Wild Sport

The Future of American Rock Climbing Lies Far From the Highway
Author: Jonathan Siegrist. Climb Year: N/A. Publication Year: 2014.

I can’t remember the first time I went climbing, but I do remember growing up outdoors. Long walks to Sundance Buttress and sinking my little feet in the sand around Gem Lake at Lumpy Ridge. Following my dad up Stettner’s Ledges and the Diamond on Longs Peak. To go climbing was to have an adventure. You hiked. There was a thunderstorm. You got a little scared. At the beginning of the day you were uncertain; at the end of the day you were very tired.

When I was young, climbing essentially meant mountaineering. I aspired to do all the Colorado 14ers. After graduating high school, I did the NOLS Himalaya Mountaineering program in India. In the summer of 2004, at age 18, I went to the Cordillera Blanca in Peru with my dad. The snow conditions were terrible that year, so he dragged me up a 20-pitch rock route on La Esfinge, starting at well over 14,000 feet. For me, this 17-hour day was epic. I followed every single pitch, with what was surely a very tight top-rope. Afterward, wandering around base camp, I was wrecked. But something had clicked. Looking up toward the wall, I remember thinking, “Well, damn, that was incredible!”

For several years after returning to Colorado, I climbed six or seven days a week at the Boulder Rock Club. Gradually, as my strength and skills improved, my motivation shifted primarily to sport climbing. In the beginning I was mostly interested in the physical challenge, but as my climbing developed I also longed for adventure. At some of my favorite new sport crags, I’ve discovered both.

In American sport climbing, distinct from densely populated Europe and Asia, adventure will be a necessary part of the future, because the best undiscovered crags and hardest undone routes of the 21st century will likely be found well beyond the sight of paths or paved roads. Already, two of America’s three 5.15 routes are around an hour’s hike from dirt roads, following faint climbers’ trails: Flex Luthor (Tommy Caldwell, 2003) at the Fortress of Solitude, Colorado, and Jumbo Love (Chris Sharma, 2007) at Clark Mountain, California. In recent years, almost all of the new crags I’ve explored and most of the hardest routes I’ve established have been pure sport routes in uniquely adventurous settings.

For me, adventure is a feeling of excited, optimistic uncertainty, whether you’re facing an unknown landscape or a faint line of unchalked holds. Some adventures are grander than others, but for the characters involved, these experiences offer the ultimate growth, no matter the scale.

Wizard's Gate, Colorado

In July 2009 I started hiking up to the obvious rocks beneath the Twin Sisters, across the road from Longs Peak. After 10 minutes I jumped off the main hiking trail and trudged steeply uphill, clambering over mossy rocks and slipping on the needles of lodgepole pines. I reached the south end of the lowest cliff band after nearly an hour of hiking and trekked northward to see all of the possibilities.

I was by no means the first person to lay eyes on what would become the Wizard’s Gate. A lone, low-angle trad route existed. When I saw the steep amphitheater, at first I was not that excited. It’s easy to recognize rock climbs, but it’s much harder to recognize potential rock climbs. Vision, like many things, takes time to develop. I skirted the whole mountainside and eventually got lost in a summer thunderstorm, surfacing at the road filthy, exhausted, and famished. In subsequent days of climbing, at other areas, I stared at established routes and wondered what they had looked like before bolts and chalk. Before long, I came to realize that this amphitheater near Longs Peak really might be something special.

I bought a drill. I asked friends and new-route pioneers: How do I do this? For the next month I practically lived at the Wizard’s Gate. Sketching out above horrible gear and mossy stone to find a proper anchor. Hanging off hooks and dangling static lines, and knocking off loose blocks. Walking down the hill utterly exhausted each day. The whole experience was new to me. I contemplated ethics and access. Sometimes I pondered a bolt placement for 40 minutes before drilling. My dad, a few friends, and I put in more than 25 new routes, from 5.9 to 5.14, all in a beautiful alpine setting, with a cool breeze and shade even on the hottest Colorado days.

The following year, when 34 people arrive at Wizard’s Gate on a bluebird summer day, the experience came full circle. Now there were people laughing and sending, using that same sequence I hoped they would, talking about the routes and having a good time. I loved that day.

The Fins, Idaho

As soon as it became known that I’d stepped into the realm of new-route development, this amazing community began to come forward. They had seen a cliff once; there was this place down a dirt road somewhere.... I explored many options. Most of them were not obvious like Smith Rock or roadside like Rifle. These places were increasingly wild.

For years I had heard rumors about the Fins. “Such incredible limestone, with so much potential.” But after having that beer-infused conversation enough times, you learn that not every messenger should be taken seriously. I don’t ignore a lead from an old-schooler, though. They’ve been around, and they know quality when they see it. So when Dave Bingham, one of the main developers of the City of Rocks in Idaho, gave the Fins his thumbs up, I definitely paid attention.

In perhaps the most barren part of eastern Idaho, at the south end of the Lost River Range, a 30-minute jolting ride up a wildly steep, rocky road deposits you at a ribbon of limestone dancing down a wavy hillside—and in the middle of nowhere. Bolting new routes is really a one-person job, and when you’re anywhere this remote the job feels extra lonely. I went for days without seeing or hearing anyone. The nights were very quiet.

Walking along the top of the Fins for the first time was thrilling. The summit ridge is about the width of a sidewalk. To your left is a sheer 140-foot drop; to your right it’s about 80 feet. With a drill, bolts, and other kit, and a 100-meter static line, I carefully downclimbed the rib, knocking off the occasional loose block with my foot, searching for a solid stance for an anchor. I battled sharp edges as I maneuvered to the lip. Beneath me was an ocean of white stone. What would I find? Excitement bubbled up when I spotted holds, and as I giddily followed them to the ground the stress dissolved and pure psych emerged. This is one of my favorite feelings in life.

There is a strong community of climbers in central and eastern Idaho, and they had done an exceptional job developing the Fins through the years. The likes of Dave Bingham, Marc Hanselman, Peter Heekin, and Matt TeNgaio, to name a few, all made significant contributions. But for someone like myself, searching for 5.14, the Fins were virtually untouched. Now, after two seasons, there are six new 5.14s (including a 5.14a trad climb, Enter the Dragon, and Idaho’s hardest rock pitch, Algorithm, 5.14d) and well over a dozen new 5.13s. Although development has slowed, this face-climbing, foot-smearing, pocket-pulling super-crag still has open projects and even some unexplored walls.

Wolf Point, Wyoming

In the summer of 2013 I spent several months exploring one of my favorite parts of the Lower 48: Wyoming. Rumors were swirling about a new spot in the foothills of the Wind Rivers, with enormous dolomite walls in a secluded landscape. On my first day in the Lander area, I followed some friends out to this crag in the making. The approach begins with an hour’s drive, including 20 minutes on rough dirt roads, sometimes washed out, frequently evolving. The hike then takes about an hour, first losing over 1,000 feet in elevation, only to gain it again. One day a grizzly cornered a good friend at the trailhead. He retreated to the roof of his van, brandishing a 9mm pistol in one hand and a can of bear spray in the other. The bear eventually wandered off, but the reality of its presence haunted our campfires for days. I stepped over more rattlers than I can remember. On two separate nights, returning from the crag, I was stalked by a mountain lion. Cat prints littered the campsite the next morning.

The climbs at Wolf Point are long, dirty, sandbagged, and savage. Storms whip overhead in no time. On a calm, sunny day, the main cave can feel tropically warm and sweaty, and then a breeze and shade will turn the day freezing cold. And yet you feel remarkably content, so far from everything. Wolf Point’s curse is perhaps its salvation.

Locals had made a serious dent in the cliff, as characters like Steve Bechtel, Tom Rangitsch, Zach Rudy, B.J. Tilden, and Kyle Vassilopoulos equipped around 20 routes and many projects up to hard 5.14. Everyone had a little piece of the cliff to work on, and the psych was always high.

I started working on new routes during my second day there, lugging ropes and a bolting kit out to the cliff. Everyone else had left. I followed their directions to the top, crawling under old trees and ducking through rock passages. Skirting the abrupt lip, I found the spot I hoped was above my line and tossed my rope off the edge. CRACK! Too short. I tied two ropes together and used some slings to gain a few more feet. As I pushed off the very crest of the cave, a strong wind blew from below and suddenly I felt immense exposure. In this moment I felt very uncertain, but also wildly excited.

Literally miles of potential exists around Lander.

The Future

After so many miles of driving empty highways around the American West and hiking to endless cliff lines, I have no reason to believe that even half of this country’s greatest cliffs have been climbed. Or even seen. Large states with small or condensed populations and remote cliffs offer the way forward. The Big Horns and Wind Rivers in Wyoming. The Mormon Mountains and Ely in Nevada. The west desert and southwest hills of Utah. Isolated pockets of California, Arizona, and deep into New Mexico.

The development of climbing in some remote settings will be limited by wilderness rules and access concerns. And it’s important to understand a community and build a relationship with the local climbers before barging in to bolt new routes. Very few people are as blessed as I am with the ability to travel constantly. Locals usually want their own chance to develop their cliffs.

But there are lifetimes of possibility out there for those willing to get dirty and tired and scared. The next best cliff will probably require a sock-wrecking, bushwhacking nightmare of a hike. I bet you’ll need a truck to get there. It will be a long drive from a grocery store or source of water. You’ll see wild wildlife. Cell phones won’t work. Injuries and mistakes may be costly. But the stars will be incredible, and the stories will be rich, and the adventures could be life-changing.

About the Author

Jonathan Siegrist, 28, lives the nomadic life in his trusty pickup, with his dog, Zeke, as copilot. When he’s not adventuring, you’ll most likely catch him in Boulder, Las Vegas, or Wyoming.



Media Gallery