The Prescription—Groundfall

It’s September, and the summer 2026 heat wave is, we hope, over. Now it’s time to get out and climb. As a reminder to both trad and sport climbers, the unthinkable can happen. In the case of this month’s Prescription, a quickdraw came unclipped from a bolt hanger.

Back in 2024, the first time we featured a quickdraw unclipping met with widespread disbelief and skepticism. Similar accidents have happened over the years—in this latest case, in November 2025, a climber clipped the first bolt on a tricky 5.7 and asked her belayer to take while she worked out the moves. She then led on past, slipped, fell, and the draw unclipped, sending her 15 feet to the ground. The climber suffered a torn ACL and MCL and sustained a concussion, but her helmet saved her from more serious injury. Fortunately, she has recovered and is climbing once more.

 In November 2025, the High Wire Crag in Clear Creek Canyon, Colorado, was the scene of a groundfall when a quickdraw unclipped from a bolt hanger. Photo by PeakDreamz.

Ground Fall | Quickdraw Unclipped During Fall

Clear Creek Canyon, High Wire Crag, Colorado

On November 14, 2025*, at 3:30 p.m., a female climber (Climber X, 23) sustained serious injuries after falling 15 feet to the ground. She had been leading Stone Cold Moderate (5.7) at the High Wire Crag in Clear Creek Canyon and had clipped the first bolt with an unextended alpine quickdraw. As she manteled past the bolt, she fell. The draw came unclipped from the bolt hanger and she fell to the ground. The fallen climber’s belayer was Adam Page (23). He wrote to ANAC:

“Another climber led the route and lowered. Climber X got ready to lead the climb. We stick-clipped the first bolt since it was high on the initial overhang. Some entries on Mountain Project describe this section as “bouldery,” “heady,” and harder than the crux of an adjacent 5.9. After tying in, X started up and was having trouble getting past the first bolt and onto the easier slab above the overhang. She hung on the bolt several times before figuring out the mantel moves past the bolt. As her waist passed the bolt, she slipped and fell. As she fell, the carabiner unclipped from the bolt and she fell 15 feet to the ground. She landed on her ankle and then hit her head on the ground. She had forgotten her helmet that day, and I luckily had given her mine to wear.

A friend who was observing called 911. I held X’s head stable until the paramedics arrived about 30 minutes later; it took 2.5 hours to get her into an ambulance. X suffered a concussion, an ankle injury, abrasions, and a torn ACL and MCL that later required knee surgery”

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Analysis

We looked at a photo that we took of her climbing before she fell, and the carabiner was clipped correctly into the bolt. As she was climbing, she moved straight up, with her waist only a few inches over the bolt. For this climb, one starts to the right, moves left, and then passes directly over the bolt for the mantel. After the mantel, you stand up on good footholds above that first bolt and then move left to clip the second. 

I think that as she manteled or as she fell, her harness or body contacted the unextended alpine draw, and that moved the hanger end carabiner in such a way as to open the gate and cause it to unclip. The bolt, carabiner, and sling appeared to be in good condition. 

The next day when I retrieved my gear and re-created the accident, I tested how easily the draw could unclip. It was pretty easy to cause it to unclip. The type of draw—alpine or dog bone—didn’t affect whether it would unclip or not. The bolt on Stone Cold Moderate was a glue-in style. When testing on a more common ASCA sheet-metal hanger, the draw would not unclip for me. 

On a route where a single protection point is critical, it’s worth clipping both ends with a locking carabiner. Also, in this accident, her helmet almost certainly prevented a far more serious head injury. Also, pre-clipping a high bolt is good practice.

(Source: Adam Page and the Editors.)

*This unpublished report describes an accident that occurred at the end of 2025. It is important enough to warrant inclusion in the next edition of ANAC.

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Video Analysis—Bold Unclipped During Fall

Jason Antin goes out to the accident site to explain what we *think* happened. The biggest takeaway is to orient the carabiner's gate AWAY from your direction of travel.

Pete Takeda @pete_takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing; IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin @jasonantin; Producers: Shane Johnson and Sierra McGivney @sierra_mcgivney; Videographer: Foster Denney @fosterdoodle_; Editor: Sierra McGivney @sierra_mcgivney; Location: Clear Creek Canyon, CO

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Get Outside Safely—Rescue Coverage

Whether you’re questing off on the twentieth pitch, or checking a landing zone for a boulder, having the AAC’s rescue benefit is a critical step for safety in climbing–ensuring you can find your flow a little more easily knowing we have your back in the case of a medical emergency.

Join the AAC today at the Partner level or higher, and back up your protection with up to $7,500 in rescue benefit and $5,000 in medical-expense coverage. 

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The Line—First Ascent of Duality of Man, America’s First 5.15d

Bailey locked into a wild Rose move on the Duality of Man headwall, with its porcelain-hard orange-and-white rock and microscopic handholds. Photo by Ben Neilson (@neilson.ben)

5.15d Comes to America

The Dry Canyon, an hour southeast of Tucson, Arizona, is a forbidding place. Tucked within the sere Whetstone Mountains in the Sonoran Desert, the Dry is comprised of a scarp of limestone running up a sunbaked hill, home to scree, cacti, rattlesnakes…and sometimes sport climbers. The one time I visited, we busted our rental car’s oil pan on the 4x4 road and I got heat exhaustion walking up the hill, albeit it in late April, when the crag is well out of season.

With 100-plus mostly attainable sport routes in the 5.10–5.14 range, this remote desert crag hardly seems like a place where you might find America’s hardest sport climb. But it is. It’s here, in the Celebrity Cave at the top of the hill, that you’ll find Duality of Man, a 5.15d freed by Sean Bailey (@seanbailey) in March 2025, a process documented in the inaugural, 2026 American Climbing Journal. 

There are only five total proposed 5.15d’s (9c’s) in the world, beginning with Adam Ondra’s Silence at Flatanger, Norway, climbed in 2017. (The Céüse, France, route Bibliographie, which Alex Megos freed in 2020 and originally graded 9c, has since dropped to consensus 9b+.) The article below gets more into the breakdown and unique difficulties with Duality. But perhaps the most notable thing with this 9c and the four others is that they all took huge campaigns by top climbers and they all remain unrepeated, showing just how much dedication—and often specialization—is needed for the world’s hardest sport climbs. 

—Matt Samet, Editor, American Climbing Journal

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A pulled-back view of Duality of Man. The route was bolted two-odd decades ago but didn’t go free until 2025. Photo by Ben Neilson (@neilson.ben)

How Sean Bailey dug deep to put up the States’—if not the world’s—hardest sport climb

At present, there are only five routes given 9c (5.15d) on Earth, all unrepeated: Silence, put up by Adam Ondra in 2017 in the Hanshelleren Cave, Flatanger, Norway; DNA, put up by Seb Bouin at La Ramirole, Verdon Gorge, France, in 2022; B.I.G., also in the Hanshelleren Cave, its first ascent livestreamed by Jakob Schubert in 2023; Duality of Man in the Celebrity Cave, Dry Canyon, Arizona, freed by Sean Bailey in March 2025; and Café Colombia at Margalef, Spain, completed by Jorge Díaz-Rullo in March 2026.

But here’s the thing about Duality, the first (and so far only) 5.15d on American soil: If you run its discrete sections through the online grade calculator Darth Grader—5.14c to a medium rest to V11/12 to another medium rest to V15—Darth spits out a new grade altogether: “9c+ [or 5.16a] soft.” (For comparison, the only other one of the world’s 9c’s with a crux this hard is Silence, where some have said the upside-down compression and crack boulder might even be V16, though it does come after a no-hands knee-bar.) So, it’s possible that Duality is the world’s first 5.16. However, given that it is way up a hill at the end of a gnarly 4x4 road and faces almost due south in the sere, remote Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona, it may be some time before the climb sees a repeat. Well, that plus the insane difficulty of the climbing.

Duality’s first half is the existing sport route Lee Majors, a 5.14c cave tackling tufas, pockets, pinches, and tiered roofs via improbable dynos and knee-bars. The line was bolted by CP Little in the Dry’s early days and freed by Nathaniel Coleman in autumn 2018. Above Lee Majors’s anchor is an extension that Coleman bolted after his FA, rapping in off upper anchors placed by Little. As Coleman tried the moves, a key hold broke on the 25°-overhanging headwall, rendering the crux harder. The full climb is outlandish, a massive roof on drippy, Spanish-style limestone to a white- and orange-streaked headwall, its rock porcelain smooth. 

 Sean Bailey on the headwall of Duality of Man, Dry Canyon, Arizona, a 5.15d—America’s first—that he freed in March 2025. The route links the 5.14c cave route Lee Majors (FFA: Nathaniel Coleman) into two extremely difficult boulder problems on the headwall, the final one—the crux—being a complex V15 on terrible holds. Photo by Ben Neilson (@neilson.ben)

It is also remarkable at an area that, with the nearby Farmhouse, has remnants of “90s ethics,” that there’s only one artificial hold, an enhanced gaston on a V11/12 boulder at the start. CP Little clearly saw that the climb could be done by someone, someday, and left it in a nearly 100 percent natural state—which may just be needed to cultivate climbs this hard. (Both of the Hanshelleren Cave routes, on featured gneiss, are natural, while DNA has, as is common on limestone, glue reinforcing at least one hold that broke.)

That someone was Sean Bailey, who spent three seasons on Duality—his final one, according to Climbing.com, being a concerted two-month push with lots of “almost sending”—often committing to evening sessions to avoid the heat and finally figuring out that he had his best burns when there was the biggest delta between the ambient temperature and the dewpoint.

Bailey is an almost deliberately low-profile phenom, having made a rare repeat of the Céüse 5.15c Bibliographie in 2021 and the only repeat, in November 2025, of Aidan Roberts’s mysterious crimp line Arrival of the Birds in Chironico, Switzerland, given 9A/V17 but sometimes speculated to be harder. On Bailey’s send go of Duality, only the second time he’d made it through the middle V11/12 and well into the V15, he told himself, “[All] right, this is finally the fucking moment. I can finally take control of the situation again, and I’m just going to make it happen.”

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New Cutting Edge Episode—The South Face of Kichatna Spire

The south face of Kichatna Spire in Alaska was one of the great unclimbed walls of North America. Until July. On their second attempt in two years, young American alpinists Eli Spitulnik and Michael Telstad climbed the 1,000-meter face with a blend of difficult aid and tricky mixed, placing no bolts. In a tight weather window, they blazed up and down the face in a little over three days, with only a four-hour bivy and some catnaps along the way, leading to a level of exhaustion that pushed them to the brink of delirium.
In this episode, host Jim Aikman interviews Eli and Michael about their adventure, explores the rich, colorful history of the Kichatna Mountains with legendary alpinist Conrad Anker and American Alpine Journal Editor Dougald MacDonald, and shares recorded tales from Al DeMaria and Peter Geiser, two members of the very first climbers to enter the Kichatnas, way back in 1965.

The Cutting Edge is sponsored by:

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Want More Bouldering and Sport Climbing? Get the American Climbing Journal

Want more thoughtful, deeply researched writing on the cutting edge of North American and international rock climbing in your mailbox? Then join the American Alpine Club at the Partner or higher level, and opt in to receive the inaugural, 224-page 2026 American Climbing Journal! With stories like Adam Ondra flashing Lexicon (E11), Katie Lamb sending The Dark Side (V16), Connor Herson’s crazy pogo on the first 5.15a trad line—ever—plus other features from or about Sasha DiGiulian, Noah Wheeler, Jonathan Siegrist, Sungsu Lee, Hamish McArthur, Mary Eden, Seb Berthe, Chris Deuto, and so many others, the 2026 ACJ offers the world’s best climbing stories about the world’s hardest and most interesting rock climbs. 

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American Alpine Club Launches New Mentorship Program in Grand Teton National Park

Image by Fredrik Marmsater.

The American Alpine Club's Mentorship Program—Alpine Track kicked off its first field module in Grand Teton National Park, bringing eight emerging alpine climbers together with coaches Sam Hennessey and Anne Gilbert Chase for eight days of climbing, technical training, and mentorship in the mountains surrounding Jackson, Wyoming.

Made possible through the support of Arc’teryx and Sterling, as well The Mountain Guides for this first module, the program is provided at no cost to participants, giving AAC members the opportunity to develop advanced alpine skills through hands-on instruction, mentorship, and field experience.

“Everyone is bringing a unique perspective to the table,” said Maia Crichlow, a member of the women’s team. “And getting to actualize dreams—really put words to what I want to do and see it reflected in other people around me—has been so special.”

Image by Fredrik Marmsater.

In this inaugural module, participants focused on building a foundation in multipitch climbing, including gear placement, anchor systems, and descent techniques. They also practiced rock rescue on single- and multipitch routes and learned how to plan for overnight climbing.

Alongside technical training, coaches Hennessey and Chase spent significant time building trust and camaraderie with mentees off the wall at the AAC’s Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch. After all, an important element of alpine climbing is sharing a meal, reviewing a map, or swapping stories at camp.

“Mentorship is so much of the motivation behind why I climb. I find it really energizing,” said Suraj Kushwaha, a member of the men’s team.

With the first module complete, all eight mentees will return for the program’s second field module in December. The group will travel to Bozeman, Montana, and Cody, Wyoming, to put their developing skills into practice on some of the nation’s best ice climbing terrain.

The Alpine Track is designed as a yearlong progression, with four in-person field modules complemented by opportunities to learn from coaches. Through practical coaching, teamwork, and technical field programs, participants are developing the skills and experience needed to plan and execute technical climbs and trips in alpine environments.

The mentorship program is open to AAC members. Through the generous support of its sponsors, the AAC does not charge a fee for participation in the program, and is able to cover participant lodging during all field modules. Learn more about the AAC’s mentorship program and meet the full team of mentees here.

The AAC Mentorship Program is presented by Arc’teryx, supported by Sterling, and The Mountain Guides supported the Jackson module:

Linger

Photo by Katie Kelble.

A Story From the Mountaineering Fellowship Fund Grant by Katie Kelble

Originally Published in Guidebook XIX.

The dust clung to our ankles, its layer thickening with each step. Horses, porters, climbers, and the farmers of the Karayshin Valley had worn this trail before us, winding a path that led us deeper into the heart of the valley. In the distance, we could see the mountains grow, their landscapes becoming steeper and more sinister. My heart began to race, despite our meandering pace. I had only left the States once before, but had dreamed of a trip like this for as long as I could remember. I wanted, even needed, to come here; to try and prove that I was worthy of having such lofty climbing goals. To stand in front of something that didn't care how badly I wanted it, and find out if I had anything to offer in return.

We had started our morning with tea and breakfast at a guesthouse in Aktatyr Village, Kyrgyzstan. Our passports survived scrutiny as we crossed through the military zone, and then we were driving up a steep mountain pass with an eroding road carved into its side. Around noon, we strapped our bags to horses and began to trek into the valley. For hours we walked, following the vague trail. By the afternoon, the mountains in the background had grown from their small outlines to imposing peaks. We were first greeted by Odessa, 1,000 Years of Russian Christianity, and Kotina, three granite towers that shot out of the ground, dividing the Karayshin into its two hearts: the Ak-su and the Kara-su.

Golden hour came and went as we unloaded haulbags and duffels, set up tents, and organized our gear at basecamp. Illuminated by the moonlight, Slesova Peak loomed over us. Straight up its prow was our objective for the trip: The American Way, a 950-meter free route that had become the king line of the val-ley. The weight of expectations soaked deeper with every second I stared at the wall.

Katie Kelble and Colin Baker walking in the Karavshin Valley. Photo by AAC member John Ebers and AAC member Katie Kelble.

I was joined by my longtime climbing partner, John Ebers, and his childhood friend, Colin Baker. The plan had come together on a cold winter day earlier in the year. In a Google Doc filled with names of faraway places begging to be explored and climbs we yearned to try, Kyrgyzstan stood out. A friend of mine, Nik Berry, had raved about the fierce granite monoliths tucked away in the Kyrgyz mountains of the Pamir Alai. The first time I texted him about it, he told me it was "one of the best places" he's ever been. Given Nik's impressive climbing resume, I knew his praise had to be well placed. He particularly emphasized a route he established, The American Way, which he completed in 2019 in a team free ascent with Eric Bissell, David Allfrey, and Brent Barghahn. Since then, the route has seen a few ascents, the most famous being Emily Harrington's first individual free ascent, featured in an HBO series called Edge of the Earth.

Guarding the Karavshin Valley was a complex history of political violence and boundary wars. Borders drawn without regard for the people living within them had left lasting fault lines between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. Since gaining independence in 1991, both countries have borne the scars of clashes over land, roads, and water access. Probably the most well-known expedition to the valley was in 2000, when a group of professional climbers was shot at while on a wall and held captive for days. While the political climate in the area had since quieted, unrest lingered. A few months after booking our trip, we were comforted by the official demarcation of a distinct border between the two countries and a steady decrease in violence in the southwestern parts of Kyrgyzstan, where our basecamp was located.

We made fast friends with the other climbers at basecamp, sharing inReach numbers in case of emergencies, sipping tea, finding the best spots for clean water, and attempting various camping cuisines. I was oddly comfortable with this group of people, whom I otherwise would never have met. I hadn't expected to find that kind of ease here, at the foot of something so large.

Photo by AAC member John Ebers.

Photo by AAC member Katie Kelble.

Our first day on the route was filled with self-doubt and shivers. A biting wind blew up the wall as I stared at the blank granite face. Most of the hard climbing was in the first four pitches, though above that were 16 more. Besides the crux pitch, seven of the pitches were rated 7at or harder, creating a fairly sustained route. The first working day left me with little hope. As I walked back to my tent after dinner that night, l peered up at Slesova, her moonlit face cold and unmoved. She had swallowed my confidence whole and given nothing back. Show me your secrets, I thought. Let me know you. But she only loomed there, ancient and indifferent, as if I were just another small thing that had come to the base of her and broken.

The second working day was a bit warmer. It was just John and me that day, as Colin had come down with a stomach bug that left him horizontal. The first pitch's grade didn't initially intimidate me, but the style was punish-ing. I grunted and slipped all over it, trying to trust credit card edges for feet while hunting for near-invisible handholds. As I reached the anchor, it was all I could do to steady my breath, to keep the tears from coming. If I couldn't do this "easy" pitch, how was I supposed to do the rest of the route? After a quick rest, I calmed my nerves and geared up for the crux pitch, a 45-meter 7ct that weaved its way through a sea of blank granite. From the base, the pitch looked impossible, its surface too sheer. But as I climbed, Slesova slowly revealed herself. I lingered at each rest, truly sinking into her presence, and she'd reward me by revealing a foot chip or a small hold to balance on. As I breathed and settled into each body position, the chaos I was feeling in my chest began to resolve. Sections that had looked completely blank simplified into precise foot moves that flowed into boulder problems.

Over tea that night, we agreed it was time for the send push. The first four pitches seemed within reach. However, our team was not whole; Colin was still sick, and although his condition had improved, he was in no shape for a multi-day big wall. We were torn between waiting for Colin to improve and making the most of our time there and going for the push without him. I had never been one to want a team to split up. For me, climbing is a conduit for friendship. We waited out a few days of bad weather while we prepared our bags. As the sun set the night before we set off, Colin insisted we go without him, that he would be okay and just needed more time to regain strength.

Early the next morning, John and I hiked in silence, both plugged in to our own music, but in reality, not listening at all. We were lost in an endless swirl of thoughts: Doubt and excitement traded places in my mind. The rock was still cool and shaded when we got there; Slesova's face only saw sun in the after-noon, often when clouds came with a threat of thunderstorms. Numb hands carefully brought us to the top of the first pitch, where we peered up at the crux. To maintain a balance between style and efficiency, John and I would both lead the crux pitch and alternate leads from there, ensuring each person freed all the pitches.

I finished tying my knot and took a steadying breath, pressing my forehead to the wall. All I can do is try. I launched into the crux, enveloping myself in its every move. I imagined the pitch as a marathon. While it was long, there were plenty of spots to rest, coupled with plenty of technical moves on small feet. I danced through the sequences, fighting to keep my heart rate down and my breathing slow. Eventually, I came face to face with the last sequence. The anchors were a mere five meters above me, taunting me. The moves guarding the chains shouldn't have been too difficult, but the only way I had found to do it was to swing and kick my leg to the opposing wall, leaving the security of the static climbing that had gotten me up here. I took a deep breath to soothe my nerves and launched, sheer grit keeping me on the wall. At the anchors, I was met with a twinge of satisfaction, but anxiety nearly suffocated me as I looked up. There was so much more ahead of us.

Katie focusing on her footwork while following a pitch on The American Way. AAC member John Ebers.

After John's success on the crux pitch as well, a quick sip of water and an exchange of gear had us moving again. We swung leads, going seamlessly from one pitch to the next. Moves that had felt impossible to execute the first time on the route went with ease now, and I found that suddenly the climb had dissolved into a methodical dance of pulling, pushing, jam-ming, and resting. As the sun neared the hori-zon, we finally reached the small ledge where we would spend the night. We cooked dinner as the sky turned pink and orange. The silence of the valley was interrupted by our laughs as we recounted silly mistakes and moments from our day. With some of the hardest pitches out of the way, my anxious soul felt more at ease, but I knew it was far too early to count it as a win. We still had one 7c downclimbing pitch, and a subconscious race had begun between our success and our fatigue.

The next morning was even colder than the first day. While the difficulty was far less than the day before, I had more than one bleeding fingertip and an aching body. A few pitches later, we found ourselves at a beautiful ledge carved into the wall like a small sanctuary. Before we could crawl into our sleeping bags, though, we had one more challenge. With rain threatening the next day, we needed to move as fast as pos-sible, so we reluctantly made our way to the downclimb pitch. John went first, pulling off an impressive onsight. He jugged back up to the belay, offering encouragement and tips on where to look for the feet. On my first and second attempts, I was stumped at the same move, a long reach down to a foot that stretched me from my toes to the tips of my fingers. I tied in for my third go, determined that I would not let a single long move stand between me and completing this route. By some miracle, I pulled it off, and we rapped back to our ledge with the last of the light. We cooked dinner as the sunset bled out behind the peaks, Odessa and Kotina standing guard on the horizon, enclosing us in a globe of granite. For a moment, the mountain felt like ours.

Day three, we began early, racing to escape the impending rain that would surely drench Slesova. Did she delight in attempting to foil us, in throwing challenge after challenge our way? I needed to prove to her that we could do it; we could beat her timer. We moved fast, and at every anchor a wave of relief came over me that we were one pitch closer to our goal. Around 2 p.m., we finally crested the summit. A sheath of clouds was collecting around the summits across from us, a reminder that we had not made it yet; it was still far too early for a celebration.

One benefit of having climbed with someone since age 14 is that you begin to move as one, with little need for words. In about two hours, we made it from the summit to the base, rapping Slesova's 950-meter face with ease. Rain fell as we finished our raps; a quiet benediction from the mountain. We shoved ropes and gear in bags and got ready to navigate the scree down to camp. Before we left, I paused and looked up, pressing my palm against the granite. Thank you for this experience, for allowing us safe passage. She had watched climbers come and go for decades, and she had watched me, too, with the same cold patience.

We got back just as light gave way to night-fall. We devoured some bread bought from Kamal, the shepherd in the valley, drenching it in Nutella and honey. The momentum from the day carried us, masking the exhaustion exuding from our bones. A short walk across the basecamp brought us to a warm kitchen tent, a cup of Kyrgyz vodka in my hands. Our basecamp friends had certainly become more of a family. We played cards, sang, and told our tale before crawling into sleeping bags, finally safe on the ground. Maybe it wasn't so lofty to have dreams of climbs like The American Way.

The last half of the trip was a fever dream, as l chased sun and climbed easier terrain, buzzing with the glow from our accomplishment. The hike out was like being held in the arms of nostalgia. Maybe a lifetime ago I had walked these trails, but maybe it was yesterday.

After a few days wandering around Osh and one night in Bishkek, we were boarding the flight home. I watched the city shrink as our plane ascended into the clouds, my heart filled with gratitude for this land and its people. I wondered if I would go back, if I would ever again be in sheer wonder staring up at the granite giants of the Ak-su Valley. I wondered whether I would ever have another moonlight conversation with Slesova. It was like closing a book, content in the knowledge that you might get a sequel or that the rest might remain simply a dream in your mind's eye.

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Support the Places That Support Climbers

The American Alpine Club is proud to announce its participation in the 2026 Old Bill’s Fun Run, where they are raising funds to support the famous Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch with a generous match from the Community Foundation of Jackson Hole. 

The Club is also inviting climbers to support its other four facilities, including New River Gorge Campground, Samuel F. Pryor III Shawangunk Campground, Rumney Rattlesnake Campground, and Hueco Rock Ranch, to prepare for an offseason of improvements across all sites.

The AAC's five lodging facilities provide affordable places to stay, build community, and create lifelong memories next to some of the country’s best crags. Each facility is open to the public, and accommodations range from communal tent campgrounds, to bunked cabins, to private rooms in air-conditioned homes. These spaces are designed for climbers, by climbers, and give guests a camping experience rooted in shared interests, steps away from projects worth returning to day after day, and year after year.

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“A great place to rest your head and your body before and after any adventure inside Grand Teton National Park. Awesome atmosphere and amazing way to meet other super adventurous people.”

–Westley S., Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch Guest

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Stories like these are common across the Club’s lodging facilities, with each space building its own legacy through the memories made—from sending a project, to winding down by the campfire at the end of the day. The continuation of these special moments and stories relies on generous support. Gifts to AAC campgrounds fund essential repairs and improvements so that each site can continue to provide a welcoming, affordable home base—and awesome atmosphere—for climbers now and for generations to come.

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The Line—The Canadian Rockies Choss Gobbler

The line of No Fiesta, No Siesta (1,200m, TD- 5.8) on the east ridge of Stutfield Peak East. Photo: Nick Baggaley Collection.

Exploring Canada’s Rockies Chossies

Nick Baggaley scrambling up to the east ridge of Stutfield Peak East during the first ascent of No Fiesta, No Siesta (1,200m, TD- 5.8). Photo by Greg Barrett.

Greg Barrett, a 38-year-old software developer and aspirant alpine guide from Canmore, Alberta, is among the most active climbers currently operating in the Canadian Rockies. Four reports in the upcoming 2026 AAJ cover first ascents on which Barrett was a key player. Barrett and partners keep finding new lines on familiar faces, as well as striking ridges and faces that have never been touched. Almost all of them require a tolerance for—even an appreciation of—the dreaded Canadian Rockies choss. Here, we’re sharing a report that arrived too late for the 2026 edition: Nick Baggaley’s story of the first ascent—with Greg Barrett—of a huge, previously unclimbed, and very chossy ridge on a Rockies 11,000er, where the modest grade of 5.8 only tells part of the story.

Stutfield Peak East, East Ridge, No Fiesta, No Siesta

In the late summer of 2025, after a ton of rain, there were a couple of short weather windows for bigger objectives in the high peaks of the Canadian Rockies. Greg Barrett and I seized the opportunity to get on a route I’d been eyeing for quite some time. The long east ridge of Stutfield Peak East (3,422m/11,227’, a.k.a. Stutfield Northeast) was, as far as I could tell, unclimbed. We didn’t know what to expect but figured that with my alpine guide training over the summer, and with Greg’s recent hot streak of ascents, we’d be able to get the route done in a push. 

Greg Barrett crawling along a ledge to reach the final tower before the summit of Stutfield Peak East. Photo by Nick Baggaley.

On September 2, we got a late start from Canmore, only to have my Ford Fiesta break down just after passing Banff, with several more hours of driving to go. This delay meant that we only shouldered our packs at the prime alpine-start time of 6:30 p.m. 

A three-hour approach up the Stutfield Creek drainage took us to a bivy on the silty bank of an alpine tarn below the ridge. Having forgotten my sleeping pad, I proceeded to snatch a couple of fitful hours of sleep as Greg happily snoozed away beside me. We got a leisurely start at 7 a.m., under an unexpected and unwelcome pall of wildfire smoke.

The ridge started easily enough, with scree and talus hiking turning into fourth- and low-fifth-class rock on the first step. We soloed up several hundred meters before roping up at the base of the second rock step, and then, after about 40 meters of 5.8 climbing, unroped once more.

The imposing towers looming out of the smoke above the next step on the ridge prompted us to search for an easier route, and we traversed several hundred meters south along a scree bench before soloing more fourth-class terrain to regain the ridge crest in the middle of the towers. Challenging route-finding eventually forced us back down on the south side, where we found a chimney that took us around the final tower. From here, we found a ledge across which we crawled to the base of the summit headwall.

Nick Baggaley scrambling to the base of the final tower on the east ridge of Stutfield Peak East. Photo by Greg Barrett.

More soloing of low- to mid-fifth-class rock, with increasing exposure and steadily terrible rock quality, took us along a rib on the left side of the headwall and up to the last rock band below the summit cornice. Here, we climbed two pitches of loose 5.8 to a rock bench, then climbed through easy snow to bypass the cornice, gain the glacier, and continue to the summit.

We named the route after my late car and my lack of sleeping pad: No Fiesta, No Siesta (1,200m, TD- 5.8). Overall, we would not recommend it to anyone except the most committed choss aficionados, as the poor to terrible rock quality makes protection difficult for most of the ridge. We chose to solo all but three pitches, but would probably recommend that other parties rope up for more.

—Nick Baggaley, Canada 

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Confessions of a Choss Gobbler

Yet another Greg Barrett new route is Confessions of a Choss Gobbler (440m, 5.11- A0), the first ascent of the northwest headwall of Castle Mountain, climbed with Gavin McNamara in July 2025. We asked Barrett what he loves about routes like this and for his words of wisdom on climbing Rockies choss.

Q. Climbers have been exploring the Rockies for more than 125 years. Why aren’t these mountains climbed out?

Greg Barrett leading the intimidating pitch-five crux of Iron Tears (465m, TD- 5.11-), above an old fixed anchor from a winter attempt. Photo by Gabs Clark.

Many of the accessible and obvious routes in the Rockies were plucked long ago. But if you stay curious, read between the lines, and look farther afield, many treasures remain. The required commitment and willingness to be scared keep new alpine rock lines available for those who seek them.

Rockies alpine choss is an acquired taste, like bitter black coffee or peaty scotch. Very few people like their first sip, and many people never learn to enjoy it at all. But for the few of us who grow addicted to it, we can’t live without it. I savor the puzzle and the challenge of methodically working through loose, steep, untouched terrain. Long, scary days are taxing in the moment, but they create memories that last a lifetime.

I sometimes yearn for an earlier era when obvious untouched lines abounded. But I don’t know that I would have had the boldness to push those lines with the gear and tactics of those times. Perhaps the present is perfect for me.

Q. What’s your favorite among the new routes you’ve done in the past few years?

Greg Barrett following the beautiful corner on pitch four (5.10+) of Iron Tears, at the Rimwall. Photo by Gabs Clark.

You’re asking me to pick a favorite child. But perhaps I can choose the one I find most recommendable, which is Iron Tears, on the Rimwall, which I climbed last August with Gabs Clark.

One of my favorite parts of that line was the spontaneity and relative commitment. We were planning to repeat an existing route, but during the approach, a striking corner alongside a rusty-red waterfall caught Gabs’s eye, and we decided to explore it instead. With no drill and only a vague plan, we journeyed upward, knowing retreat could be involved and expensive. In the end, we topped out a magical line and were back home before sunset.

Q. What are the secrets to climbing choss (more or less) safely?

First and foremost, stay within your physical ability. With few exceptions, I’m not out on the sharp end pumped out of my mind and facing a bad fall. If I’m not feeling solid on terrain, I’m downclimbing until I can either find a controlled version of the sequence or protect myself well enough that I’m comfortable taking the whip. The ability to maintain composure and control at 5.10 and 5.11 does more for you in the Rockies alpine than being able to power-scream through 5.13.

Mileage is a huge piece of this. On Yamnuska, the big limestone cliff near Canmore, we have a collection of routes from the first published guidebook called “The Kallen 34.” Some are now classics, some are testpieces, and some are obscure, runout choss. I completed the list last summer, and the climber I became by the last pitch of the 34 bears little resemblance to the climber who started that list. This sort of training pays dividends when you get properly “out there.”

It’s also important to fight for protection. Sometimes it’s easier to just keep climbing, but when things are serious, I’ll take the time to sneak in a knifeblade or clear choss out of a slot with my hammer and wiggle in a cam. It’s a numbers game, and you’re going to fall eventually. If you don’t place the gear, it definitely won’t hold.

I do think it’s important to be honest with yourself about the hazards. I’ve met climbers who seem to manage fear by telling themselves they’re infallible. You can get far with this approach, but, ultimately, hope isn’t a strategy. I think it’s healthier and safer to fully acknowledge the hazards you will face, manage them as best you can, and make an honest decision about whether the remaining risks outweigh the rewards.

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Cutting Edge Podcast: Le Bombé Bleu

On February 11, Erwan Legrand—son of the legendary French climber François Legrand—took down one of the longest-standing open sport projects in the world: Le Bombé Bleu (5.15b) at Buoux, France. Bolted in 1991 by Marc Le Menestrel, the 100-foot route features a notoriously difficult precision dyno on its blue-streaked bulge, followed by ferocious tugging on tiny pockets. Famously, Le Menestrel had opened the route as long as it was left in its natural state, a vision—35 years ago—of what climbing might someday become. Join host Jim Aikman as he talks with Legrand about his remarkable barefoot redpoint, as well as chats with UK icon Ben Moon—one of the route’s early suitors—and American Climbing Journal Editor Matt Samet.

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The Prescription—Fall from Ram's Horn Anchor

View of Mt. Diablo, Walnut Creek, CA. Photo provided by Wikimedia Commons.

It’s August, and in a few weeks our goals will probably shift out of the alpine as cooler temps bring relief to what has felt like a global heatwave. For many of us, milder conditions mean sport climbing. Whether revisiting a project or getting some pitches in, safety should always be at the forefront. 

Fall from Anchor | Rope Detached from Open Anchor

Bay Area, Mount Diablo State Park

Safe as it seems, sport climbing demands lowering—a technique that has replaced rappelling as the leading cause of roped climbing accidents. Lowering is almost always entirely equipment dependent. It also involves critical technical steps high above the ground, and almost every fall from the anchor is a ground fall. This month, we look at an accident featured in the 2025 ANAC in which a climber fell while cleaning a toprope anchor at Mt. Diablo, California. She reported the following: 

This ram’s horn anchor on a 30-foot 5.10 called Two for One in Mount Diablo State Park, California, was involved in a near-fatal accident on October 26, 2024. Photo provided by Sean Burke/Kim Harris.

“I was toproping a 5.10a called Two for One (left variation). I reached the anchor to clean the quickdraws. I secured myself with a PAS. I hadn’t seen this type of hardware before, and it was a type that wasn’t fully enclosed—as in the case of a mussy hook. The adjoining link wasn't big enough for me to thread the rope through, so I put my rope across the hardware, stood up to unclip my PAS, sat on the rope, and fell. I have no memory of the fall. I blacked out and woke up in a hospital operating room. 

”I broke my left ulna, two ribs on my right ribcage, part of a vertebra, my sacrum, and the ball joint on top of the femur. My helmet broke, and there was a small gash on the left side of my head. I also hit my left butt cheek, because the nerve endings have no feeling in that area. I had one surgery to cut off part of the fractured vertebra and to drain a hematoma. I was hospitalized for four days.”

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Analysis

My climbing friends and I determined that it was a ram’s horn that I encountered at the anchor. I hadn’t wiggled the rope underneath the (curled) part of the horns that would’ve prevented the rope from slipping out. Either that or, when I unclipped my PAS, the rope came out. I fell 30 feet and rolled a further 10+ feet downhill, along with the rope. It happened quickly, and K (my friend) didn’t see what happened because when I was at the anchor, my body blocked her view. K ran to get cell reception and called 911. Apparently, I was able to answer questions, but today I have no recollection of what I said. (Source: Jenna Chan, Bay Area Climbers Coalition, and the Editors.)

Editor’s note: The ram’s horn is ultimately an open system fixture. While there’s an advantage in having fewer necessary steps to lowering (including untying and retying), ram’s horns suffer from the possibility of unthreading. Two fatalities occurred in Austria—Peilstein (2022) and Martinswand (ca. 2020)—in which the climber’s rope became detached from ram’s horns while rappelling. Confusion can exist on how to use any unfamiliar fixed hardware. This accident illustrates the peril when the anchor hardware’s design attempts to balance convenience and safety. That said, no anchor is foolproof, and no design can negate human error.

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Video—Ram’s Horn Accident Analysis

Here’s what we THINK happened in this 2024 accident in Mount Diablo State Park:

A climber was cleaning an anchor that incorporated a set of ram’s horns, something she’d never seen before. Carabiners might have been blocking the fixture because, in her recollection, the links weren’t big enough to thread her rope through. She put the rope ACROSS the hardware, stood up, unclipped her PAS, sat on the rope, and fell.

Lowering hardware is either closed (rings, quicklinks, chains) or open (ram’s horns, mussy hooks, and—if they haven’t been updated—unwelded cold shuts from the 1990s). Ram’s horns are cheap, easy to install, and fast to use—thread the rope through, no need to untie and retie, and then lower. But as enclosed as they look, ram’s horns are open anchors. In rare cases—standing above the anchor or threading the rope incorrectly—the rope can come out of the ram’s horns.

Video—Using a Ram’s Horn

Most climbing involves lowering, so much so that lowering has replaced rappelling as the probable leading cause of roped climbing accidents. 

This month, we cover an accident in which a climber was cleaning a ram’s horn anchor and threaded the rope incorrectly, which unfortunately led to a ground fall. Fortunately, the climber survived the fall. 

It may seem simple, but when using a ram’s horn anchor, thread the rope through EVERY available horn. Always weight your system before lowering, and when using open anchors, be a pro and keep it low. 

Video Credits: Pete Takeda @pete_takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing; IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin @jasonantin; Producers: Shane Johnson and Sierra McGivney @sierra_mcgivney; Videographer: Foster Denney @fosterdoodle_; Editor: Sierra McGivney @sierra_mcgivney

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Get Outside Safely—Rescue Coverage

Whether you’re questing off on the twentieth pitch, or checking a landing zone for a boulder, having the AAC’s rescue benefit is a critical step for safety in climbing–ensuring you can find your flow a little more easily knowing we have your back in the case of a medical emergency.

Join the AAC today at the Partner level or higher, and back up your protection with up to $7,500 in rescue benefit and $5,000 in medical-expense coverage. 

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New Ways of Thinking Through Climbing Accidents

This year, the AAC’s Accidents Editor Pete Takeda received a 30% increase in climbing related accident reports. In this, our annual Climbing Accident Trends episode, we look at the patterns of climbing accidents that happened in 2025, and discuss what these patterns reveal, and what all climbers can learn from them.

From the human factors that influence accidents across disciplines—and the emerging prevalence of top-rope soloing accidents; the under-appreciated danger of getting your knee stuck in an inversion offwidth; the hidden dangers of a stick clip—to the continued high incidence of lowering accidents, we dive into some of the biggest trends and most poignant examples of accidents to learn from in this year's book, Accidents in North American Climbing 2026.

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Episode Resources

Explore Accidents in North American Climbing

Become a Member and Get the Book!

Read More Wisdom From Pete Takeda

How to Use Your AAC Rescue Benefit

Last Year’s Accident Trends AAC Pod Episode

Meet the 2026 American Alpine Club Awardees

The American Alpine Club is proud to announce the recipients of its 2026 awards, recognizing outstanding achievements in conservation, climbing and mountaineering, mountain literature, and dedication to the Club. Awardees will be recognized at the American Alpine Club's Annual Gala on October 24 in Golden, Colorado.

President's Gold Medal: Lynn Hill

Honorary Membership (posthumously): Daryl Miller

The Pinnacle Award: Jimmie Dunn

The Angelo Heilprin Citation: Scott Richards

David R. Brower Conservation Award: Alison Criscitiello

H. Adams Carter Literary Award: Geoff Powter

David A. Sowles Memorial Award: Black Canyon Rescue Team

Robert Hicks Bates Award: Dane Steadman

Keep reading to learn more about each awardee.

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President's Gold Medal: Lynn Hill

Image by Heinz Zak.

FOR EXTRAORDINARY ACCOMPLISHMENTS IN THE CLIMBING WORLD

Lynn Hill has spent more than 50 years climbing at the highest levels of the sport, expanding its culture and redefining its limits across the world. Most famously, Hill completed the first free ascent of The Nose in 1993, followed by an all-free ascent of The Nose in one day in 1994—a feat to this day only Hill and Tommy Caldwell have completed.

Throughout her career, Hill repeatedly redefined what was possible in climbing. In 1979 she became the first woman to climb a route rated 5.12d, and in 1991, she became the first woman to climb 5.14. In 1992, Hill became the first woman to onsight 5.13b, and by 1995, she made two first free ascents of 5.12 walls in Kyrgyzstan. In 1999, Hill led an all-women's team to the first ascent of Bravo Les Filles (5.12c/AO or 5.13d) in Madagascar.

In Nina Williams' final year as Board President, she will award Hill the President's Gold Medal, an honor given only seven times since the AAC's founding, recognizing Hill's contributions to climbing.

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Honorary Membership: Daryl Miller (posthumously)

Daryl Miller. Image courtesy of Charlie Sassara.

FOR LASTING AND SIGNIFICANT IMPACT ON CLIMBING

Honorary Membership is one of the highest awards the AAC offers. As remembered by longtime friend and fellow alpinist Charlie Sassara, the AAC posthumously recognizes Daryl Miller for his lifetime commitment and passion for adventure, outdoor education, mountain rescue, and climbing in all its forms.

“Daryl was deeply committed to the ethos: ‘Go, but bring back a story.’ Along his journey Daryl touched the hearts of climbers, adventurers, and vagabonds across generations with his keen interest in their plans and adventures.

Daryl became a United States Marine in 1961, served during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and completed two tours in Vietnam. He left the military in 1972 and moved to Montana, working in ranching and as a bullfighter—the guy who steps between an angry bull and a downed cowboy.

In 1991 Daryl joined the National Park Service at Denali National Park as a mountaineering ranger. He eventually led the South District office and oversaw the entire mountain program, but what set him apart was his compassion. Though Daryl often said that “your emergency may not be my emergency,” his actions told a different story. When grieving families arrived at Denali searching for answers about a lost loved one, he stayed with them through it, often at considerable cost to himself.

Daryl was also key to the integration of the NPS Mountaineering Ranger Program with the U.S. Air Force 210th Rescue Squadron (PJs) and was later recognized with the International Alpine Solidarity Award by the guides of Pinzolo, Italy. Daryl’s ‘rescue highlight reel’ includes the rescue of Malcolm Daly from the South Face of Thunder Mountain and the 210th Rescue Squadron’s long line rescue of Jack Tackle from the North Face of Mt. Augusta in 2002.

Fundamentally, Daryl believed that a life well lived should be packed with powerful experiences—the type of experiences that require taking risks that challenge and change you as a person. What really set Daryl apart was his enthusiasm for ‘your’ adventure. Those who stepped into his circle will remember a man who inspired, encouraged, and challenged the people around him, and who very often changed the course of their lives.”

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Pinnacle Award: Jimmie Dunn

Jimmie Dunn on Zonked Out. Image by Albert Dow.

FOR OUTSTANDING MOUNTAINEERING AND CLIMBING ACHIEVEMENTS

Jimmie Dunn’s nearly sixty-year career includes impressive ascents that have paved the way for climbers across the world. In 1972, Dunn completed the first ascent of Cosmos on El Capitan—the first new route on the wall completed solo. In 1976, Dunn and Earl Wiggins made the first free ascent of The Cruise in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison after a six-hour effort. Other significant climbs include the third ascent of Standing Rock, the first ascent of Castleton Tower's west face, and the fifth ascent of North Six Shooter, all during a one-week trip in 1971 with Billy Westbay and Stuart Green.

Dunn recounts his extensive climbing career, anchored by vivid memories of fellow mountaineers and adventure, “I remember Bob Palais, as a young climber, bringing me homemade brownies from Boston to North Conway, New Hampshire, every weekend all summer in the early 1970s. In 1976, leading Black Magic barefoot on Cathedral Ledge, with Ajax Greene and Ed Webster following barefoot—we were inspired by 'Hot' Henry Barber's tales of climbing in Dresden, Germany. In 1978, I clearly remember Albert Dow yelling up to me for a photograph on Zonked Out, Woodchuck Ledge, a desperate crack I rated 5.10+++. I was wearing only one climbing shoe and had a bloody bandage around my throbbing butt cheek from a giant beaver’s bite. It’s now rated 5.12b.”

Today, Dunn spends his time supporting his son, CharlieJoe (CJ), in his climbing pursuits, working on his partner Hellen's wild environmental art projects, EARTHflows, at Sky Soul Studio, and putting together a book to celebrate the incredible climbs and climbers he has known, hoping to publish A Rope and Rack, the Shirt on Your Back: Life and Friends of Jimmie Dunn, Climber, within the next year. Dunn shares, “The climbs are cool, but what really matters is the people you meet along the way.”

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Angelo Heilprin Citation: Scott Richards

Scott Richards taking on the Power of Four skimo race with his daughter. Image by Scott Richards.

FOR EXEMPLARY SERVICE TO THE CLUB 

The Angelo Heilprin Citation honors AAC members for their long-term dedication to the Club, expressing their passion for climbing, community, and giving back through everyday involvement. Scott Richards is this year’s awardee, honored for his work in maintaining and strengthening the AAC.

Richards grew up in Evergreen, Colorado, and studied at Fort Lewis College before completing graduate work at Colorado State University and a professional certificate at the CU Leeds School of Business. In his twenties, he worked as a mountain guide and outdoor educator around the world, later teaching geography, art, and reading at a Colorado public middle school and then serving as a teacher and principal at the American International School in Gabon, Central Africa. He and his wife returned to the United States when she was pregnant with their second child, and Richards began a career as a financial advisor at Northwestern Mutual. 

Richards has been an AAC member for 23 years and serves on both the AAC Development Committee and the Host Committee for the Annual Gala, drawing on his dual background as a financial advisor and former NOLS instructor. He also sits on the board of Locally Haiti, working to improve health, education, and agriculture in the country. Richards’ reach extends into international climbing and ski mountaineering circles; in April, he and two teammates from Louisville completed the 2026 edition of Switzerland's Patrouille des Glaciers ski mountaineering race in 16 hours. When he's not serving the Club, Richards can be found skiing, running ultras, or bird watching.

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David R. Brower Conservation Award: Alison Criscitiello

A melt layer in a section of ice core drilled from Snow Dome, Columbia Icefield, BC. Image by Rebecca Haspel.

FOR LEADERSHIP AND COMMITMENT TO CONSERVATION AND THE PRESERVATION OF MOUNTAIN REGIONS WORLDWIDE

Dr. Alison Criscitiello is a world-renowned ice core scientist and high-altitude mountaineer who explores the history of climate and environmental pollutants in polar and high-alpine regions using ice core chemistry. Criscitiello’s work has taken her to ice caps around the world including Antarctica, Greenland, and the Canadian high Arctic, as well as the summit of Canada’s highest peak, Mt. Logan where she drilled an ice core in 2022. Alongside her scientific research, she is an exceptional storyteller whose work has appeared in film projects, television, and print—including her article “Contraindications,” which won a Banff Mountain Book Competition award in 2018. 

Her accolades are extensive: Criscitiello was elected to the Royal Canadian Geographic Society's College of Fellows, is a Fellow International with The Explorers Club, and was awarded a Queen Elizabeth II's Platinum Jubilee Medal for her significant contributions to Arctic climate research. She has also received three American Alpine Club climbing awards, the Alpine Club of Canada's John Lauchlan Award, and the Mugs Stump Award.

In conjunction with her research, Criscitiello is committed to making science more accessible to young women. As a co-founder of the Girls* on Ice Canada program, she hopes to merge science, art, and adventure to inspire leadership, curiosity, and confidence in the next generation of leaders. Her work has motivated a community of young women to pursue their interests in science and dive into their passions in the outdoors.

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H. Adams Carter Literary Award: Geoff Powter

Image by Geoff Powter.

FOR EXCELLENCE IN CLIMBING LITERATURE

Geoff Powter is a climber, writer, and editor, long based in the Canadian Rockies. He is a veteran of 13 Himalayan expeditions, and has been writing about climbing and other risk sports for decades. Geoff was the editor of the Canadian Alpine Journal for 13 years and was the host of the Voices of Adventure interview series at the Banff Mountain Book Festival for 27 years, showcasing his depth of storytelling across media. 

Geoff’s magazine writing has earned him nine National Magazine Awards, and his three books (Strange and Dangerous Dreams, Inner Ranges, and Survival is not Assured: The Life of Climber Jim Donini) have won two National Outdoor Book Awards, a Jury Prize and Best Climbing Book Award at the Banff Mountain Book Festival, and a shortlist for the Boardman-Tasker Award.

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David A. Sowles Memorial Award: Black Canyon Rescue Team

An Army Black Hawk helicopter lifts the severely injured Becca Steinbrecher out of the Black Canyon on September 11, 2023. Image by Vic Zeilman.

FOR UNSELFISH DEVOTION TO IMPERILED CLIMBERS

The David A. Sowles Memorial Award, powered by Rocky Talkie, recognizes the Black Canyon Rescue Team for their response to a September 2023 climbing accident in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, where a climber suffered a serious leader fall on Great White Wall and remained unconscious for nearly 11 hours before evacuation.

Twenty-eight rescue personnel took part in the response, most of them volunteers with the Black Canyon SAR team, alongside Black Canyon district and park rangers and Army National Guard personnel. The climber’s partner, Skyeler Congdon, secured her at the anchor before rappelling the route and running out to call for help. NPS ranger Philippe Wheelock led the climbing team that descended into the canyon and reached the climber, alongside SAR volunteer and former NPS climbing ranger Vic Zeilman. Ranger Tom Schaefer directed operations from the rim, while district rangers Ryan Rees and Ryan Thrush oversaw incident command. The Army National Guard's High-Altitude Aviation Training Site provided the helicopter that carried out the final evacuation.

Read the full incident account and analysis in the American Alpine Club’s publications.

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Robert Hicks Bates Award: Dane Steadman

Dane Steadman on the summit of a previously unclimbed 6,000m tower, later named Sangar Tower, in the Pakistani Karakoram, in 2025. Image by Blake Berghoff.

FOR OUTSTANDING ACCOMPLISHMENT BY A YOUNG CLIMBER

The 2026 Robert Hicks Bates Award, powered by La Sportiva, honors Dane Steadman. Steadman is a mountaineer in all senses of the word. At only 28 years old, he’s already made his mark with his 2024 first ascent of Tiger Lily Buttress on Yashkuk Sar I and countless other alpine pursuits which span from ascents in his own backyard like Barely Legal to expeditions in the Alaska Range, Karakoram, Himalaya, and Tian Shan.

Steadman describes his start in alpinism as “an inexplicable draw toward high, cold mountains,” which brought him from the heat of the Arizona desert to the cool landscape of Cody, Wyoming where he resides today as a Patagonia ambassador and climbing guide. Steadman spends his free time developing new rock and mixed climbing routes around the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem. 

Steadman is a recipient of the 2025 Piolet d’Or and the American Alpine Club’s 2026 Cutting Edge Grant which will fund his next expedition to Pakistan, where he will attempt the north buttress of Gharkun.

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American Alpine Club award winners will be honored with bespoke, sustainable, custom-made awards by metal artist Lisa Issenberg. Lisa is the owner and founder of the Ridgway, Colorado studio, Kiitellä, named after a Finnish word meaning to "thank, applaud, or praise." Lisa has been providing custom awards for the American Alpine Club since 2013. Kiitellä's process includes a mix of both handcraft and industrial techniques. To learn more, visit kiitella.com

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Join us on October 24 in Golden, Colorado, as we celebrate these remarkable individuals and the many ways they have shaped climbing. The Annual Gala brings together climbers from across the country for an evening of recognition, connection, and community.

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The Line—First Female Ascent of Spirit Quest (5.14d), Squamish

Quinn Mason eyeing down the seventh draw early on in the hard climbing of Spirit Quest (5.14d), Paradise Wall, Squamish, British Columbia. Mason made the route’s first female ascent on October 9, 2025. Photo: Don Mason

Paradise Wall is one of the many gems at Squamish, British Columbia, a granite mega-destination known for its breadth: everything from classic moderates, to cutting-edge single-pitch trad like Drifter’s Escape (proposed 5.15a: FFA: Connor Herson, 2025) and Cobra Crack (5.14b; FFA: Sonnie Trotter, 2006), to endless bouldering, to technical sport. The wild traverse of Dreamcatcher (5.14d) on the Cacodemon Boulder, freed by Chris Sharma in 2005, might be Squamish’s most iconic hard sport climb. But the 5.14d face climb Spirit Quest (2021: FFA by Mike Foley) at Paradise Wall has garnered recent attention, too.

Spirit Quest offers a direct start to Tom Wright’s 2015 classic Spirit of the West (5.14a). “Interestingly. [Spirit of the West] was the first route I ever bolted. And in all of the 35 meters, only one small piece of rock broke off during cleaning. I was thinking, Man, putting up routes is a piece of cake!” says Wright. “It’s an immaculate piece of stone, and I think it’s important to point out that all the routes on that wall are fully natural, including Spirit Quest and Midnight Way—which I think is rare at that level.” (Midnight Way is a 5.15a that breaks left off Spirit Quest, put up by Connor Herson in 2024.)

In autumn 2025, Quinn Mason (@quinn.midori), who contributed both the story below as well as imagery of Hamish McArthur’s bouldering tear through Colorado in 2025 to the inaugural American Climbing Journal, made the route’s first female ascent. The redpoint process, though initially intimidating, ended up being meditative and joyful—a chance for Mason to connect with a beautiful climb in a serene setting amidst friends. May your summer (and fall) projects give you such meaning as well!

—Matt Samet, Editor, American Climbing Journal

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First Female Ascent of Spirit Quest (5.14d)

Dan Beland on the classic Spirit of the West (5.14a), Paradise Wall; Spirit Quest takes a direct start to this line, upping the difficulty significantly. Photo: Sonnie Trotter

Spirit Quest (9a/5.14d) snakes up the middle of the sheer, breathtaking Paradise Wall in Paradise Valley, Squamish, BC. The first routes went up on this crag in 2015, making it a relatively new addition to Squamish sport climbing. Paradise Wall is stacked with stellar, all-natural climbing, with about one route per grade from 8a+/5.13c to 9a+/5.15a.

Squamish local Tom Wright bolted Spirit Quest as a direct start to Spirit of the West, a classic 30-meter 5.14a he freed in autumn 2015. After Wright opened up Spirit Quest to the community, it saw its first ascent in 2021 by the talented Mike Foley. Until then, Dreamcatcher had been Squamish’s premier hard sport climb. While Dreamcatcher famously demands bouldery, gymnastic climbing, Spirit Quest stands in contrast, asking for head-to-toe tension and technique combined with powerful closed-hand crimping for 30–40 consecutive moves through its cruxy middle section, with an equal number or more of foot sequences.

I climbed Spirit Quest on October 9, 2025, making its first female ascent after 14 days of effort.

An overview of Paradise Wall, Paradise Valley, Squamish, B.C. Spirit Quest (5.14d) makes its way right up the middle of the wall. Photo: Sonnie Trotter

When I first walked up to Paradise Wall in summer 2023, I was blown away by its aura—in particular by Spirit Quest, the obvious king line following crisp, crystalline fractures up the slightly overhanging, monolithic panel. I waited awhile to try the climb—I didn’t know if I was ready and feared what my first attempt might unveil. What became more apparent during the process, however, is that if you perpetually wait to “feel” ready, that feeling might never come. It became a balance of embracing uncertainty and allowing for doubt while simultaneously fostering the deep belief that I could and would complete the route.     

I fell in love with Spirit Quest’s intricate, dancelike sequences, in which the hand and foot movements played against each other in perfect harmony. The route tempts you with the opportunity to crimp with all of your might, but with over 35 meters of climbing, it also insists you learn to relax into tenuous positions and find harmony with the rock. 

Tackling one of the most infamous moves on Paradise Wall—and the culprit of many a large fall. The move revolves around a left-hand sidepull undercling, settling into an uncomfortable box, and creeping across to a right-hand slimper you could seemingly spend all day readjusting on. Photo: Don Mason

There’s a move shortly after the seventh quickdraw that required me to lock a right-hand edge to my shoulder and pull over an unlikely-feeling left foot to reach a left-hand undercling at full extension. From there, walking my feet through and then bringing the undercling to my waist was one of the most challenging sequences—it not only required the most physicality but was also a barrier to reaching the more sustained climbing above, where I knew the real battle would begin. Two weeks prior to sending, I linked from the fifth quickdraw to the chains, climbing all the difficult sections. This encounter left me grappling with the contrived nature of climbing, and I lost patience and respect for the projecting process. In the following two weeks, I spent time sitting with my thoughts, eventually gaining the equilibrium needed to clip the chain. 

That day, wind moved through the trees of Paradise Valley, a welcome occurrence both for me and the community of climbers who’d spent many a summer morning here. Spirit Quest was my first true project, requiring at least 10 more days of effort than anything I’d done before. Those additional days represented many hours of rehearsing moves in my head, stressing over weather, trusting what was in my hands, and making peace with what wasn’t. I am grateful to have shared the experience of working the route and eventually sending it with so many familiar faces present.

—Quinn Mason

Ascent Info: First female ascent of Spirit Quest (35 meters, 5.14d), Paradise Wall, Squamish, British Columbia; Quinn Mason, October 9, 2025.

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Want More Bouldering and Sport Climbing? Get the American Climbing Journal

Want more thoughtful, deeply researched writing on the cutting edge of North American and international rock climbing in your mailbox? Then join the American Alpine Club at the Partner or higher level, and opt in to receive the inaugural, 224-page 2026 American Climbing Journal! With stories like Adam Ondra flashing Lexicon (E11), Katie Lamb sending The Dark Side (V16), Connor Herson’s crazy pogo on the first 5.15a trad line—ever—plus other features from or about Sasha DiGiulian, Noah Wheeler, Jonathan Siegrist, Sungsu Lee, Hamish McArthur, Mary Eden, Seb Berthe, Chris Deuto, and so many others, the 2026 ACJ offers the world’s best climbing stories about the world’s hardest and most interesting rock climbs. 

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New Cutting Edge Podcast: Le Bombé Bleu

On February 11, Erwan Legrand—son of the legendary French climber François Legrand—took down one of the longest-standing open sport projects in the world: Le Bombé Bleu (5.15b) at Buoux, France. Bolted in 1991 by Marc Le Menestrel, the 100-foot route features a notoriously difficult precision dyno on its blue-streaked bulge, followed by ferocious tugging on tiny pockets. Famously, Le Menestrel had opened the route as long as it was left in its natural state, a vision—35 years ago—of what climbing might someday become. Join host Jim Aikman as he talks with Legrand about his remarkable barefoot redpoint, as well as chats with UK icon Ben Moon—one of the route’s early suitors—and American Climbing Journal Editor Matt Samet.

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The Prescription—Fall From Anchor

It’s July, and we’re in high summer, with long days out in the vertical enjoying the season. Recently, we had a request via Instagram to visually demonstrate the mechanics behind a fatal lowering accident that took place in 2024 and was documented in the 2025 Accidents in North American Climbing.

Details came to us through a third-party report sent via our online report form. The correspondent did not want to be identified, but they provided the location, date, name of fallen climber, name of belayer, cause of accident, and other details. As they summarized: “Inexperienced climber (Claire Amiel) may have been cleaning an anchor which was beyond her skill level (and) tied in with a non-traditional knot [identified as an alpine butterfly], which became confusing when clipping mussy hooks.”

The published report and analysis appear below. The lessons here are to stick with simple tools and techniques, and practice skills—like cleaning and lowering—while still on the ground. If you’re the expert in the group, take extra-good care of your partner/s. They are looking to you for guidance and safety.

Jason Antin demonstrating one misstep from this month’s accident. See the full breakdown in July’s video analysis.

Fall From Anchor | Unfamiliar Knot

Queen Creek, The Pond

On January 30, Claire Amiel (34) fell while cleaning an anchor on a sport route at The Pond area in Queen Creek, Arizona. The fall resulted in her death.

According to a source who wishes to remain anonymous, Amiel was the less experienced of two climbers in her group. The anonymous source wrote ANAC: “Claire fell from the top of a route while cleaning the anchor. It's rumored she was tied into an alpine butterfly knot. After clipping the mussy hooks, she weighted the wrong side of the butterfly knot.”

The alpine butterfly is useful for glacier travel, but is not a standard rock-climbing knot. StromBer | Wikimedia

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Video Analysis

Pete Takeda and Jason Antin are back to explain an accident involving cleaning a top-rope anchor with mussy hooks. The catch? The climber was using an alpine butterfly tied to the middle of a full-length rope and clipped into the anchors with the wrong side of the rope. Tragically, the fall was fatal. This climber was less experienced than their partner and trusted that this was best practice in climbing. 

When it comes to cleaning anchors, keep it simple, check your systems, and practice a lot before taking it 100 feet off the ground

Video Credits: Pete Takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing; IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin; Producers: Shane Johnson and Sierra McGivney; Videographer: Foster Denney; Editor: Sierra McGivney; Location: Accessibility Crag, Clear Creek Canyon, CO

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Analysis

For most rock climbing, the choice of an alpine butterfly is unusual. John Godino at Alpinesavvy.com wrote ANAC, “The butterfly is generally not a standard beginner climbing knot. It is almost always used for glacier travel to tie in the middle climber to the middle of a rope. Rock climbers almost always tie into the end of the rope, especially when top-roping in a sport area.”

Had Amiel been using a mid-rope alpine butterfly knot, it would have created two lengths of slack rope extending from both ends of the knot. Though both sides would have appeared nearly identical, only one would have been belayed. Amiel may have top-roped up to the anchor, clipped the unbelayed strand into the mussy hooks, and then fallen to the ground. 

In general, climbers of limited experience or those transitioning from the gym to the outdoors are especially vulnerable when cleaning anchors. The use of unusual or unfamiliar knots, gear, or systems in critical situations like lowering/cleaning is very dangerous. 

Godino adds, “I would love to see ground-level anchor stations near beginner areas or on the approach trail. This would provide beginner climbers a place to practice clipping and cleaning, before they get on the rock.” (Sources: Anonymous, John Godino, and the Editors.)

Editor’s Note: We published this report in 2025. A good point has been made that any knot—like a figure 8 on a bight—might lead to the same result if used as a mid-rope tie-in/clip-in point. The butterfly knot is less a culprit than the location where it was tied.)

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All About Bolts: From Federal Policy, to a Day of Local Rebolting with Ryan Kuehn

This episode is all about bolts. From the nitty gritty of yanking a bad bolt out of the rock at your local sport crag, to the big-picture policies that govern the practice of bolting, rebolting and other fixed anchors on America’s federal public lands.

For the main part of this episode, we talk about the under-appreciated art of bolt replacement with Ryan Kuehn, one of the leads for the Anchor Replacement Program at the Boulder Climbing Community (BCC), an integral local climbing org for the Front Range of Colorado.

We also start the episode with insights from the AAC’s Director of Government Affairs, Byron Harvison, who shares an update on the proposed implementation guidance of the EXPLORE ACT and PARC Act—the historic laws that preserved fixed anchors as appropriate in Wilderness Areas. Bryon explains how the proposed implementation policy, just released and open to public comment, will impact how climbers and LCO’s will place and maintain bolts and other fixed anchors on federal public lands moving forward.

Dive in to get the full picture: from federal policy to a day of local rebolting.

[Correction: We would like to offer clarification on the statement at 15:29 which states that a MRA will be utilized by the BLM for routes which fail the casual use standard.  To be clear, the MRA is to be used when the BLM proposes to prohibit climbing in an area.  The proposed guidance states that a yet-to-be-determined process will be utilized to evaluate those routes that exceed the draft casual use standard.]

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Episode Resources:

Learn More About EXPLORE ACT Implementation Guidance

Take Action: Share Your Opinions with the NPS, USFS, BLM, and Fish & Wildlife Service

Learn More about the Boulder Climbing Community

Tickets on Sale for American Alpine Club’s 2026 Annual Gala

Registration is now open for the American Alpine Club's 2026 Annual Gala, taking place October 24 at the historic Buffalo Rose in downtown Golden, Colorado, just steps away from the Club’s library and headquarters.

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Nina Williams presenting at the 2025 AAC Gala. Image by Jim Aikman

The American Alpine Club’s Annual Gala brings the climbing community together for an evening of celebration, recognition, and connection. This year's Gala will be anchored by the presentation of eight American Alpine Club Awards, recognizing outstanding achievements in conservation, climbing and mountaineering, mountain literature, and dedication to the Club.

“The Gala is a reminder that climbing is rooted in community, in the places that bring us together, and in the relationships we build along the way,” said Nina Williams, Board President. “I'm looking forward to connecting with old friends, meeting new ones, and celebrating the importance of putting people first. The Gala is a chance to celebrate where we are today while honoring the legacies that have shaped our community and the places we care about.”

With all the excitement and celebration expected from an AAC Gala — including opening receptions, auctions, and exclusive connection points for VIPs — this year’s Gala will celebrate the impact of 2025, and look forward to the Club’s 125th anniversary. All AAC members are invited to an annual membership meeting Saturday morning for continued mingling, connection, and inspiration.

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Purchase tickets by visiting americanalpineclub.org/gala, and dust off your cowboy boots. This event is western themed, in the spirit of the historic venue and locale.

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More Than Mescalito

Mark Hudon belaying Ben VanderStouw on The Seagull, pitch six of Mescalito, El Capitan. Photo by Tom Evans.

A Story From The Live Your Dream Grant by Ben VanderStouw

Originally Published in Guidebook XVIII.

I was shivering in the darkness as I led up pitch two that day in Zion. My friend Will and I were climbing our first big aid route, Touchstone Wall. I moved upward in flared pockets and old piton scars—slowly. We had both underestimated the chill cast by the December shade. By pitch four, we were in the sunlight—not because we climbed into it but because dawn caught up to us.

Mark and Ben on the first bivy of Mescalito. Photo by AAC member Mark Hudon.

The day before, I was on a phone call with Mark Hudon, who coached me through the systems we would be using that day. Mark had become my long-distance mentor during the pandemic, calling and emailing when I had big-wall questions. Will and I made it up and down in a day thanks to his advice, but I had a lot more to learn.

In the fall of 2021, I attempted Lurking Fear on El Capitan, where I bailed after popping off a series of hook moves. I blamed my busted knuckles when it was really my nerves. The following year, in the fall of 2022, I drove all the way from Maine to Yosemite to try the Nose. We bailed because of a forecasted storm that never came. I was crushed, and the drive back underscored the immense distance between me and my goal.

Up until that point, I wanted the feather in my cap of having climbed El Capitan. I wasn’t ready for what it demanded, nor was I seeking the experience itself. I continued to learn from Mark, but thought I might never get up the mountain.

Two years later, I called Mark and told him I felt ready. I no longer wanted to check a box; I wanted the experience of climbing a multi-day route with all its frustrations, discomfort, and pain. Though I still lived a long way from Yosemite Valley, and many places traditionally used to prepare for its polished walls, I knew if I had the right partner and opportunity, I could do it.

Mark suggested we climb Mescalito, a 26-pitch aid route that was longer and more challenging than any I had attempted before. It would require multiple nights sleeping in a portaledge and push my aid climbing abilities. It would force me to confront the discomfort that had sent me down twice before.

“You’re going to be a gumby at the bottom and an expert by the time we get to the top,” Mark told me.

At 69, Mark has been climbing El Cap for 51 years. He consistently climbs at least one challenging El Capitan route a year. With Max Jones, Mark had previously climbed the fifth ascent of Mescalito in the fall of 1977, using pitons and chocks.

“I have three El Cap routes left in me,” he told me. “I would love to do one of them with you.”

I kept training, practicing systems, and checking off the gear list, but Mark and I both felt like we were getting an ulcer over the climb. Even with the AAC funding secured, we didn’t know if the October 2025 government shut-down would close the park. I had no choice but to prepare the best I could, hoping our trip wouldn’t be canceled. Less than a week before my flight, we got the good news we needed. After a full day of cross-country travel, I made it to El Cap Meadow.

Two whole days were dedicated to moving our equipment to the base of the wall. We managed to climb up three pitches and hauled our gear to this high point. This allowed us to start higher on our summit push, with the luxury of sleeping on the ground as we prepared. Twenty-three pitches lay ahead of us still. I was already exhausted from hiking seven days of water and equipment up to the base.

To combat the fatigue, Mark suggested that we treat the first day on the wall as a “rest day,” climbing only two pitches instead of four. Leaving the ground for the final time, we jugged our fixed lines, started climbing, and set up camp at the top of pitch five.

I did not expect the unease I felt that first night. I have been up on big features in the dark before, but this was my first night on a proper portaledge. Relaxing and resting had always been something I would do after getting off the wall. A sea of white granite was illuminated by the bright, silvery full moon. I covered my head with my sleeping bag, out of the moon-light, and tried to sleep.

After a leisurely breakfast and coffee, we prepared for the next day’s pitches. The forecast showed great weather. I nursed my cramping legs with electrolyte mix and as many calories as I could choke down. It wasn’t much, but I started racking up.

Mark pushed me hard, insisting that I get the haulbags up to the anchor before he cleaned the gear from the pitch. I never beat him, but it forced me to move quickly and get the systems set up in time. The haulbags had to come off the anchor cleanly so they could move upward without tangling the system. Worse yet, we had brought so much water that I could barely move the bags. I needed to use a 2:1 pulley system to squat over and over again to slowly drag our provisions upward.

“I’m climbing this route with you, I’m not taking you up it,” Mark had told me before we had even started planning the route.

This was important to me, too. I wanted to haul and lead my fair share. Being able to climb and learn with Mark was an incredible opportunity, but it couldn’t be an excuse to slack off.

The first nine pitches of the route angled up and to the right, meaning a retreat after this point would be difficult. We could not rappel straight down, and with such heavy bags, we were committed to the top. As we sat on our portaledge on the top of pitch nine on the second night, we saw cold temperatures and precipitation materialize in the forecast.

The storm was expected to last several days. We now needed a strict quota of four pitches per day to make it up before it hit. We could last a few nights of bad weather, but the extended forecast showed dangerous temperatures and could force us to stay on the wall for too long.

We woke up at 5:30 each morning, forced down breakfast, skipped coffee, and started upward yet again. I knew I was not as efficient as my partner, and there was no time to waste. We ended at twilight, set up the portaledge, and tried to rest.

The biggest variable in getting down safely was the speed with which I could integrate Mark’s lessons into my climbing. Each day, I had to lead at least one difficult pitch, with insecure fixed gear, long sections of standing on hooks, mixed aid and free climbing, and tenuous pitches like the famous Seagull and Molar traverses.

On day four, darkness came before we were able to stop climbing. The sun had set, and I still had a section of 5.7 climbing ahead of me before we could sleep on the Bismarck Ledge. I climbed by headlamp, without climbing shoes or chalk, up the thin seams and blocky ledges. Fear and cold gripped me as I went upward, unable to see where the pitch ended. As I pulled over the edge, I was confronted with a sight that filled me with both frustration and amusement. Plastic containers holding at least ten gallons of water lined the ledge. We had struggled hard against the weight of the water in our own bags for days. Now we had enough to fill a kiddie pool.

The Bismarck looked like a sanctuary on the topo. It was the one real ledge on the route, a place where a storm could be endured rather than survived. It was narrower and more slanted than I’d imagined. Before we started, many said it was their favorite ledge on El Cap. In the cold and dark, I saw it differently. I wrestled the bags up the rocky buttress until they rested beside the treasure trove of water bottles.

I iced my aching hands on the cool rock. The summit stopped being the goal. It was only a step toward getting down in one piece.

Day five on the wall was taxing. Mark fell trying to free climb the offwidth section of pitch 19, The Bismarck. It was a beautiful crack in an orange corner that gradually widened until it could fit a ten-inch piece, which we did not have. There were no features to use aside from the crack itself, so he called down instructions for me to fashion a contraption made of tape, the portaledge fly spreader bar, and our big blue offset nut.

The “ten-foot-long blue offset” Mark used to get to the top of The Bismarck. Photo by AAC member Ben VanderStouw.

After fashioning the device, I sent it up, and Mark used it to place a nut in a seam 20 feet above his head. Mark jugged hand over hand to the nut placement and used it to reach the top. I was relieved when he built his anchor, but when I arrived at the belay, my stomach churned. It had looked decent from below, but any outward pull could have ripped it instantly.

My next pitch was hardly an improvement. It took me hours to find a way through the aptly named Circuitous Pitch. Looking at the topo made it more confusing—there were three different roundabout ways to get to the next anchor, either with big swings and lower-outs, or a 30-foot unprotected ledge traverse. I took the pendulum into another crack system and aided off a horribly tipped-out cam, wishing badly that I hadn’t used so much gear earlier in the pitch.

“Get as high as you can on each piece!” Mark shouted.

On Mark’s next pitch, he had to aid off a huge chunk of rock that shifted under his weight. It threatened to cut the rope and would certainly kill someone who went up this route and pulled on it without looking. After using it to move upward, Mark sent the microwave-sized block down the face. The sound of the impact was delayed a few seconds after we saw it hit the talus below.

According to the itinerary we fretted over, we needed to climb four pitches that day. We had only climbed three. My next pitch looked hollow and delicate, and we were both fried. The sun slid along the wall until it was no longer visible. We both knew this meant we had 20 minutes until darkness.

It was the most reasonable choice to set up the portaledge there and climb an additional pitch the next day. Our last night on the wall felt strangely jovial. We knew we would finish tomorrow, but we needed to climb our biggest day on the wall to do so.

Three separate nights, I saw a shooting star streak across the sky, and each time I wished for the same thing—getting back to the valley floor safely.

Starting off on day six, I moved past hollow flakes that sounded like bongos when tapped. Get on the piece, bounce-test it, highstep, place your next piece. Get on the piece, highstep... I got into the groove and let out a sigh of relief once I was through the notoriously rotten rock of the Gray Bands.

I called down to Mark: “If I can figure out how to wall climb, what can’t I do?”

He seemed pleased, as if I had finally figured out something he had been trying to show me for years.

The rest of the day involved long pitches. We were done being up there. It took a horrendously long time to lead the pitches I needed to link, but we climbed through some of the most beautiful, golden granite on the mountain. We knew even if it took till dark, we were going to beat the storm.

After a very long last day, we managed to creep over the edge of the mountain. On the very last haul, the bags were stuck, and we had little leverage moving them on the slab. Mark and I both had to put an ascender on the rope and pull with all our might to get the bags to move a few inches. We rappelled down to fix them twice. Finally, after hours of hauling, we had the bags at the top of the cliff.

“We haven’t climbed El Cap yet,” Mark told me sternly. “We’re tired, and are still in a dangerous position. We can’t get complacent.”

He was right—we were on top of the cliff, but we and our bags were on a ledge with a slab between us and the very top. I hip-belayed Mark up and across the slab to set a handline on a tree above. We clipped into this handline and dragged our heavy loads upward by headlamp.

“NOW we have climbed El Cap,” Mark told me, exasperated.

I looked at his face in the light of my headlamp and noticed a change in him. We had each lost ten pounds on the route, and our faces looked hollow. We hugged on the summit, and I found myself feeling so grateful for all of Mark’s lessons. We found some flat ground in the darkness, set up our bivvies, and drifted off to sleep looking at the Milky Way.

The morning brought rain and snow, soaking our sleeping bags before the East Ledges descent, a series of slick slabs and fixed lines. Three porters hiked up before sunrise to help us bring our bags down before the big storm hit. It felt surreal to move so fast after inching along the wall all week.

For days afterward, I awoke thinking I was still in a portaledge. The relief of solid ground came slowly each time. Our hands were too battered to make fists. The days blurred as we tried to recall the last week.

Later, Mark told me, “I could have skipped climbing Mescalito. I don’t need another El Cap tick. The true reward is the positive impact it will have on your life.”

Before leaving the Valley, we stopped in the meadow. Another party bound for Mescalito was arranging their gear and food on a large tarp. They asked about our rack, and I shared what worked for us. We wished them well.

I traced our line up the wall one last time, watching the upper pitches disappear into the clouds.

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Sasha DiGiulian: Slinging Cacti, 8b Big Walls, and Recognizing Your Spot in Climbing History

Sasha DiGiulian has done major ascents on big walls from Madagascar to Brazil to El Cap. She has told the story of these ascents in the American Alpine Journal—and now in the all new American Climbing Journal. With this unique perspective as a contributor to these journals of record, we asked her to weigh in on her history with the AAJ and ACJ, and why documenting climbing’s evolution matters.

We touch on her recent ascent of Platinum Wall, a long 5.13d/8b El Cap climb, (full story on the Cutting Edge Podcast), dive into the overgrown, run-out, cactus-filled pitches of Bravo Les Filles (8b) in Madagascar, discuss what "significant" means in climbing these days, and the art of recognizing your place in climbing history.

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Join the Club or renew at any membership level in June, or donate $30 or more, and you can get our limited edition June tee—just use promo code QUEST. One day left!

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The Line—Idaho’s Forgotten Granite Spires

The Bighorn Crags above Ship Island Creek in the Salmon River Mountains are a cluster of towering granite spires that would be crawling with climbers if they were a little closer to the road—or even if they were close to any significant population of climbers. In 1955, climbers—including K2 legend Pete Schoening—briefly explored the area, and a short, alluring description of the cliffs is included in Idaho: A Climbing Guide. But the first reported ascents by modern rock climbers weren’t until 2020, when a team of six made the 13.5-mile trek to the west side of Ship Island Lake and climbed 40 new pitches—with six Grade III and two Grade IV routes—in less than a week. It’s likely few climbers have been there since. Maybe Jim Pace’s story and photos in AAJ 2026 will convince a few more people to brave the steep barrier to entry. The summer is still young, so we’re sharing an abridged version of Jim’s story here.

Panoramic view of the crags above both sides of Ship Island Creek, which drains Ship Island Lake at left and flows down to the Middle Fork Salmon River. Photo: Cody Goldberg

The Litner Group: Many First Ascents

For decades, Idaho climbers have imagined what it would be like to climb in the area of the Bighorn Crags surrounding Ship Island Creek, which flows steeply out of Ship Island Lake and down to the Middle Fork Salmon River. The climbs, tantalizingly hard to reach, would ascend long and steep arêtes, faces, and cracks toward summits that didn’t have names, had never been touched by climbers (unless the Sheepeater/Shoshone peoples liked steep rock climbing), and might be made of solid Idaho Batholith granite (but more likely Idaho choss).

In his excellent Idaho: A Climbing Guide, Tom Lopez writes enticingly of the area: “Of interest to rock climbers is a tangled collection of spires, faces, and cliffs at the west end of Ship Island Lake called the Litner Group. Because it is more than 10 miles from the nearest trailhead, little climbing activity has taken place in the Litner Group but, rest assured, the area has high potential for serious rock climbers.” Tom mentions a Litner Peak, but which one is that? No one is sure. The only recorded climbing our group could unearth was detailed in a 1955 expedition report by Lincoln Hales in the Seattle Mountaineers’ annual journal. Hales and Pete Schoening made the first ascent of the “main peak”—presumably the Litner Peak that Tom mentions.

Intrigued, Max Bechdel, Ian Cavanaugh, Cody Goldberg, Brady Johnston, Carolyn Pace, and I made the long trek into the Litner Group in late August 2020, with pack string support, to see what we would find.

From the trailhead—itself three hours from the small town of Challis—we hiked 12 miles and crossed two passes through the Frank Church–River of No Return Wilderness to reach Ship Island Lake. We then bushwhacked another 1.5 miles to the west end of the lake and made camp.

On our first climbing day, we aimed for the obvious face on a twin-spired formation we named the Rabbit Ears, right above camp. Brady and I made the first ascent of Pace Setter (850’, 7 pitches, III 5.9), while 30 meters to our left, Max and Ian opened the Jeff Halligan Memorial Route (850’, 7 pitches, III 5.10), in honor of our horse-packing guide. Both were exceptionally high quality and promised more good things to come.

That same day, Cody and Carolyn established Launch Over It (700’, 5 pitches, III 5.10+), on a formation we called the BFR (Big Fancy? Rocket) after Elon Musk’s Mars ambitions. The BFR lies halfway up the magnificent Mission to Mars massif, just northwest of the Rabbit Ears. The top two pitches of their climb have it all: great cracks, yawning exposure, breathtaking views. 

A rainy day allowed us to explore down the canyon. Jaw-dropping views to the Biggie Smalls Wall (dead vertical, 300 meters) made all of us realize just how extensive the climbing here could be. But looks are deceiving: The splitter hand jam in the spotting scope, we learned, often turned out to be a splitter offwidth, the offwidth turned out to be a chimney, and so on. Scaling took practice.

Lighthouse Tower on Wolf’s Fang Ridge: The five-pitch Idahome (5.11a) ascends near the center of the formation. Photo by Jim Pace.

After a cold night that brought snow above camp, Brady, Ian, and Max traversed the lake-outlet slabs to explore a complex tower at the northwest end of the already-named Wolf’s Fang Ridge and completed the first climb to the top: Idahome (925’, 5 pitches, IV 5.11a).

Brady Johnson stemming on Siren’s Song, a 5.12 variation to the three-pitch Mermaid’s Tale (5.11b), on the Bookshelf. Photo: Ian Cavanaugh | Idahoclimbingguide.com.

Meanwhile, Cody and Carolyn established Geoffrey Chosser (650’, 5 pitches, IV 5.10+) on the Bookshelf, a soaring formation with half a dozen or so summits. Over the next two days, the group put up three more climbs on this face. The first two—Mermaid’s Tail (3 pitches, III 5.11b) and a direct variation called Siren’s Song (III 5.12)—were highlights of the trip. 

In all, with just four climbing days, our group climbed six Grade III and two Grade IV routes—with a couple of other shorter routes—on mostly great granite. Most of those pitches were 50 to 65 meters and ranged from 5.6 to 5.12. We summited on just three routes, but all the other lines could be continued to their respective summits to create Grade IV or Grade V climbs. —Jim Pace

Pace’s full story will be in AAJ 2026, coming this fall, and an extended version will be published at the AAJ website, along with photos and topos of many climbs. In the meantime, climbers can see his earlier article, on which this story was based, at Idahoclimbingguide.com. 

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Have You Climbed At Ship Island Creek? Submit a story to the AAJ.

Many Idaho climbers are taciturn and even secretive about their routes, and it’s certainly possible that more climbs have been completed in the Litner Group but never published. If you’ve explored climbs in this area and you’re interested in sharing info, the AAJ would love to help. Contact us at [email protected].

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New Cutting Edge Podcast: 24 Hours on the Central Tower of Paine

The east face of the Central Tower in Chile's Torres del Paine is one of the great walls of the world. Recently, Belgian Siebe Vanhee and American Tommy Caldwell completed the third free ascent of the South African Route in remarkable style. On their third attempt, the two climbers raced up the 1,200-meter 5.12 route in exactly 24 hours—in an area where most big-wall ascents take weeks. Host Jim Aikman interviewed both climbers, as well as American Ben Ditto, who was on the first free ascent of the South African Route back in 2009. It's an episode about risk, the ups and downs of multiple efforts on a serious objective, and a partnership that perfectly balances the strengths of two amazing climbers.

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Belaytionship Therapy: Tools for Better Climbing Relationships

What can you do if you and your romantic partner constantly bicker at the crag? How do you speak up if your climbing partner has a totally different risk tolerance than you, and you keep getting in way over your head on climbs because of that mismatch? What if one of your climbing partners dropped you, and you can’t quite trust them again? How do you move forward if you’ve witnessed an accident, and nobody seems to be understanding how the trauma continues to live in your mind and body?

We sit down with Dr. Jennifer Dragonette, a Licensed Psychologist, trauma specialist,  and Certified Single Pitch Instructor who is a clinical provider for the AAC’s Climbing Grief Fund Directory, to explore these questions through case studies of belaytionships you might find familiar. 

Dr. Dragonette leverages her expertise in couples therapy and DBT to illustrate where communication and therapeutic tools can help build stronger climbing partnerships and solve friction. If you’ve ever found yourself in need of a little belaytionship therapy, this episode is the place to start! 

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Episode Resources:

Climbing Grief Fund Directory

Climbing Grief Fund

Learn More About Dr. Jennifer Dragonette