore, recharge, and introspect - a cliché search for one's true self in the great wild. J-Tree was the first place I returned to. Although much had changed - my life, our country, and the crowds - the desert was still beautiful, cold, harsh, and mysterious. Inexplicably, I found that paradoxical and persistent harshness comforting - it certainly captures the experience of climbing. If one stared hard enough into a cholla cactus, they might find that it was also universal truth of existence. 

This last trip in December was particularly unique. A massive storm dropped a foot of snow on the park, and I spent six days searching for anything climbable, getting on a bunch of random boulders and routes that had varying amounts of snow, ice, and water. In the photo we're getting off of Sidewinder (.10b PG13, Outback, Steve Canyon). There was so much snow and ice we had to belay each other, giving the experience an other-worldly alpine feel. Unsurprisingly, I had not prepared for snow and it was rough - yet the stark beauty of a snow-covered desert was centering. And as with every J-Tree trip, I left with a banged up body and a full heart.

—Jonathan Lim, member since 2013

looking glass

Land of the Tsalaguwetiyi (Cherokee, East) tribe

There’s nothing like a classic, Southern sandbag! In 2014, I was a California climber moving out to North Carolina to get my master's degree. I came in with low expectations about everything—the people, the cities, and especially the rocks. I was ready to get in, get my degree, and get out. And nothing highlights how wrong I was about North Carolina like Looking Glass Rock! In NC, I found some of the best friends, happiest places, and most exciting climbing adventures of my life!

Looking Glass is simply gorgeous, emerging from the thick, loblolly pines of Pisgah National Forest like some strange, forgotten tortoise. Unreal eyebrow features speckle three of its aspects while its north face is dominated by soaring cracks. Without fail, every one of my trips to Looking Glass was a terrifying, joyous, ecstatic adventure! It is impossible to forget tiptoeing up eyebrows through biting wind a million miles past my last piece of gear, or the endless blind placements aiding through the crux of Glass Menagerie, or how well the view from the top pairs with a warm beer. The list goes on, but one memory stands out from the rest.

One spring, my friend Blake and I were driving from Raleigh to Stone Fort for a Triple Crown event. On the way, we swung by Looking Glass to tag a quick, 3-pitch 5.8. Little did we know that the route is also known as the “World's Hardest 5.8”. And that it was. I placed blind pieces of gear above my head on pitch one as I locked off in the shallow, flared, awesome, wide crack. Blake heroically ventured through the overlapping "5.8" crux that required 5.10 grunting. We quested our way up and tunneled through trees as we made up the end of the climb after the topo ran out. It was an amazing day that wore us to the bone and left huge smiles on our faces. The warm beer tasted particularly good that day.

We eventually made it to Stone Fort hours after we told our friends we'd be there and attempted to relate the adventures of the day to a bunch of boulderers who know nothing of suffering up in the air. Just kidding, they're good people that mostly made fun of us for not knowing to take that route more seriously!

I don't know when I'll return to North Carolina and its lovely climbing, but Looking Glass will forever be one of my favorite climbing spots in this world and an icon of the Southeast. It's hard to think of a single monolith like Looking Glass that has so consistently delivered me such memorable and diverse climbing experiences.

—Michael Drake, member since 2017

moab area

Land of the ute and pueblos tribes

I go to Indian Creek to recharge; I feel small, wild, and creative in the desert. It's where I climb when I want to push myself outside of my comfort zone; to remind myself what I'm capable of. Most importantly, it's where I go to remember what's at stake if these lands aren't cared for and protected. 

—Whitney Bradberry, member since 2011

mount rainier

Land of the Puyallup, Puget Sound Salish, Coast Salish, and Nisqually tribes

I climbed Mount Rainier for the first time in 1985, guided by Rainier Mountaineering Inc. I'm from Nebraska, but was working at KIRO TV in Seattle, and would marvel at the view of Rainier on clear days from the city. I made it a goal to climb it.

I had done some high altitude hikes in the Colorado Rockies, but had very little climbing experience, and no glacier experience. I took training from Phursumba Sherpa and Lou Whittaker of RMI. I convinced Sony to lend me one of their new betacams to film the climb, which was a one-piece 25 pound camera, rather than using the 3/4 inch video tape camera and separate recorder that we were still using at the TV station. I believe this was the first time that a climb was videotaped.

RMI guide Gary Talcott carried my camera on the two-day climb, and I carried the tripod, tapes, and batteries. We would start up about 30 minutes before the rest of the climbers, and then stop and set up the camera and shoot the group approaching and passing us. When they took a break, we would continue climbing to set up again.

I was often hit with altitude sickness on the climb. I was inexperienced in dealing with altitude and had come up from sea level in Seattle the evening before the climb, allowing no time to acclimate. Fortunately, the waves of sickness would hit me at points where I could not stop, and would settle down when I was in a place that I could have stopped.

The video piece that I produced from that climb won a NATAS Emmy. My friendship with Phursumba Sherpa led to treks in the Himalaya and the Karakoram, and incredible lifetime relationships with his Sherpa family. Other friendships from the climb with Phil Ershler, Lou Whittaker, Gary Talcott and others provided me with lifetime experiences and stories. I climbed Mount Rainier two more times, camping in the crater on the last climb, and each time I felt it was one of the toughest feats I had ever experienced, despite having done additional climbing in Colorado, India, Ladakh, and Africa. Mount Rainier will always be my spiritual center.

—Mele Mason, member since 2012

Photo: Luke Lindeman

New River gorge

Land of the tutelo and moneton tribes

I’m at the New River Gorge Craggin’ Classic. A big party is about to start, but I’m just scrambling to borrow pads and some tape. I find people to come with me, and I borrow a headlamp. I’m dying to get on the Souvenir Roof Crack. It’s a 30-foot long boulder problem roof crack that is right around the corner from the Craggin’ dance party. This monstrous crack is usually full of crickets, spiders, and is always condensed. In my gut, I know it must be bone dry. It hasn’t rained in a month. I just want to get on this thing, and I’m running around the event to see who might be stoked to come play. I drag folks with me, through the woods, through the party, pushing their little padded backs through all the distractions. Let’s go! 

Midnight hour. I have a crowd of climbers watching and cheering me on, but no one is working it with me. I keep exploding out of the hand stacks onto the pads below me. The crowd is encouraging, but I’m feeling a bit dejected as the crack keeps spitting me out. Most people leave after midnight, but I have my boyfriend, Pat, who first climbed the route and named it Souvenir Crack, and two friends left, cheering me on. Everyone is great. They’re scrubbing the top out, holding lights, and are super supportive. I get so close, but each burn is killing me. I collapse onto a crash pad and wait it out. I’m hurting a lot. My skin hurts. I’m breathing hard. I’m exhausted, but am finally starting to make links. Doubt creeps in—I feel close but I’m starting to think “oh well, maybe another day”. Last burn, I have to try again, so I do. I muster the energy and lock in. There are some moves getting out of a wide pod which grits my skin off my arms. I’m raw at this point. I grunt through it, pained but moving along. I desperately wish I had on long sleeves and pants but whatever, I’m here. Around 1am, I’ve shuffled and stacked my way past the crux! I start yelling for Pat’s spot. I shuffle my legs in deep into the last section.

Here I am, in the wide section. All I have to do is remain calm and walk my legs deep in the crack. Pat keeps telling me, “be calm, be calm, keep breathing”. I’m frantically trying to get a hand stack that’s too wide for me. I’m really starting to panic, and he tells me to put my hand just in front of my shin instead to relax. Woah, it works. Then snap, I find a tiny crimp and roll my way into the kneebar rest. Here, I’m trying to be calm but also be realistic. I didn’t do the top out yet. I really don’t know the beta. I ready myself and reach out pretty far. Oops, too far—I rally back to the kneebar, and regain composure. Here, my right arm and neck are starting to burn. I’m in such an awkward position that I can feel the trigger points in my neck starting to ping. I reach out again, this time finding a jug undercling - this move just got way easier. With the next move, I very carefully place my foot on a tiny little lip and weight it. I tried bad beta a few times, and then finally committed to the roll over and holy cow, I just topped this strange off-width roof crack in the woods. 

—Amanda Smith, member since 2017

North cascades

Land of the Nlaka’pamux, Coast Salish, Puget Sound Salish, Nooksack, and Skagit tribes

I spent nearly a month climbing in the North Cascades. After several years of learning all of the skills, the trip was my first attempt at scaling glaciers outside of a classroom context. First up was the Fischer Chimney route on Shuksan—a climb I sorely underestimated. Just because the beta says "Class III scramble" and the peak is only 9,000 feet high doesn't mean it's easy. This ol' flatlander had her ass handed to her on that climb and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Another favorite memory in the North Cascades was watching the sunset at the foot of the Coleman Glacier on Mt. Baker. Golden light reflecting off the Pacific Ocean to the west, saturating the Canadian mountains to the north, I was profoundly aware of how small I was in such a vast landscape. And what a special privilege it was to be able to see so much of the earth in one shot.

—Grayce Holcomb, member since 2018

Photo: Brian Russell

red river gorge

Land of the Osage, Tsalaguwetiyi (Cherokee, East), Shawnee, Adena, and Hopewell tribes

This is where I learned to climb. I had to work through a lot of personal struggles after moving to Lexington, KY for a job. Some of the first people who I met there were climbers and they introduced me to the local bouldering gym and the Red. When I was climbing, my troubles seemed to subside and it was a wonderful divergence from my own toxic thoughts. Ultimately, I think climbing helped me overcome those struggles by providing a supportive social circle and giving me the confidence to move forward.

—Zachary Clare-Salzler, member since 2017

red rock canyon

Land of the Southern Paiute and Newe (Western Shoshone) tribes

In Falcon Guides’ Best Climbs in Red Rocks, there is a passage that embodies why this place is near and dear to my heart: "Las Vegas is a place where people come to lose themselves in their fantasies, and climbers are no different. Most visitors try to fulfill those fantasies in the adult Disneyland that is Sin City. But a few of us know the truth. Dreams don't come true on the strip. They come true in the desert, on the cliffs, crags, and mountains of the Red Rocks of Southern Nevada".

It was amongst those soaring towers of ruby sandstone that many of my climbing dreams did come true. After my second year of medical school, I finally got a chance to lead my first trad multi-pitch route, Cat in the Hat. It was in this brief escape from the endless volumes of medical textbooks that I was finally free to fulfill that calling toward the rock. I can still remember vividly that despite all this enthusiasm, the first thing I felt when I gazed upon that route was fear.

The route, void of protection bolts, looked vastly different from the sport climbing routes I was accustomed to in the Southeast. Here, the routes were significantly longer and the exposure very, very real. If I had to be honest with myself, the thought of finally transitioning into trad climbing at the legendary Red Rocks Canyon was terrifying. Could I safely lead my partner to an epic send without injury? Would I be able to climb all the moves? Would my gear hold? These were not the kind of thoughts conducive to a pleasant climbing experience. But I remember how this doubt began to fade as I began climbing. It was in that transient moment, where the fear and uncertainty evaporated like rain in the desert, that made Red Rocks that much more special. I had an opportunity to overcome my fears. Even when I felt the moves were difficult, I got to prove to myself that I had the technical acumen to successfully climb a multi-pitch route. 

I climbed at a proficient level with zero takes and falls. I got a chance to see one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen at the top of the climb. And most importantly, I got a chance to share a ledge with one of my closest friends and bask in the glory of our send. Although the difficulty of the climb was a mere 5.6 on the Yosemite Decimal Scale, to me it was one of my greatest achievements. Not because of the technical knowledge or skill involved, but because I was able to experience something many would say is at the soul of climbing: resilience.

So when I reflect on this experience, I view Red Rock Canyon as a place of enchantment, where the impossible becomes possible. From my first trad multi-pitch to my first 5.11a outside, Red Rocks has been the sanctuary in which I’ve crafted my skills. Here within these walls, resilience in the face of adversity can bring much success and sends.

—Kevin Emmanuel Moriles, member since 2018

rocky mountain national park

Land of the ute, cheyenne, and arapaho tribes

I moved to Colorado with Rocky Mountain National Park at the front of my mind. Flipping through guidebooks convinced me that it was the premiere alpine area in the Front Range, but upon arrival I found I could barely get off the ground. I discovered that routes are rarely “in”, frequently avalanche threatened, and always brutally windy. For a couple of years, I spent more days looking at weather forecasts than actually climbing in the park. When rumors surfaced that work would be taking me out of state and I would have less than a year left to climb all these classic routes, it drove me into a frenzy.

Weather in the park is never good, forecasts are never reliable, and I learned to be prepared no matter the conditions. I incorporated skiing to open up additional dimensions to this alpine playground. I recruited like-minded, obsessive, eccentric partners (at least by the standards of the rock crag), and we began showing up at the Bear Lake and Longs Peak trailheads fully equipped for ice, mixed, and ski mountaineering, and picked our objectives by avalanche forecasts, wind speeds, and snow depth at the parking lot. 

Some days we’re still literally blown away, or make a 4-hour approach only to shelter in the alpine equivalent of a foxhole, waiting in futility for better conditions that never arrive. Viable days for big objectives come by surprise, but small unremarkable objectives done in horrid weather became full value adventures and unsuspecting highlights of my season.

When I came to Colorado, I would rush out mid-week to catch the conditions I needed for dream routes, but now I pick my routes to match the conditions, discovering solitude and adventure without an epic car ride or ever boarding a plane. The park taught me to appreciate the mountains in their entirety, to accept them as they are, and to embrace creativity and play in a multifaceted landscape that will never accommodate me, but can welcome me when approached with an open mind.

I’ve now spent more time climbing in the park than in any other climbing area. There are a handful of dream lines I’ve climbed or skied in that time, but those simply became the icing on the cake. Instead I’ve fallen in love with a landscape, and found a community of climbers who share that love. It’s what I miss most about climbing in Colorado and I can’t wait to get back.

—Bogdan Petre, member since 2016

rumney rocks

Land of the wabanaki and abenaki tribes

Rumney is where I learned to climb as a young and dumb college kid. My best friend and main climbing partner and I cut our teeth there and learned to push ourselves, eventually both beginning careers as mountain guides a few years later. He died a few years ago in a crevasse fall and to this day, I think about Rumney as the place where our friendship really began. I have a lot of nostalgia around memories of blasting Shakira, Men at Work, and rap music, driving way too fast along 25A to get to Waimea after class. 

There was one season where we climbed 5-6 days a week there and both managed to bump a number grade on the exact same day, my first 12 and his first 13. We would go to Main Cliff and set up a toprope on Underdog when no one was there, and do as many laps as we possibly could for a workout. So many good times at Rumney and so many good memories of a great climber and an even better friend.

—Randall Stacy, member since 2015

smith rock state park

Land of the Tenino and Warm Springs tribes

Smith Rock has become a very special place for my son and I. A good friend is the owner at Smith Rock Climbing School. So we set our sights to tackle our first multi-pitch together when he was 11 years old. On the hike to climb First Kiss (the most aptly named route for his first multi-pitch), we saw the iconic Monkey Face for the first time in person. At that moment we knew we had to climb it.

Less than a year later, we achieved our goal and climbed the West Side Variation. We had never done any aid, and without a single hesitation, my boy charged the pitch. The picture is of me watching him charge, and I am literally in tears of joy and pride watching him slay that aid pitch. Quite a stretch for a shorty. Standing on the top together was one of our best father-son moments together and forever cemented his love for climbing. Smith Rock = Happy Place.

—Robert Praul, member since 2013

the gunks

Land of the lenape tribe

In 2015, I was 30 years old. I was fortunate to have founded an immensely successful tech startup a few years prior that had recently made the list of fastest growing companies in America. Having been raised in an impoverished dead-end town in central Maine, my family and friends thought I was on top of the world. What more could anyone ask for? In the midst of all this success, however, most days I still felt unfulfilled and empty.

Disconnected from the larger world around me, I worked 7 days a week to expand the company I had founded in 2011… until a group of unlikely friends—different in many ways, but all over-stressed business-people—decided to drive outside the confines of New York City and visit The Gunks. Driving north from the city can be a sharply ameliorating experience, a lightening that can be sensed by degrees with every crossed latitude.

We arrived shyly to the Gunks’ carriage road and with worried wonderment, we gawked at the many skilled trad climbers defying gravity as they worked their way up the impressively over-hung quartz conglomerate walls. It seemed impossible to move as they did, protected only by little mechanical devices that my untrained eyes were convinced would break with the slightest amount of force. When the day was over we regrouped for a beer in nearby New Paltz. Cautiously, and without many words spoken, we broached the idea of trad climbing ourselves. I think we all knew that the exotic excitement was too much for any of us to resist. We had been hooked before even knowing what a cam was.

Our dedication rapidly shifted from the business world, and after much work with some excellent local guides and mentors, I was ready to take on the sharp end of a rope. Armed with my newly acquired knowledge of trad climbing and a second-hand franken-rack, I decided to lead up the classic 5.8 climb called Cascading Crystal Kaleidoscope. A little scared, over-protected, and likely quite clumsily, I lead up to the crux on the exposed third pitch and paused. With a rapidly beating heart I tried to visualize how to overcome the next few moves of steep cracked rock, but my mind wandered. Acutely aware of the growing pump in my arms, it occurred to me that I was the most present I’d been in years. The most connected to my body I had been, maybe ever. And with curious comprehension I realized that this exact place, hanging improbably from a hand crack hundreds of feet from the ground, struggling to stay safe, was the exact place where I wanted to be. This is where I was most free. This was where I was the happiest. The beautifully exposed rock of CCK. The unlikely proximity of The Gunks. The wonderful friendship forged while learning to move over rock. It was intoxicating enough to re-write my story entirely and I welcomed it wholeheartedly as I pulled the last moves to the top.

5 years later, this group of fervent friends and I have climbed all over the world together. From cragging in Kalymnos and Potrero, to wall climbing in Zion and Yosemite. Ice climbing in New Hampshire and Ouray to alpine climbing in Bolivia and Chamonix. The Gunks will always feel like our home crag, but we have since discovered a childish sense of wonder for rock and ice. The mountains have become our playground.

I left New York and left the company too, though it is in very capable hands. I care deeply about the wonderful people who work there and I cheer them on from the sidelines. My goals, however, have changed. I no longer look for ways to grow a company or achieve revenue goals. I look to grow myself, learning from movement on rock, and I help friends achieve their goals in the mountains.

Now in 2020, I am 35 years old. From the driver’s seat of an ‘87 Westfalia Van, I can look back at the 10 years I spent in NYC and all that I gave up in pursuit of movement and mountains. Everything I own now fits neatly in small cabinets around the back seats. I am always moving forward these days, and I have never been happier.

—Josh Walsh, member since 2017

the tetons

Land of the Shoshone-Bannock, Eastern Shoshone, and Cheyenne tribes

The Tetons were my first venture outside the gentle and "friendly" Colorado Rockies and Sierra Nevada, and my introduction to alpine climbing. On my first visit in early July 2010, I summited Buck Mountain, Owen, Teewinot, and the Grand. Not knowing about the Climbers' Ranch, I slept in my car in parking lots as I usually do. 

I might not have returned to the Tetons, since I had climbed most of the well-known peaks, had I not heard about Work Week at the Climbers’ Ranch. A week of physical labor in exchange for most of a month's accommodation in the park was an offer I could not pass up. After a week of staining cabins and decks, I got out climbing almost every day for the rest of June 2011. Fortunately, I also spent enough time around the Ranch to get to know the Work Week crew. 

Since then, I have climbed most routes that interest me in the range, some more than once, but still return to the Tetons each June because of the friends I have met during Work Week. It is this culture, along with the challenging and varied climbing, that make the Tetons special.

—Sean O’Rourke, member since 2017

 

wind river range

Land of the Shoshone-Bannock, Apsaalooké (Crow), Eastern Shoshone, and Cheyenne tribes

The remoteness of the area is one of the most alluring aspects of climbing in the Wind River Range. Combine that with soaring walls of immaculate alpine granite, and you've got an all-time climbing destination. I've hiked into the Cirque of the Towers with my buddy Collin for only a single night these last two summers, so my experience is very limited, but the impression that place has left on me is monumental.

The two little missions we've completed on Pingora and Wolfs Head feel like dreams, they were so quick. I feel like we snuck in and tasted some forbidden fruit, and now I'm hooked! I hope to return for a week or two one day and spend some serious time exploring this truly magical area - maybe we'll even hire a team of pack goats!

—Will Maness, member since 2018

yosemite national park

Land of the central sierra miwok tribe

Yosemite National Park has always been a special place to me. It was where my parents had their baby moon (so my first visit was as a baby in the womb!), and I grew up as a kid running through the valley on family camping trips. In my early 20s, I broke off a long engagement where I had completely lost myself and who I was, at the expense of making my partner happy. I spent almost every weekend exploring the trails in Yosemite, getting lost in the wilderness and backpacking under the stars. Hiking Half Dome was such a magical experience for me, where I got to bond with myself, who I was, and how much being outdoors made me happy. 

When I picked up climbing, Yosemite's Cathedral Peak was one of my first big trad climbs and it was where I had my first "mind over matter" experience where I realized that if you set your mind to it, you could accomplish anything. Panicking, freaking out, the waterworks—none of that will get you to the summit. Assessing the situation and focusing on what you could do at the very moment was what was going to get you to the summit. Topping out at the top of Cathedral was an amazing view, and it will always hold a special place in my heart.

—Michelle Zhang, member since 2019

zion national park

Land of the southern paiute and pueblos tribes

Since my first trip seven years ago, something about Zion has put me at ease. The climbing can be difficult, exposed, and intimidating, but when I’m in the canyon it feels like it's where I’m supposed to be. It’s a feeling I don’t get elsewhere. Yosemite and the Black Canyon seem like they’re trying to kill me. Smaller venues don’t capture my attention quite well enough. But when I’m in Zion, my restlessness calms and I stress less about being away from my wife and kids, or about the next pitch. It grabs me and I can focus, I can push myself, and I can pursue goals that take years to verbalize, let alone realize.

During my first trip in 2013, we aid climbed Moonlight Buttress. By the campfire that night we dreamed about what type of climber we'd have to be to free the entire route. It wasn’t until last Spring that I was able to pull it off.

In this picture, I’m soaking up the morning sun during our free ascent, which was split into two days. As always, the canyon had me calm and at home, despite the exposure of the bivy and the pressure that I felt to fulfill a dream that day.

—Shane Johnson, AAC Membership and Marketing Director