Grand Ole Roadtrip

Images Courtesy of the Howard Lukens Collection

Lodging Spotlight by Sierra McGivney

Originally Published in Guidebook XIX.

A boxy light blue Ford van rattled down the road, well equipped with a cassette player and six cassettes—Springsteen, Little Feat, Steely Dan, The Allman Brothers Band, Robert Palmer, Bob Dylan—a beanbag chair (the prime spot), and six East Coasters. Dieter Klose, Angus Thuermer, Mike Kurle, Karen Kurle-Edwards, Howard Lukens, and Barry Rugo were looking for adventure, and they were convinced that Wyoming had it in abundance. They had heard whispers at Seneca Rocks, the Gunks, and Carderock—their usual stomping grounds—that the Tetons were the place to learn what they were made of.

It was 1976, the year of Charlie’s Angels, The Eagles’ Hotel California, Roots: The Saga of an American Family, Jimmy Carter winning the presidential election, and the ongoing Cold War and the 1970s energy crisis. In 1976, climbers were still pounding pitons, but there was a clear shift in this decade toward alpine-style ascents, clean climbing, and speed records. The Tetons promised to be a much bigger playground for the skills these climbers had honed in their backyards. So with swami belts, EB climbing shoes, and Chouinard Hexes and Stoppers stuffed into the back of the van, they headed west.

A different expectation for young people existed at the time. Children and teenagers were able to be free-range in a way that is rare today. Dieter Klose, now best known for his ascents on Devils Thumb, grew up with German parents who were both proud of and worried about his climbing. He first traveled out to the Tetons at age 15 without his parents or supervision, tagging along with an “older climber” in his late teens or early 20s. Begrudgingly, for Klose, they climbed Mt. Moran three times. This trip would be different.

Karen Kurle-Edwards and Mike Kurle were brother and sister. Karen’s mom didn’t get her. Not long before they left for Wyoming, their mother had told Kurle-Edwards, “You have to quit going everywhere, you’re going to have gone everywhere by the time you’re 25.” Kurle-Edwards wasn’t going to let that stop her. Howard Lukens, now Treasurer of the AAC Board of Directors, was Kurle’s friend from high school. Lukens had been invited on the trip at the last minute after another climber had taken a fall and gotten injured.

Angus Thuermer recalls meeting the group at Seneca Rocks through Barry Rugo. Thuermer was the most experienced climber of the bunch; he had climbed with the Yale Mountaineering Club. Founded in 1947, the club focused on training students in rock climbing and mountaineering techniques. Rugo and Klose went to the same high school and were in the same Explorer troop (Senior Boy Scout troop) as Kurle and Kurle-Edwards. The knotted threads of community were tied, and the group was formed. The possibilities of grand climbing adventures were on the horizon.

Thuermer recalls that the climbing itself wasn’t their only compass. The promise of a cheap bed and a community of climbers was pulling them west as well. His stay at the Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch would end up being “quite influential in me becoming an alpinist and a climber.”

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Historic Roots

That rickety van would soon find itself parked in front of the newly minted Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch (GTCR), which had opened six years prior. After the Jenny Lake climbers’ camp was shut down in 1966, it was hard for climbers to find camping spots, as outdoor recreation and climbing in the United States were on the rise, and the National Park Service had to impose limits on campground use.

The solution was simple: The vacant Double Diamond Ranch, which once offered cabins snuggled at the base of the Tetons to tourists, but was sold to the National Park in 1964, would be leased out to the American Alpine Club starting on January 1, 1970, to provide climbers with cheap, one-dollar-a-day, modest lodging. Lodgers did not need to be affiliated with the Club, but they did need to be a climber.

Nick Clinch, the American Alpine Club President at the time, clearly had a vision: adding bunk beds and imagining the main lodge to be a place of gathering on rainy days to tell “stories of high daring and plan future climbs.” He even dreamed that someone would donate a projector and slides—generating a culture of trip reports and climbing presentations. The Ranch needed some work, but it wasn’t anything the AAC, with the help of volunteers, donors, members, and climbers passing through, couldn’t handle.

Clinch wrote, “Although the American Alpine Club has assumed the obligation…for the operation of the ranch, the ranch does not belong to the Club. It belongs to all climbers, just as it is open to all climbers. It is your ranch and needs your assistance to make it a success.”

Image Courtesy of the Howard Lukens Collection

Image Courtesy of the Howard Lukens Collection

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Leap of Faith

Enclosure Ice Couloir (800’, 6 pitches, III 5.6 AI3) had it all: trad, ice, and snow—the perfect mix for the ultimate alpine adventure. That summer of 1976, Thuermer and Klose were high up in the couloir when Klose took over the lead, preparing to switch from ice to rock. Klose climbed into a small dihedral and continued traversing to the left, unsure of the route. He stepped on several loose blocks in the inside corner of the open book, feeling the disconcerting wobble with each move as he progressed upward. Without thinking of Thuermer, he trundled the rocks. Once Thuermer followed, he got to the open book—but all of the footholds were gone.

“What do you want me to do here?” Thuermer called out to Klose.

“Jump, Angus!” was Klose’s response.

They did not climb together again, but laugh about it today. This climb was full-on, involving hard ice climbing, loose rock, and unsure footing. But wasn’t that the point? To make mistakes and learn, with a warm bed and camaraderie waiting for you at the Ranch.

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Out of the Frying Pan

The Skillet Couloir descends from the summit and pools into the Skillet Glacier, creating a pan-like shape on the side of Mt. Moran, a dramatic mountain above Leigh and Jackson lakes. Skillet Glacier is an ultraclassic ski line in the colder months, but by early summer, the couloir is a steep snow line. When the snow melts out, it turns into the CMC Route, an alpine trad climb.

Lukens and Kurle had reached the top of the Skillet Couloir in stellar conditions, the sun beaming down on the snow, making the day warm and inviting—so warm that Kurle had ditched his shirt, a sunburn starting to form.

“How are we going to get down?” asked Lukens. The full extent of the two young Virginians’ glacier skills had come from Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills.

Kurle replied that they would plunge-step, a technique that involves keeping your center of gravity low and leading with your heel as you kick steps through soft snow. Lukens began setting up a boot-axe belay—flying by the seat of his pants and some half-remembered book knowledge—when, two plunge steps later, Kurle plummeted head over heels down the couloir. The warm snow had balled up on his crampons, making it hard for the sharp points to dig into the mush.

Lukens could only watch as the rope unspooled and finally became taut, pulling him down the glacier. The slope zipped by as Lukens frantically tried to stop himself. They were heading straight for the edge of the glacier, an unknown drop-off waiting for them. Miraculously, their unintentional glissade slowed until they stopped 50 yards from the edge.

Mt. Moran is relatively remote, so the pair had to bushwhack for miles, which made their epic even longer. Kurle’s ankle had suffered from the fall, and his sunburn had deepened. To make it worse, he kept tripping and falling into brush-covered streams, cursing up a storm. Lukens calmed him down and motivated him to keep going. They continued like this until they reached the road.

Kurle finally dug his heels in. “I can’t go another inch,” he told his friend. Lukens threw his thumb out, hoping to hitchhike, but the luck they had on the glacier’s edge had seemingly evaporated. All of a sudden, like an angel from afar, Kurle-Edwards pulled up in the van.

If Kurle-Edwards hadn’t driven by, things would have gotten dire. “We’d probably still be out there,” said Lukens.

Once back at the Climbers’ Ranch, starving after not eating in over 24 hours, Lukens, looking like hell, approached a guy cooking at the pavilion, asking if he had any food. The climber directed him to half a can of pea soup. Lukens grabbed it off the stove and guzzled the soup down. To this day, Lukens loves green pea soup.

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Lightning Strikes Twice

Klose and Kurle-Edwards had summited Middle Teton. As they were rappelling down, their gear started to click. Kurle-Edwards's hair was sticking out of her helmet, Klose laughing at the strands poking through. Hot, clear summer days in the Tetons can turn dangerous quickly, high up in the alpine. Midday thunderstorms are common and can be deadly to climbers with metal on their harnesses up at 7,000 feet. Stopping at a notch, Klose and Kurle-Edwards turned to each other, at a loss for what to do. Lightning was buzzing in the air.

Kurle-Edwards, afraid of being electrocuted, ditched her ice axe, despite Klose's warning about the ice axe's importance. They decided to put all their gear on one side of the notch and scramble to the other side. Clinging to the rock, they had no choice but to wait out the storm and hoped that they would make it through.

"Lightning was flashing in front of us. It was really terrifying," said Kurle-Edwards.

Over on Symmetry Spire near Jenny Lake, Thuermer, Kurle, Rugo, and Lukens were in a similar situation when the storm came in. Lightning, thunder, and snow squalls descended. Their gear buzzed from the electricity, and snow blew up the rock face.

"It was like [someone] was throwing sticks of dynamite at us," said Kurle.

The group of four had been split into two, climbing different routes on the spire Direct Jensen Ridge (10 pitches, I|I 5.8) and Durrance Ridge (8 pitches, I| 5.6) — but were able to converge on a ledge. Frightened, they waited out the storm. Everyone huddled on the ledge, hoping that the next lightning strike wouldn't fry them. The storm, like all storms, passed, and the lightning strikes slowly became fewer and farther between. The sun peered out, as if ignorant of the chaos that had come minutes before. They tied their ropes together to do a longer rappel, slinging a rock flake. Rugo started rappelling, jumping down the rock face quickly. The other three looked on in horror as the flake shook and trembled, thinking it would surely blow. Frantically, they screamed for Rugo to stop. Rugo continued downward, completely unaware of the precarious anchor his life was dependent on, the edge he was teetering on.

Lukens's thoughts skated ahead if Rugo fell, both the rope and Rugo would be gone into the abyss, leaving the group stranded with no way to call for help and Rugo dead.

But soon enough, Rugo was off rappel. The flake had held. Lukens, Thuermer, and Kurle looked at each other, pale, their faces drained after their glimpse of the grim reaper. The three set up a new anchor promptly and cautiously. Shaken from the incident and the lightning, they began rappelling.

Both groups had known they should be done climbing betore midday, but had spent more time route-finding than they had planned. They trudged back to the safety of GTCR, met with laughter and camaraderie, the group grateful to have made it down unscathed.

The trip was a test of will, uncertainty, and mountain skills. The GTCR provided a refuge after the storm, the epics, the wins, and the failures. It was a place you could meet climbing partners and climbing heroes, or find kindred spirits and a can of soup around a campfire.

"The Climbers' Ranch has always been very important," said Thuermer, "and I think this little group, it's sort of-it's a story that could be told by dozens and dozens of other climbers and teams."

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Into the Fire

While they headed east and all went their separate ways after the summer of 1976, Thuermer felt called to return to the Tetons and settled in Jackson in 1978, getting a job as a pressman at the Jackson Hole News.

Lightning wasn't the only powerful force to contend with in the dry air of the Tetons. By the 1980s, fires in the park had become a huge debate in the Tetons. Previously, American land managers had immediately squashed the smallest wildfires. During the '70s, scientists began advocating for letting fires burn in the Mountain West, due to the unnatural buildup of live and dead trees, pine needles, shrubs, and grasses, all of which would contribute to a significant source of fuel that wouldn't be present in natural circumstances, when fires weren't mitigated by humans. As the Park Service has noted, Indigenous peoples have long practiced intentional burning in the Northern Rockies, "clearing undergrowth, creating wildlife habitat, supporting hunting strategies, reducing fire risk, and stimulating the growth of key food sources, such as huckleberries."

As the research piled up, the Park Service decided to let natural fires burn as long as they didn't impact the public.

Image by Angus Thuermer

Small to moderately sized fires burned in the '80s with no harm, but in 1985, a fire started near park housing. NPS immediately tried to put it out, but high winds had another idea, escalating the situation.

Thuermer had become a reporter at the Jackson Hole News at this point, he had more than a personal interest in the happenings within Grand Teton National Park. Hearing about the fire, he threw on a yellow Patagonia windbreaker and snuck into the chaos, hoping to blend in with the firefighters. The superintendent and a park ranger were on their way out when they stopped him. His disguise hadn't worked.

In classic journalist fashion, Thuermer said: 'You can't stop me! This is breaking news!' They let him go but told him they weren't responsible for any damage to his truck. By the time he arrived, the fire had spread to the GTCR, burning several buildings.

Thuermer photographed the whole thing. As he was walking around, he saw an ember land on the boardwalk in front of the Climbers' Ranch main lodge. The ember looked like it could keep the fire going, so he called a firefighter over, and they put it out. Thanks to Thuermer, a section of the Climbers' Ranch may have been saved. The burned down buildings were rebuilt with help from members of the Club, like Leigh Ortenburger.

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Fifty years later, the GTCR still calls to Lukens; he's returned a handful of times, with a trip coming up this summer. "It's my favorite place in the world," said Lukens. Kurle and Lukens still climb and ski together, always looking for their next adventure. Klose no longer climbs due to a back injury, but he made sure his last climb was a good one: the Grand. "It was wonderful," he reminisced from his van on the Oregon Coast. Thuermer still lives in Jackson Hole and currently works as the natural resources reporter for WyoFile. Kurle-Edwards returned to the Tetons shortly after and now loves walking meditation, through-hiking the Appalachian Trail, the Colorado Trail, the Camino del Norte, and more, taking each step slowly so she doesn't miss a thing. Rugo landed in the Northeast. His climbing career spanned the world soloing Open Cockpit (5.11 +) in the Gunks and putting up a three-pitch 5.10 in Telluride in the '80s; attempting Devils Thumb and Choktoi, summiting Everest and serving as the AAC New England Section Chair in the '90s.

From the Double Diamond Ranch days, to fighting fires, to rebuilding the Ranch, to the Historic Lodge at the GTCR being placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1998, the GTCR has remained at the foot of the Grand, sustained by the dreams of the climbers who have shaped it again and again with their time, skills, and donations. As Clinch manifested all those years ago, the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch is not ours; it is yours.

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Crack of Fear

Image from the Detterline Collection, Courtesy of the AAC Library

Rewind the Climb with Diana Boyer

Originally Published in Guidebook XIX.

On the jagged skyline north of Estes Park, Colorado, rises a formidable formation, the Twin Owls, its south face split by an obvious crack up a leaning corner. From a distance, the climb looks approachable, curving up toward the summit, but the fact that the crack is visible from so far belies its inviting disposition. In fact, this cavernous, “wider than wide” Lumpy Ridge fissure is infamous, and only the naive go into it blindly. Its smooth walls offer few options for face holds except for the occasional crystals for those who are unwilling or lack the know-how to offwidth. Crystal pinching can only take a person so far until their fingertips are blown and split from the rock’s sandpaper texture. You’d think that the foreboding name, which only perpetuates the mystique and lore surrounding this historical offwidth, might be a bit of a clue.

At 5.10d—a notorious offwidth grade that can mean basically anything—Crack of Fear is a testament to history. Over the years, it’s become known as a cruel sandbag. Its Mountain Project page is littered with stories of comical attempts and harrowing epics. A rather hysterical and self-deprecating account from Steve “Crusher” Bartlett, a legendary desert-tower climber, reads, “I’m too fat to do this! The crux would be easier for skinnier folks, who can keep their hips in the crack as they are easing up towards the beckoning (but still tiny) face holds. This is a masochistic struggle.” George Bell writes, “My only ‘attempt’ at this route was in 1983, when I was visiting the area and a buddy who lived in Boulder suggested we ‘check it out.’ Knowing nothing of the route, I foolishly agreed, figuring my friend probably wanted to lead it anyway. We got to the base, and there was a party ahead of us.… Some guy was following the first pitch, and man it looked horrendous!” After realizing their gear wasn’t big enough, they never left the ground, walking away with their tails between their legs. People aren’t rushing to climb Crack of Fear, a fact further underscored by Lenore Sparks, who writes, “This climb is sweet because you don’t have to wait in line for it.”

Layton Kor and Paul Mayrose made the three-pitch climb’s first ascent in 1963. Kor was one of the most prolific first ascensionists of the 1960s, leaving his mark on American climbing with first ascents of The Naked Edge in Eldorado Canyon State Park, Finger of Fate on the Titan, the Kor-Ingalls Route on Castleton Tower, and countless other climbs. On Crack of Fear, the first 30 feet start off fairly easy with hand jams along a pillar called the Rat’s Tooth, with the occasional stance to rest and assess before the real fight begins. For the next 200 feet, clear to the summit, the crack morphs into a wide, physical beast. On Kor’s ascent, when he reached the crux on pitch two about 100 feet up, he managed to drill a bolt while balancing on a ledge. From there, it’s surmised that he used the bolt as a point of aid, placing one more bolt on that same pitch. These bolts helped him surmount a difficult undercling section that briefly leaves the offwidth before requiring a committing move back into the crack above the roof, allowing him to eventually complete the climb. Sixty-plus years later, Kor’s bolts are still in the rock—historical artifacts, but dubious protection.

While Crack of Fear is only three pitches long, it required—and requires—skills that are also key for big-wall climbing. Back in the late 1950s and early 1960s, climbers were focused primarily on walls, setting their sights on objectives like Half Dome, the Nose, the Dihedral Wall, and the Salathé Wall in Yosemite Valley. With free climbing standards and gear not what they are today, and with a mountaineering-informed ethos centered on getting to the top by whatever means, climbers were rarely hesitant to aid when merited: If a section got too hard or scary, hammering in a pin or drilling a bolt as a quick resting point or point of aid was often the norm. Hence Kor and Mayrose’s two bolts on the route—and only a partial free ascent.

Another big-wall skill at play on Crack of Fear is offwidth climbing. Knowing how to climb wide is a necessary skill in any big-wall aspirant’s tool kit. The widest gear available at the time was large, V-shaped aluminum pitons called “bongs,” first commercially produced by Yvon Chouinard and Tom Frost, and named for the “bong-bong” sound they made when hammered into a crack. They varied in width, with the biggest around four to six inches. Compared to modern offwidth cams, they were quite small, which meant protecting wide climbs was challenging and not always guaranteed. A level of bravery was required—a stepping into the unknown. There was often uncertainty as to whether a climb would even take gear, so the mindset was to keep moving and hope to reach the next belay before running out of energy. With their rudimentary gear, it’s likely Kor understood from the ground he was taking a leap of faith climbing something so wide, hence the name Crack of Fear.

Image from the Detterline Collection, Courtesy of the AAC Library

Shortly after Kor and Mayrose’s first ascent, Royal Robbins attempted to free the route. During that era, Robbins was (and remains) a well-known pioneer of American rock climbing. He helped forge the path for free climbing, making notable ascents such as freeing America’s first 5.9, Open Book at Tahquitz Rock, in 1952, and later, in 1964, the first free ascent of Danse Macabre (5.10) on Devils Tower. When he failed to free Crack of Fear, its reputation only grew. Who would get the first free ascent?

Back in the mid-1960s, Jamie Logan was an eager kid excited to prove herself in the world of climbing. After moving to Boulder to attend the University of Colorado, she soon flunked out, spending all of her time climbing instead. Logan was always in search of partners to belay her on the next challenging climb, but finding consistent ones wasn’t easy at first. It was only when she gained recognition for her prowess on the rock at Castle Rock in Boulder Canyon that she found her inner circle—all of whom, Logan included, would go on to become climbing legends. Castle Rock remains a popular crag for its variety of stellar crack climbs. It was there that she ran into Royal Robbins and Pat Ament top-roping Final Exam, a route rated 5.11a by today’s standards, which they hoped to free climb (and eventually did in 1964). Logan, excited to have found fellow climbers, asked if she could try. Surprised and unsure of her abilities, they hesitantly said yes. She shocked them when she onsighted. From then on, it was clear Logan was part of the next generation of climbers pushing free climbing forward.

Logan was only 19 years old when, in 1966, she was part of the first free ascent of Crack of Fear with Chris Fredericks. That year, Fredericks flew from California, intending to free it, but he needed a partner. Fredericks was a methodical and sometimes slow climber. His lack of speed accommodated his thoughtful technique, helping him accomplish many first ascents, such as the South Face on Yosemite’s Washington Column in 1964 and Snake Dike (5.7) on Half Dome in 1965. Word spread, and he heard Logan was a strong crack climber. Logan loved climbing Grand Giraffe in Eldorado Canyon, another offwidth that requires its own bag of tricks. At the time, it was 5.8; today, it’s 5.10a. Logan was recruited.

Image from the Detterline Collection, Courtesy of the AAC Library

In the heat of summer, Fredericks, Logan, and a third (tentatively remembered as Ken Kelly) hiked to the base of the Twin Owls. Wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, a swami belt, and leather Kronhofer climbing shoes, Logan took the first pitch but struggled with the start of the offwidth, ending the lead. After pounding in a four-inch bong (the biggest piece they had with them), Logan attempted to wriggle upward, but was having little luck. “I didn’t know what I was doing,” Logan recalls. “I was just skinny and stoked.” Fredericks lost patience and told Logan to come back down, lowering her off the bong. From there, Fredericks took over leading. He climbed to the first ledge, built an anchor, and belayed Logan and Kelly up.

Exhausted from the sheer physicality of the first small section of offwidth on the first pitch, Kelly vomited at the ledge and had to be lowered to the ground, leaving Logan and Fredericks to continue the quest. The next 70 feet were the true crux. At the start of the second pitch, there is a small foot rail, which allowed Fredericks to establish himself in the offwidth. Once he left the safety of the rail, the crack widened, opening its coarse granite jaws, making it difficult for Fredericks to find any security. By shoving his heels together and using his inside knee to maintain progress, he slowly inched up. After clipping one of Kor’s bolts, he pushed and grunted toward another gear placement. “You so wanted to stand on the bolt,” Logan recounts, but they were committed to a free ascent. Fredericks managed to find an armbar, forming a chicken-wing, and hammered a one-inch angle into a thin crack above him. He then traversed across the face before re-entering the crack, completing the most difficult pitch.

Now came Logan’s turn to second. Skinnier than Fredericks, she could squeeze deeper into the crack. “I’m making progress like a quarter inch at a time [or] a half inch at a time. I get up there, and I remember grabbing this little tiny edge, and I just worked it,” Logan says. When she reached the piton Fredericks had placed, she was too pumped to clean it, so she grabbed the carabiner off the pin and continued upward, knowing she’d owe him a one-inch angle later. She emerged from the crack a bloody, excited mess, her arms shredded from its sharp granite walls.

Fredericks led the final pitch, and together they completed the first free ascent. Logan told him she couldn’t wait to share the news with the climbing community back in Boulder. Fredericks replied, “You know, that’s not really why we’re supposed to do this.”

At the time, Crack of Fear was one of the hardest climbs in the country at 5.10. Rating a climb 5.10 meant it was extremely difficult, but acceptance of the grade took time. Logan recalls how there were many mathematicians and scientists in the climbing world during the 1960s who would gladly argue that 5.10 was not a “real” number, therefore nonsensical as a climbing grade. Climbers like David Rearick, who, with Bob Kamps, made the first ascent of the Diamond on Longs Peak and had a Ph.D. in mathematics, and Frank Sacherer, a legendary free climber in Yosemite who would go on to work as a theoretical physicist at CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, argued against expanding the Yosemite Decimal System beyond 5.9. But as climbing progressed, and 5.9 and 5.9+ were no longer sufficient, 5.10 became the new standard. In the 1970s, Jim Bridwell proposed adding letter grades (a–d) to further differentiate difficulty from 5.10 on up.

Free climbing was in its nascence. On the popular climbs of the era, there was often a plethora of “fixed pins,” thanks to pioneering climbers either using soft angle-iron pins that were hard to remove or, later, overdriving their chromoly steel pitons into cracks and seams. Over time, these routes became littered with fixed gear, unintentionally making them better protected and/or leaving pin scars that could be used as handholds for free ascents. “There was this interim period of lots of pins,” says Logan. With more pins, free climbing became more efficient than aid climbing. At the time, many top climbers had their sights set on Yosemite’s big walls. An essential part of completing such big objectives was speed, and if a climber was strong enough to climb through sections without hanging or using aiders, it saved a lot of time—as did clipping fixed pins as pro. As time passed, climbers like Derek Hersey, a British rock jock who specialized in free soloing, took on Crack of Fear. It’s said he onsight free soloed it, believing it to be just another 5.10, a grade well within his wheelhouse. He was sorely mistaken, however, and spent hours surviving his way up, convinced he might die but ultimately reaching the summit. He showed up to work the next night, half his body bloody, raw, and swollen from crushing himself into the crack.

Today, gear has drastically improved. Modern cams are lighter, easier to place, versatile, and safer than the bong-bongs of yore—they cover a wider range of crack sizes, including offwidths. Yet Crack of Fear retains its aura. Kelly Cordes, Estes Park local legend, climber, and writer, last climbed it 20 years ago. “I’ve only climbed it once, basically got my ass kicked so bad that my friend had to lead the two harder pitches, and I’ve avoided it ever since. It felt so utterly desperate to me that I just gave up on ever trying again,” Cordes says. “The cool thing about it, I think, is how much respect it still garners. I don’t think anyone just strolls up to it and finds it easy; the [5.10d] grade is virtually meaningless and absurd, but somehow, fitting.”

Unlike Cordes, Eddie Taylor became obsessed. The Colorado-based climber, teacher, and track coach estimates trying it 15 times, most of those attempts in the fall of 2024. “The only reason I really wanted to try it was because someone told me it was a really good simulator for the Monster Offwidth,” Taylor says, referencing the 200-foot 5.11d crack that is considered one of the cruxes of El Capitan’s Free Rider (31 pitches, VI 5.13a).

In 2024, as Taylor trained for Free Rider, he headed up to try Crack of Fear with his climbing mentor, Cody Scarpella. When Scarpella, a granite wizard, struggled to figure out the crux, Taylor knew it must be extremely difficult. A year later, Taylor returned and was able to figure out the move that had stumped them both previously. He made it a goal to send the entire climb in one push, never leaving the crack, by linking the pitches together with one long rope. Choosing not to stop at the belay stances turned the climb into an endurance push. The idea was to build stamina for its offwidth cousin on Free Rider.

Though not an offwidth specialist, Taylor is a well-rounded climber, as any big-wall climber must be. “Definitely for a route that’s rated 10d, I put…more work [into it] than…[any other] 5.10 route,” Taylor says. Trying to find a continuous offwidth near the Front Range is like looking for a needle in a haystack—few other than Crack of Fear offer a sustained, continuous fight. It’s as if a little slice of Yosemite got lost and found itself in Estes Park instead.

Taylor and many other climbers agree that the climb is most likely somewhere in the 5.11c range, which many 5.10+ routes from that era likely are as well. Logan herself admits that with today’s modern grades, it would sit somewhere in the 5.11 range. Taylor eventually freed Crack of Fear, top-rope soloing it in a continuous pitch on a fixed line. It became part of his routine: getting out of work, driving up to Lumpy Ridge, and trying to squeeze in four or five laps before the sun set. When Taylor eventually attempted Free Rider, he found the Monster Offwidth to be much easier.

Believed to be the original bolts placed by Layton Kor.

Images: AAC VP of Media Shane Johnson

Similar to Taylor, two young retired British competition climbers, Alex Waterhouse and Billy Ridal, were pointed in the direction of Crack of Fear before they took on the Nose of El Capitan (VI 5.14a). With very little crack-climbing experience but an incredible amount of strength and technique, they freed the Nose in 2023. Logan, who was speaking at a conference with Waterhouse and Ridal, listened to the boys regale the crowd with their adventures and mishaps. At the end of their story, as Logan recalls, Ridal said, “But the hardest thing we did is we went to climb this crack in Estes Park, and people said it would be good training for us and that it was 5.10.”

Going in blind, without looking at the guidebook or reading Mountain Project, Waterhouse and Ridal set off into the wide—and quickly got their butts kicked. Waterhouse, leading on pitch two, accidentally dislodged their No. 6 cam, so that his only protection was the two rusty bolts placed by Layton Kor. Waterhouse was terrified. As the Brits described their harrowing ascent, Logan realized they were talking about Crack of Fear. Logan chuckles and says, “So that was kind of fun. It made me feel like I was a good rock climber.”

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Dark Road

Image by Christian Kiefer

A Member Story by Christian Kiefer

Originally Published in Guidebook XIX.

My father enters the hospital after his third round of chemotherapy. Over the preceding months, he has suffered a sore throat and often been out of breath. The diagnosis is, at first, a crushed tonsil, the result of a previous round of chemo seven years before. Then came the revision: a return of lymphoma, a different variety than the one he had beaten, although this one is, they tell him, easier to treat. A good prognosis, considering; he feels calm and resolved. He beat it once; he knows what to expect; this will be much the same.

The first new round of chemo knocks him off his feet for a few weeks, but he recovers. The second results in a cough and shortness of breath serious enough to be of concern. Now, after the third round, the cough becomes persistent enough that he has trouble catching his breath and can't sleep. I am climbing in Red Rocks when my mom calls to tell me that I need to come home. It takes most of a day to get back to my parents' Northern California home, and when arrive, it is to find my father pale and drawn, exhausted, clearly out of breath, his sentences comprised of three or four words.

***

Over the next 25 days in the hospital, my father's condition improves and then worsens and then improves again and then finally cascades into an increasingly untenable situation. Air is black on a CT scan, and the image of his lungs from the previous year showed healthy black emptiness striated by white threads. The newest images show lungs the color of concrete: tissue without air.

“I just want three good days so I can talk to people,” he says. It does not yet occur to either of us that all the good days he might have had are already behind him.

I stay overnight every night, my sister and my mom take the day shifts. Some days, he wants visitors-anything to assuage the boredom-but the visits also exhaust him. On a day when neither my mom nor sister is available to sit with him, he bursts into tears when I arrive in the early evening. "That was too long," he says. "That was too long."

He goes from the ICU to the telemetry floor and then back to the ICU and back to telemetry and back to ICU again, where he stays. At no point do I really believe that he will not make it home. I assume that he will probably be on oxygen, at least until the chemo is over, and we talk about how I might rearrange his house so that he can get around better in a somewhat debilitated state.

"I think this is it," he says sometimes.

"But you're getting better," I tell him. "You don't see it because it's so slow, but you're better than you were when you first got here."

"I guess," he'd say in return.

"Shut the f*&k up," I'd tell him.

He would laugh. I would laugh. There would be laughter.

Illustration by Foster Denney

***

I give my dad the best of me, but when I’m not in the hospital, I feel the black wave of depression come washing once more over my heart. I was officially diagnosed with major depressive disorder at the age of 18 or 19, although it probably started well before that. There have been better days, of course, but over the past three or four years, the darkness has felt increasingly overwhelming.

Climbing has been the only thing I’ve found that helps at all, and in the days between hospital visits, I’ve found a mungy, moss-covered, dirty, fractured, undeveloped crag not far from my home. My current climbing obsession is dry-tooling, although I’m not particularly good at it. Using ice tools to climb bare, unfrozen rock is a strange obsession for someone who lives in Northern California, the topography of which offers few venues. Climbing takes all of me, body and mind, so that there is nothing left. I can hardly remember a climb when I’m done with it—it’s like I enter a fugue state, less flow and more annihilation—and dry-tooling puts me in that headspace from the moment my cramponed feet leave the dirt. Perhaps this is a strange reason to climb, but I’ve found nothing else that brings me to absolute zero, without which I often don’t think I’d survive at all.

There’s an arête at the center of the crag, perhaps 20 feet of vertical or near-vertical climbing after which it devolves into typical Sierra granite rambling. It’s probably something like 5.8 in climbing shoes, the holds solid if dirty, but with ice tools and crampons it feels skittery and tenuous. I bolt it between trips to the hospital and do solo top-rope laps for hours.

***

I think about taking my dad out to the new crag when he’s better. I think about him sitting in the shade, belaying or just watching as I scratch my way up and down the route. Sometimes it feels like that day might be possible. Things get better. But then things get worse. During the days, I venture to the crag and put three sets of top anchors in, and then drop a rope and run up and down possible routes with my tools. At night, I show Dad pictures on my phone. At some point—10 or 11p.m.—I pull the chair into a bed and fall asleep listening to the various machines beep and whir. The nurses come and go. He does not sleep well—how could he?—so his nights are mostly tedious, watching the clock and waiting for the day to begin. When the sun comes up, it’s always a relief.

“Why?” I ask him. “Day and night are pretty much the same here.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s weird, but I’m always waiting for the day.”

He is mostly terrified—terrified and bored, a combination that anyone who has spent much time in a hospital will recognize with abject horror. He felt betrayed by his upbringing as a Catholic, and when he split from that faith, it was total. For him, what lies beyond is only a bleak and all-encompassing emptiness.

And yet this: “I keep thinking how much I’ll miss everyone,” he tells me from his hospital bed, the high-flow cannula a constant hiss. “I know that’s stupid. I’m the one who’ll be gone.”

***

By day 25, my father has deteriorated to the point where he can only function if dosed regularly with Schedule II painkillers—morphine and Dilaudid—and a cocktail of benzodiazepines for his ever-increasing anxiety and air-hunger. When I arrive home early that morning, I tell my mom that I hope we can wean him off the benzos, as they make him so exhausted and distracted, and it is impossible to communicate with him.

It is that same day that my sister calls to tell me that Dad wants to be taken off everything. “He’s done,” she says. There isn’t even a sense of loss. Not yet. There is nothing but the physical motion of getting back in the car.

His family, my family, gather across the afternoon. At his request, he is dosed with morphine, and we drop the oxygen slowly. I hold his hand and talk to him for five hours until he is gone. Or I try to. At four hours and 30 minutes, I fall apart, screaming and crying, my snot dripping onto the hospital floor. I can’t help him. I can’t do anything. And there is my dad, his final, agonal breaths rasping, and then, finally, lifeless, pale. And all I can think is: That’s my dad. That’s my dad. A few weeks before, he had been helping me build a storage shed in the forest. Now he is gone. And what I thought then, what I still think, is this: How can there be a world that my dad is not in?

* * *

Illustration by Foster Denney

The day after my father’s death, I return to the crag, clip into the anchors, drop onto the rambling, fractured face, and begin bolting again. A few hours of granite dust, tears, sweat. Occasionally, I think of telling my dad about the new route only to be reminded that I’ll never get to tell him anything again.

I call the new route Mr. Subaru, in reference to my dad’s late-in-life used car business. The route runs up the side of a broken arête so that the climber must shuffle up and to the right over and over again, rising and turning across the face on thin edges, one’s body constantly tipping sideways into the fall line, ice tools scratching at bare granite. It is balancey, tenuous, and just difficult enough to demand attention. I cannot say that I feel any joy upon the first ascent, but it at least requires enough of me that I can’t think of anything else.

I have no partner at the crag. Everything I do here is alone. I bolt routes and climb them. I sit in the shade of the cedars. I weep.

* * *

My father returns home as a box of ashes in early July. The box is simple cardboard wrapped in plastic, although there’s a separate small baggie for me to scatter in Yosemite, the place he loved the best in all the world. I have plans to go up El Cap and scatter those ashes from the top after climbing it, but realistically, that will probably never happen.

My mom places the box on a small shelf in the closet of the bedroom, which is now only her own.

What is the point if, in the end, you are just a box of ashes in someone’s closet? Why struggle? Why do any of it at all?

* * *

I bolt three more routes. There is a wasp’s nest in one of the cracks under a prominent roof, although I cannot determine which crack actually holds their paper hexagons. The wasps are uniformly black and move lazily around me as I pull myself up the route, testing holds, looking for good crampon placements from which to clip, thumping possible bolt locations with my fist or the hammer. Then the impact drill. Then the bolt and the hammer. Then I wrench it down.

The rope I have been using was fairly new when I started; once 80m, it has been cut into 50m and 30m, rockfall having created a core shot. Even what remains is fuzzy in places, probably unsafe. I’m not sure that I care, although I have noticed that, when putting up my rope for the day, I’m not excited about falling from the top anchors. So do I want to live? Maybe my body does, the animal in me. Sometimes I holster the drill and just hang there in the harness midway up that fuzzy rope. Sometimes I cry there, up above the ground. Sometimes I just remain where I am for no reason I can determine. Maybe it’s just the act of being in a location difficult enough to get to that I feel a measure of safety. Sometimes I close my eyes. Sometimes I open them.

* * *

The most difficult route gives the entire crag its name: Grief Project. It’s the route with the wasps, beginning with a short slab with scratchy but positive placements, just enough to keep you moving and in balance. The trouble starts at a roof that is, coincidentally, about where the slab smooths out, and the placements disappear. One can lever in the back of the roof—difficult but possible—and then a pick can be slotted leftward into a crack formed by an exfoliating hunk of granite akin to a loaf of French bread. It’s a solid placement, but just at the edge of the lip of the roof, so that one is forced into a left-handed lock-off on that tool. It’s difficult—impossible for me—to get into a Figure 4 or 9 as my body ends up crammed up under the roof and I actually lose more height than I gain.

I think about the route at night when I’m lying in bed, in my parents’—in my mom’s—spare bedroom. Sometimes I feel like I can almost do the move. If I lock off and then reach far right and then shift my feet over to the bottom of the roof …

But instead, I’m stuck at the lip of the roof again. I scratch around, sweat running into my eyes, but find no purchase. The black wasps circle. One eventually stings me on the forehead as I struggle to release my two progress capture devices from the rope. This is the price of the ticket, it seems.

* * *

When one is in the depths, when the black dogs are roaming, you do not remember ever feeling different. You cannot. The overwhelming feeling of doom is your only reality, and it is infinite. Upon waking, it is with the grim understanding that I am now faced with the task of filling another seemingly endless collection of bleak hours before I can return to bed. I’ve told people it is akin to waking up each day with an invisible gun in your mouth.

The psychiatrist writes a Wellbutrin prescription to augment my current Prozac. My mom tells me I seem better. I don’t feel any difference except that now I’m waking up at 7a.m. and can’t get back to sleep, a problem in that it adds to the daylight hours I need to fill. So I do what I do: I pack up my car with my increasingly decrepit rope and the box of bolts and hangers, screws and washers, set everything on the junk-show that is the back of my car, and head back to the project.

A few times a day, teenagers, mostly boys, pass on the trail below me on the way to or from the swimming hole and cliff diving downriver.

“Whoa, bro, are you a climber? That’s so sick.”

“Did you see that movie about that guy who climbed that stuff?”

“Have you climbed El Cap?”

I’m kind, and I even answer their questions, but you can imagine what I’m thinking.

* * *

At some point, I put the Grief Project on the internet. I’m not done with the development yet, but it helps me keep track of things. Each route is named with significance, most related to my dad’s passing, but others in tribute to a friend’s deceased brothers. There are ten climbs now, each slowly being filled in with lead bolts; all ready for top-rope, at least.

I tend to head out to the crag in the late afternoon, avoiding the direct summer heat, bolting for an hour or two, and then heading home. Sometimes I think that the bolting is not really the point; the point is that I have to force myself to get out of the house and do something, and this is what I’ve chosen. It is lonely, but then again, so am I.

Illustration by Foster Denney

Then comes a day when, much to my surprise, I arrive at the crag to find a rope—not my rope—affixed to one of the anchors. I rap in to discover someone I don’t know top-rope soloing Mr. Subaru. When he reaches the ground, he introduces himself. He’s found the crag from my internet post and has driven from Sacramento. Now he’s effusive in his thanks for my commitment to dry-tooling and the work I’ve done in putting in the routes. When he talks about the climb, calling it by the name I have given it, the name that was in honor of my dad, I almost start crying. He rattles off the other climbs he’s already done here: Pop Goes, The Creezle, Take What You Need. They’re all names that hold deep meaning to me, and now they are in the world. “I did a variation of Discrete Mathematics,” he tells me. I ask him if it’s good, and he tells me it’s his favorite of the crag. So I bolted it as a route and put his name up on Mountain Project as the FA. Mathematics Direct (Variation), I call it.

I call my eldest son that night and tell him I met a guy climbing the routes I put up. “That’s f*&king awesome,” he says. “Those routes will be there forever.”

I guess that’s true.

* * *

I don’t know where this all leaves me. In depression, there is no great reckoning. With addiction, one can—at least theoretically—stop using and begin the path to recovery. But there is no recovery from depression, or at least I don’t know of one. I take my meds each morning, although there comes a day when it’s clear that the Wellbutrin is making things worse. I cry during a visit to my regular doctor, then I cry at the dentist’s. There isn’t any clear thought behind it; it’s just a terrible ache in my gut and a mangled moan interrupted by sobbing. I pull over on the freeway; I stop in parking lots. There’s no end to it. My head aches. I have a therapist and a psychiatrist, so I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, but I don’t know if any of it will amount to anything.

And yet I return again and again to the Grief Project. It’s been a private place for me, but now it’s public, a community resource. I know of five people who have visited the crag. Perhaps more will come. There’s an active dry-tooling community in Bozeman, the place where I first fully caught the dry-tooling bug, and sometimes I wonder if I could start something similar in Northern California. This has been a place of terrible grief but also a variety of solace, and sometimes I fantasize that we could hold a small dry-tooling festival here under the cedars, on the banks of the river. What a strange thought to have. Does this mean something is working?

I feel empty when the final bolt is tightened down, and I pull up the rope, coil it, and begin the short walk back to the car. It feels like something has ended out here in the shadows of the cedars. Not my grief, but this stage of working through it, of allowing my heart to change shape enough to begin to contain it. Or whatever the heart does. That night, I log into Mountain Project and add one final route, the sixteenth: up the mungy, broken corner that runs up the right side of the crag. I’d been looking at it for a long while, thinking it might need bolts, but I think I’ve put enough bolts in already, and it’s not really a climb that someone would much want to lead: a scramble up broken granite steps with plenty of easy rests, perhaps something a newcomer to dry-tooling might enjoy. I decide to keep it unbolted. Top-rope only. A blocky road disappearing into the ever-darkening sky.

As I type this, my dad’s 1970 El Camino SS gathers dust in the carport under the deck. He restored it from junk, lavishing it with care and attention. Even through the dust it shines, a blue that is almost black.

I call the route El Camino Obscuro. The dark road.

I wish you were here to see it all, Dad. God, how I wish you were here.

---

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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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