A 30-year-old woman from Grand Junction, Colorado, is in critical condition after a fall and dramatic rescue which occurred on Monday, September 11, on The Great White Wall, a 1,300 foot climbing route in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park.

Becca (the family asked that we not divulge her last name for the sake of privacy) was about thirty feet up the fourth pitch when her foothold broke. The one piece of protection she had below her ripped from the wall when her rope came taught, and she hit the ledge at the base of the pitch hard. Becca sustained multiple broken bones, a punctured lung, and a severe head injury which left her immediately unconscious.

Becca’s partner, Skyeler Congdon, said that she was on terrain well-within her abilities. Becca had recently climbed a much harder rout in the same style in Unaweep Canyon in Western Colorado. “She’s a strong and competent climber. It was just one of these unfortunate situations where her hand holds weren’t good enough to catch her when the foothold broke.”

A Bold and Daring Rescue

Becca’s fall occurred at roughly 7:30 A.M. Congdon was torn over what to do when she did not regain consciousness. “You never want to leave an unconscious victim,” he said. “I thought about lowering her, but I didn’t have any way to protect her spine.” Ultimately, he decided to get help as quickly as possible. He secured her to the anchor, rappelled down to the start of the route, and “ran as fast as I could up the gully, back to the ranger station.”

When Congdon arrived at the ranger station, he was surprised to find nobody was there. So Congdon got in his car and “hauled ass another 15 minutes to cell reception,” where he called 911. After a frustrating run around with Montrose dispatch transferring him to Delta, then Delta transferring him back to Montrose, and Montrose trying to transfer him back again, he “lost his shit and told them ‘this girl is going to die, I need rescue support now.’” Montrose relayed the report to Black Canyon district ranger Ryan Rees, who called Congdon, told him to stay put, and that rescuers would soon be on their way.

Rees and District Ranger Ryan Thrush—who took charge of the response as Incident Command—called the park’s two paid climbing rangers, Tom Schaefer and Philippe Wheelock, at roughly 11:15. Schaefer was at his home in Crested Butte, Wheelock was out hunting 45 minutes from the nearest road. Both rangers were off duty, but immediately began making their way to the North Rim ranger station, more than two hours of drive and hike time away for each. Schaefer quickly dispatched the SAR team—composed of employees and volunteers from numerous locations in a roughly two hour radius—to respond to the North Rim. Wheelock brought climber and volunteer Charlie Faust with him, and Schaefer was accompanied by flight medic and Senior NPS Volunteer, Mike Kingsbury, who happened to be in Crested Butte and available.

It was 1:20 P.M. when Schaefer arrived at the ranger station. Seven other volunteers were already assembled, including long-time Black Canyon climbing ranger, now SAR volunteer and Black Canyon climbing guidebook author, Vic Zeilman. Thrush had spent the last two hours on the phone with various helicopter operators. None of the park’s normal short-haul programs were available, but a Black Hawk helicopter capable of hoist operations from High Altitude Aviation Training Site (HAATS) was, pending weather and various other factors. A successful helicopter evac is never a guarantee, even with a helicopter you are accustomed to working with, so Schaefer also planned a massive 1,300-foot litter raise. Either way, the first order of business was to reach Becca. At that point, she had been alone, seriously injured, and presumably unconscious for close to five hours, and HAATS had communicated they would not fly unless the patient was still alive.

Zeilman and Kingsbury started descending the Long Draw gully—a steep choke filled with loose boulders and scree that drops 1,800 feet in one mile—at 1:45 P.M. Wheelock and Faust arrived about 15 minutes later, and rapidly followed them down to the base of Great White Wall. Zeilman led the first pitch, which Wheelock and Kingsbury followed. Wheelock then linked the second and third pitch (a physically demanding section), just barely making the ledge after a full 210 feet. Wheelock radioed to Schaefer that Becca was unconscious but still had respirations and a pulse, and Schaefer relayed the message to HAATS, who began to prepare for flight. Wheelock then belayed up Kingsbury, who climbed quickly despite the massive amount of medical equipment on his back, and hauled a static line from his harness. Wheelock estimated that, all in all, it had taken approximately one hour for the whole three-person team to climb three pitches and access the ledge by about 3:30 P.M.

Once Kingsbury arrived, he began to administer patient care. Kingsbury, who Wheelock described as “an ace flight medic used to tight spaces,” managed to put on a C-Collar, and insert two IV picks—one on each arm—through which he began to pump fluids and life-supporting narcotics. This was made more complicated by the fact that they were on a narrow, sloping ledge full of loose rocks, with other rescuers directly below them, including Zeilman, who was busy ascending Kingsbury’s static line to build an anchor and establish another fixed line at the top of pitch two.

It was roughly 4:00 P.M. when HAATS got the message that Becca was alive. Flight time from their base in Eagle would be about 38 minutes, it would take another half hour to put together a flight plan and safety briefing, and the HAATS pilot wanted to be out of the canyon by dark. There was time, but not much of it. A helicopter rescue at that point was far from guaranteed.

So Schaefer—who was manning Ops back on the canyon rim—continued with the contingency plan. He organized two additional teams to assist the Climb Team already in the canyon: the Gully Team, which would descend the Long Draw in order to help transport the patient; and the Rim Team, which would rig the 1,300-foot raise on the wall opposite the climbers—a wall they had never practiced a raise or lower on before. A direct raise above the climbers was not possible due to the ledgy nature of the wall, and incredibly chossy terrain, creating a massive overhead hazard for both Becca and the rescuers below.

Back on the wall, Wheelock and Zeilman had set up a dual-tension two-rope system and began lowering Kingsbury, who descended with Becca (IV ports, C-collar, and all) on his back. They arrived in the gully somewhere between 5:00 and 5:30 P.M. where the Gully Team—consisting entirely of volunteers, with the exception of team-lead Rees—began packaging her for transport. At this point, Nick Wasser—ex-Black Canyon climbing ranger, registered nurse, and SAR volunteer—was being lowered down the 1,300-foot wall. He was one-third of the way down when HAATS called and said the helicopter was inbound. At first HAATS wanted to come in above the rescuers, which Wheelock and others vehemently opposed given the rockfall hazard that would create. Once an alternate flight plan was established to enter the canyon and fly up Long Draw from below the rescuers, Wasser was lowered the rest of the way to the gully, landing about 200 feet above the Gully Team and Becca.

When the Black Hawk arrived it made its way as high up the gully as possible, about 600 feet downhill of the Gully Team. Two flight techs were lowered from the helicopter, which flew off to wait at the North Rim. The flight techs hiked up the gully, and told the Gully Team they would have to bring the patient down 600 feet, and that they had thirty minutes to pull it off. The time was roughly 6:30 P.M.

At this point, there were two options: lower Becca at breakneck speed and run the risk of the helicopter leaving, putting them even further from the Rim Team’s raise system; or begin making their way 200 feet up the gully to interface with the Rim Team, and get raised 1,300 feet up the wall. Schaefer estimated the rope raise alone would take about an hour and a half, not including the time to get the litter up to Wasser for the raise. Becca had now been unconscious for 11 hours. Schaefer knew the terrain in the gully was incredibly loose scree, and would be difficult to travel in either direction. From up on the rim, he did not feel he was in the right position to make the call. He asked Wheelock and Rees to do so instead.

Wheelock—a current Rigging for Rescue instructor with more than 25 years of climbing and SAR experience—began to do some mental math. “The lower would require all three of our ropes, which meant we’d have to pass two knots. It would take a minute or two per knot pass. So that would leave us something like 25 minutes to descend 600 feet. I knew it would be tight, but based on my experience, and the experience of the team, I calculated that we could pull it off.”

Wheelock knew that the helicopter could bug out and decide to leave at any moment if it got too dark, too windy, if the pilot just didn’t like how it felt. But he decided to go down, knowing that if it worked out, it would be the quickest way to get Becca to definitive care. “There were no good options,” he said, “just options.” He took the three biggest members of the Gully Team and told them “you’re going to take this litter, put it on your hip, and you’re going to run down this gully as fast as you can, and we’ll belay you down and basically all we can do is keep you from going into the river.”

Faust and Wheelock put the Gully Team and Becca on a lower system. They raced down the first rope to its end, passed the first knot, raced down the second rope, passed the second knot, and began down the third rope. Finally they were at the pickoff point. The Black Hawk flew in, lowered the hoist, and one of the techs clipped himself and Becca into the cable. They were hauled up into the Black Hawk, which departed for Montrose airport at about 7 P.M., with not a minute to spare.

The Current Situation

From the Montrose airport, Becca was transferred to a CareFlight helicopter, which took her to Saint Mary’s hospital in Grand Junction. She was still unconscious, but alive.

Since then, her condition has improved slowly, but continually. She is no longer technically in a coma. She has begun to show signs of consciousness, and the ability to move digits and limbs. In spite of multiple broken bones, her doctors do not think any will require surgery to repair.

As of Monday, September 18, Becca had begun to “respond periodically when asked questions,” according to her parents. “For example
 she has responded to the nurse to signal two fingers and then three fingers when the nurse showed her that many fingers.” She is still on a ventilator, but largely as a precautionary measure in case of any situation that might necessitate an emergency surgery. At this point, the ventilator is providing very little support, and she is breathing mostly on her own.

Becca’s parents expressed their profound gratitude to the more than 25 employees and volunteers who participated in the rescue. “We want to thank all the members of the search and rescue team and acknowledge that we know a number of those people risked life and limb for her. Also her climbing partner, Skyeler. He did all the right things, took care of her, secured her, got down and got help. He was a hero, himself.” On Sunday, they drove from St. Mary’s Hospital to the North Rim ranger station to meet with the SAR team and say thank you in person—a rare and heartfelt gesture that was deeply appreciated by the entire SAR team.

“Becca is a well-known, liked, and respected member of the tight-knit Western Slope climbing community; and a loving, intentional, and generous friend,” one friend commented. “Her drive to push self imposed boundaries is contagious, and her eagerness to accept and meet challenges—in climbing and life—is an inspiration.” Another friend referred to Becca as “a badass with a huge heart
 a person who feels deeply, loves climbing, her partner, her amazing dog, travel, her friends, self-improvement, yoga, and so much more. She is a great climbing partner—smart, safe, and competent. It is unimaginably tragic that this happened.”

The family has established a GoFundMe, and is kindly to help defray the cost of Becca’s mounting medical bills. The GoFundMe page also includes a touching tribute from Becca’s partner, Parker, who described her as “a deep, thoughtful and complex woman with a wonderfully multifaceted nature
 honest, curious and [someone who] can light up a room with her smile and eyes.”

To help support Becca, please visit the GoFundMe .

A Program in Peril

Climbing rangers Schaefer, Wheelock, and Zeilman all described Monday’s rescue as one of the most difficult, complex, and risky of their careers—each of which spans more than a decade. Cumulatively, they have 25 years of SAR experience in the Black Canyon.

“Having the time to train and work with this team and the camaraderie and friendship is what inspires confidence in being able to pull off a rescue like this,” said Schaefer. “Everyone played a role. We don’t do a ton of rescues like this, but because of how dedicated everyone is—all the years of working together and planning for something like this—we were able to get the job done.”

Wheelock agreed that this was a team effort, made possible not only by many years of hard work by all parties involved, but also support from the park’s previous administration. Unfortunately, that support has been increasingly absent under the park’s new superintendent, Stuart West, who was hired in early 2023, and described himself at an all-department meeting as someone who was “there to trim the fat.”

Under West, the climbing rangers and SAR program have undergone a variety of concerning changes. Around mid-August, Schaefer, Wheelock, and the rest of the park staff (including Law Enforcement Officers) were locked out of the North Rim Ranger Station where all EMS and Climbing Patrol equipment had been located for decades. The locks were changed while Wheelock was on his days off, and when he showed up for his next shift, he was unable to get in. Wheelock was then informed that he and Schaefer would need to return their emergency response vehicles to headquarters, remove all their personal effects from the ranger station, and begin traveling to the North Rim in their personal vehicles. At that point he took sick leave, during which he met with West and “begged him to change the locks back so that he and the rest of the staff could access emergency medical equipment.” Schaefer made the same urgent request, and a week later, the locks were finally changed back.

But the damage at that point was done. For years, Wheelock, Schaefer, and other rangers had relied upon a functional system that included storing their personal patrol gear, as well as emergency response go bags, at the North Rim Ranger Station. Suddenly, they could no longer rely on that resource, and were forced to figure out a new system on the fly. All of the above added unnecessary stress, anxiety, and confusion to the initial stages of the rescue that occurred on Monday.

“Our morale is dependent on getting support from the administration,” Wheelock said. “This isn’t fat you’re trimming. You’re cutting through muscle and hitting bone. We feel incredibly undervalued right now, and are really struggling to maintain a vision of the future that resembles what we saw on Monday—an incredibly diverse, highly skilled group of individuals coming together to solve a really complex and dangerous problem, and succeed. To have that disappear at the expense of policy is a tragedy. Not just for us, but also for the public.”

Wheelock and Schaefer agreed that at the rate things are going, it’s likely there won’t be a climbing ranger program or volunteer SAR team at all at Black Canyon National Park next year. “And I know none of us want that,” said Schaefer, “but that’s the direction our superintendent and administration has chosen to take. And we’re trying really hard to come up with solutions to combat that, because at the end of the day, visitor and rescuer safety is completely dependent on those elements.”

While the future of the Black Canyon Climbing Ranger and SAR program is uncertain, what can be said with one hundred percent certainty is that without their expertise and bravery, Becca would now be dead, not recovering in a hospital in Grand Junction. That is a fact. It’s not just the climbing rangers who deserve better—it’s climbers like Becca, too. Any tax-paying American who wants to visit our national parks deserves better. We all do.

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Nineteen years ago, I bought my first pair of climbing shoes—the . Ten years and a bunch of different climbing-shoe models later, I bought another pair of Moccasyms. Today you can still buy them. And for certain kinds of climbing (granite friction slabs and splitter cracks), they’re still one of the best shoes that exist.

You might read that and think, Some things never change. But when it comes to climbing shoes, you couldn’t be more wrong. Back when I bought that first pair of Moccasyms, there weren’t many brands to choose from. As of 2019, there were at least (and I can think of a few more now). While larger companies (Five Ten, La Sportiva, Scarpa) still dominate much of the market share in the industry, it’s great to see some interesting boutique companies popping up with quality offerings. Here are a handful of brands making a splash.

Acopa

was founded in Guadalajara by Mexican climbers Ernesto Vazquez and Dario Piana in 1997 and brought to the States by climbing legend  and Steve Allen Karafa Jr. in 2003. In 2006, Acopa was well on its way to being one of the top shoe companies in the U.S. But en route to the airport from the Outdoor Retailer trade show in Salt Lake City, Bachar lost control of the SUV he was driving, and Karafa died in the accident. Acopa lost one of its stars, , a year later, and Bachar died in a free-soloing accident in 2009. By 2010, Acopa had closed up shop. But ten years later, Piana and new business partner Sergio Langarica have revived Acopa, and the beloved brČčČÔ»ćÌęand its tried-and-true shoes are back in business. One of the headlining models is  ($199, named after Bachar), a shoe which climbs and looks very similar to La Sportiva’s TC Pro. But before you go crying copycat, consider this: the original JB actually predates the TC Pro.

UnParallel

“was started in 2017 by Sang Lee, who handled development and production for Five Ten climbing until Adidas closed the Redlands outlet” in California, according to the website . A quick glance at its lineup reveals that almost all of the company’s designs appear to be modeled after Five Ten shoes. (Adidas owns Five Ten.) I Ìę($140), and frankly, I loved it. It edged precisely, while also doing well in tough crack sizes, in a comfortable package that can be worn all day long. Additionally, UnParallel does resoles and, based on my experience, a good job of it. I’ve tried a dozen or so shoe resolers over the years, and UP is in my top two or three.

Butora

I learned about during a brief stint managing the retail shop of a climbing gym in Colorado in 2016. I was impressed by some of the South Korean company’s offerings—particularly the Acro, which I wore one day to climb in during a shoe demo—but honestly, I didn’t expect it to make much of a dent in the American market, because other Asian climbing-shoe brands have struggled to succeed it here. Boy, was I wrong. Today Butora not only has a devoted cadre of followers, but . This knowledge has led to some cool features, such as high- and low-volume options in all of its offerings instead of the typical male and female choices. Butora is taking a more gender-neutral path: all of its models are fairly unisex, and there’s no gender-based assumptions about foot volume. Price points are pretty low compared to other shoe companies. The Acro ($154) is hard to beat, and the Altura ($155), its high-top, is like $40 cheaper than other competitive high-top models from Acopa and La Sportiva. If Butora keeps it up, it may unseat some of the industry giants in the coming years.

Tulson Tolf

When I first saw this company’s glittery (yes, that’s right) , the California ($125), I thought it was a joke. Turns out, Tulson Tolf is actually quite serious, as evidenced by some of the names on its sponsored squad: Kilian Jornet, Karl Egloff, and Denis Urubko are all TT athletes, and although those guys are definitely more mountaineers or mountain runners than rock climbers, Rock and Ice magazine thought well enough of TT to give the sparkly shoes a . I haven’t tried them or seen anyone else wearing them, though—and it seems like they would be hard to miss.

kN Climbing 

First: this brand’s shoes cost $350. Second: each pair is custom-made using a 3D scan of your foot. As such, is about as niche as it gets, which is why I’m including them here. Back in the day, nobody anticipated the rise of print-on-demand books or the massive explosion of self-publishing facilitated by Amazon and other companies. Could a similar model be the future of rock-climbing shoes? That depends on whether kN Climbing’s unique methodology will actually yield a significantly more effective—or more comfortable—climbing shoe. It was a three-week process to get the right fit dialed, have the shoes made, and then shipped, but it was totally worth it: my very first time wearing them, I sent a 5.12a arĂȘte that a friend and I had recently bolted. They definitely nail the comfort-performance ratio as well (if not better) than most shoes I’ve ever worn. In the few months since I started wearing them, they’ve become my go-to shoe for almost everything I climb (bouldering, sport, ČčČÔ»ćÌętrad—the only exception being very precise edging routes, since the model I got lacks a midsole and, as such, isn’t great for edging). I can’t say how well they’ll stand the test of time, but my initial impression is that kN Climbing is onto a very, very good thing that will only get better.

The post Need New Climbing Shoes? Check Out These Small Brands. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Setting out to name America’s top-ten climbing crags is a dubious goal. For starters, you just know that somebody is going to get all huffy puffy when their stomping ground doesn’t make the cut. And then there will be the wars over semantics. What qualifies as a crag? What doesn’t? How important is history, aesthetics, rock quality? No matter what, you’re bound to piss people off.

Still, you might as well try. Because YOLO.

For the purpose of this article, I am setting down some ground rules.

1. By crag, I mean an area used predominantly for single-pitch or Grade I–II routes. You know, the kind of multipitch where you don’t bring a water bottle. That means that even though Alex Honnold can climb El Cap in a cool two hours, for most of us, places like Yosemite, Zion, and Red Rocks are out.
2. By cragging, I mean not bouldering.
3. The past matters. There’s something special about climbing at an area steeped in legend and lore. Places with long and storied histories get an extra nod.
4. Ambiance matters, too. That includes crowds, proximity to roads, and views.
5. Rock quality is paramount.

The only other rule you need to know is that this list is inarguable and definitive, and that anyone who disagrees with it, or me, is wrong.

10. The Shawangunks, New York

The ’Gunks is the seminal crag for the Northeast. For trad climbing under 5.10, it may be the best destination in the country, if not the world. The carriage road can be packed with gawkers, and popular areas such as the High Exposure buttress can get clogged with hordes of pseudo gumbies trying desperately to place all ten of their pink tricams. But the views of the Catskills will soothe the ire of even the crustiest dirtbag, and if you find yourself in the rarefied air above the 5.10 benchmark, you’ll find far fewer people in line for the routes. Even if you do have to wait in line for a classic moderate, I promise it’s worth it. Where else can you do 15-foot horizontal boulder problems above your pro and still call it 5.6? Add to that impeccable rock quality and a  that dates back to the late 1930s, when European immigrants Fritz Weissner and Hans Krauss brought mountaineering skills gleaned from their homelands to bear on the steep white cliffs, and you have a bona fide worldwide destination.

9. Eldorado Canyon, Colorado

Eldo, as it’s known, may be a contender for the best worst crag in America. Located a stone’s throw from the climbing crucible of Boulder, Colorado—though we won’t hold that against it— Eldo’s towering walls of red sandstone are truly a climber’s dream. Some of America’s finest climbers cut their teeth here, most notably the infamous and prolific first ascensionist . The rock in Eldo is often friable, and the protection is commonly marginal, but what makes Eldo so great is the sheer volume of climbable rock. Almost anywhere you look, you’re likely to find holds. It may be hard, it may be runout, the gear might be difficult to place (not to mention trust), but the climbing is fun, the approaches are short, and the setting is gorgeous. Such infamous classics as the , Rosy Crucifixion, Ruper, and the Bastille originally put Eldo on the map for American climbers. But it’s the countless variations and linkups one can achieve with a little bit of creativity that truly cements Eldo as a top-ten crag.

8. Smith Rock, Oregon

When French climbing ace J.B. Tribout came to check out the sport climbing in the United States in 1992, he went to Smith Rock. And when he managed to pull off  at 5.14c, it stood as America’s hardest route for a solid five years. But Smith Rock and its cadre of pioneers had already earned a well-deserved reputation in the annals of climbing history by the time Tribout got there. The tall, steep fins of conglomerated volcanic rock lend themselves to intricate, technical climbing in the 5.12-to-5.14+ range. And the 400-foot Monkey Face pillar has got to be one of the most iconic monoliths in American climbing. As if all of that weren’t enough, the climbing gods saw fit to bequeath unto otherwise rock-deprived Oregonians a lovely river full of trout and otters, a lower gorge full of basalt cracks and compression arĂȘtes, and a convenient campground that’s walking distance from the climbing to boot. Beautiful, delicate, and climbable for three seasons, Smith Rock is, as I believe Tribout said, magnifique!

7. Wild Iris, Wyoming

Speaking of the French, wouldn’t it be great if the U.S. had one, just one, crag full of beautiful, clean, pocketed limestone à la Buoux or the Verdon? Oh wait, there is. Wild Iris is a crag as pretty as its name. Smooth-rolling buttresses of limestone waves cresting atop hills of flaxen grass and aromatic wildflowers—what’s not to love? Rattlesnakes, maybe, and it can get crowded during busy summer weekends. But Wild Iris is really quite a bit more extensive than the Main Wall upon which “greenies” (the name bequeathed by locals to the ubiquitous visitors from Colorado) flog themselves ad nauseam. Locals in Lander might slip rattlesnake venom into my next whiskey if I say the names of the other areas, but they’re out there. The camping is great, many of the routes were established by the , and most importantly, the routes have that certain ineffable quality that all fine limestone retains. Athletic, bouldery, and yet subtly tenuous sequences are the name of the game. For pure quality sport climbing, there are few places better in the States.

6. Joshua Tree, California

Picture rocks stacked upon rocks. Piles of house- and apartment-building-size rocks. Rocks with cracks, rocks with patina, rocks with caves in them, rocks with huecos. The only thing more ubiquitous in J Tree than the eponymous cacti of Seussical proportions is rock. There are rocks with roofs, rocks with slabs, rocks with bolts, and rocks without bolts. Rocks that were climbed by such golden-age demigods as  back when swami belts were de rigueur, and the answer to “Who wears short shorts?” was, apparently, climbers. It would take many lifetimes to climb to the top of all the rocks within the national park’s boundary. And if you ever did, you could just hike a little further and climb the ones outside it, too.

5. The Needles, California

I add this to the list at the risk of angry locals defecating in my haul bag and slashing my tires the next time I find myself in the neighborhood. I do so because it would be criminal not to. From Lake Tahoe down to Joshua Tree, arguably the finest collection of granite in the world spills down the spine of the Sierra Nevada. And in all of that range, there is no lode of stone finer than that of the Needles. Remember in the rules when I said that rock quality was paramount? Well, you could toss the Needles into the middle of noisy and smog-infested Los Angeles, and I’d still put it on this list. The rock quality is simply without compare. A true trad-climber’s crag, the Needles is not for the recently initiated gym climber, which may be part of what keeps the masses at bay. It’s not exactly a secret anymore, but it’s still fairly quiet. And unless Jimmy Chin and Chai Vasarhelyi make a top-grossing documentary about  and Herb Laeger’s mind-melting yet obscure first ascent of  back in 1978, I’m pretty sure most visiting climbers to California will still eschew the Needles for Yosemite.

4. Red River Gorge, Kentucky

God must be a climber. I mean, just look at the Red River Gorge. Here’s a place that was clearly created by a benevolent being with a giant ice cream scoop. The walls of the RRG feature jaw-dropping cirques of multicolored sandstone that look like an inverted stand of bleachers. But the geology of the gorge is not just staggering on a macro level. Seemingly every square inch of those enormous walls is covered in pockets, crimps, iron rails, jugs, slopers, and climbable features of nearly every variety. When it comes to sheer abundance of quality routes, the RRG is probably America’s only legitimate sport-climbing answer to world-class zones such as France’s CĂ©ĂŒse, Spain’s Siurana, or Greece’s Kalymnos. But it’s not just limited to sport climbs—the gorge is home to a plethora of fantastic cracks and traditionally protected routes as well. On top of all that, the RRG is really beautiful, particularly in autumn when the leaves change. I’d say the RRG is 
 if it weren’t for the next three crags on this list.

3. New River Gorge, West Virginia

To the chagrin and outrage of Kentuckians, I am throwing the NRG on this list in the number-three spot. Why does the bronze medal for American crags go to the New River Gorge instead of the Red? For a few simple reasons: First, everybody and their mom talks about the Red, while the New maintains a much sleepier vibe, making it inherently radder. Second, the Red is so riddled with huge holds that you can climb darn near your limit in your approach shoes (footwork be damned), while the New features spare, devious, aesthetic lines that require not only superb footwork but also sequence-reading skill. And third, the stone at the Red is really good, but the NRG’s Nuttall sandstone is 98 percent quartzite and harder than granite, making it as good as rock can possibly be for climbing. Mango Tango ČčČÔ»ćÌę are two of the prettiest sport climbs in the Western Hemisphere, while Endless Wall may be the best continuous section of cliff in the States. There’s probably only one place in the world (OK, in America) with better stone than the New River Gorge. And that place is definitely not number two on the list.

2. Indian Creek, Utah

The Creek has a lot working against it: Wingate sandstone is softer than a baby’s bottom, making for horrifying face climbing (not that that matters, since only about 0.00001 percent of routes at the Creek feature face holds at all); if you don’t tape up, you’re going to bleed; if you do tape up, some grizzled old guy is going to hiss at you; all grade objectivity is out the window, since it all depends on the size of your appendages and digits; the climbing hurts; splitters are boring, since you just do the same move over and over for 100 to 200 feet; and every route requires 20 pounds and approximately $5,000 worth of gear. Pretty lame, when you put it that way.

What Indian Creek has going for it, though, is that it’s unique in the world. There is literally nowhere else like it. If you want to learn to crack climb, there’s no better resource on the planet. And once you do learn the dark art of crack climbing, there’s nowhere better to test your mettle. The climbing’s really quite fun (once you kill the nerve endings on the back of your hands). It can even be pretty cerebral if you branch out from the plain-Jane splitters. But what really makes the Creek the number-two crag on this list is simply how beautiful it is there. The desert has a way of taking you in, holding you, making you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You can (and many people do) spend weeks in the Creek just wasting time, not climbing at all.

1. Index, Washington State

And let the social-media shitstorm begin. Oh, trust me, I know what’s coming. I’m going to get it from all sides: From folks who have never heard about Index and can’t believe what they’re seeing. From Index locals who are convinced I’m ruining all that is sacred by giving away their secret paradise. From people who went to Index and got shut down by the stiff grades. From people who think the season is too short, the moss too thick, and the car break-ins too common. Will anybody be happy about this choice?

The problem is, Index is, objectively, the best crag in the United States. Honestly, it’s probably the best crag in the world. Imagine the texture of New River Gorge sandstone layered over a smattering of 100-to-800-foot-tall walls of perfect, featured, spectacular granite. Index literally has it all. Sport, trad, and aid, single pitch and multipitch, cracks and faces, knobs and pockets, patina, edges, jugs, slopers, and tufas, corners and arĂȘtes, slabs and overhangs, roofs and ledges. The whole nine yards and then some. There is nowhere else in the world with as dense a concentration of four-star climbs. The Skykomish Valley is jaw-droppingly beautiful. And the sandbag, oh, the sandbag! I’ll say this much: nobody goes to Index to pad their resume. You can straight-up forget about grades there since 5.11 on the Index Decimal System covers everything from 5.11a to 5.13c on the more commonly used Yosemite Decimal System.

The best thing about Index is how few people get it. This article will do nothing to change that. The cat has been out of the bag, so to speak, for decades now, but climbers visiting the Pacific Northwest still fall for the tried-and-true traps of Smith Rock and Squamish again and again. What protects Index is the shroud of hyperbole that surrounds it. The harder Index aficionados like myself spray, the better. It just makes our opinions easier to discount and, ultimately, discard. And that’s fine, because it will keep Index nice and quiet.

The post These Are the 10 Best Climbing Crags in the U.S. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In the sparsely populated northeast corner of Wyoming, a massive pinnacle of stone explodes, for no apparent reason, out of the prairie. The name that the monolith was officially designated when Theodore Roosevelt made it America’s first national monument in 1906 is . But for thousands of rock climbers who flock to it each year, there are few things as heavenly. For nearly two decades I’ve traveled all over the world to climb, and I’ve never seen a feature quite as captivating. Its pull is almost irresistible.

Climbers aren’t the only ones who revere the Tower. American Indians have been drawn to it for upwards of 10,000 years. For the Crow people, it is the place where a rock rose beneath two sisters, delivering them safely from the attack of an enormous bear. According to the Kiowa, it was seven sisters, and the rock that grew beneath them was actually a tree stump. The Lakota Sioux call the Tower Mato Tipila (Bear Lodge), and claim it is where Hu Nump (The Great Bear) imparted language and healing ceremonies to the human race. There are many different sacred narratives surrounding the peculiar hunk of stone. But whether you’re talking to a Lakota, Dakota, Nakota, Cheyenne, Arapahoe, Kiowa, Crow, Shoshone, Arikara, or at least 14 other tribes of American Indians, one commonality emerges: the Tower is incomparably sacred.

When two ranchers—Bill Rogers and Willard Ripley—completed the first recorded ascent of Devils Tower in June 1893, it is likely they didn’t have the faintest clue what the formation meant to Native Americans. It’s equally likely, given that the treatment of the Lakota by Americans at that time was characterized by  ČčČÔ»ćÌę, that they wouldn’t have cared. Finally, it is almost certain that Rogers and Ripley would have been flabbergasted to learn that in 1994, a little over 100 years after their ascent, 1,225 people from all over the world would climb the Tower in the month of June alone.

In 1992, spurred by the recent boom in climbing’s popularity, the National Park Service began drafting a climbing management plan for Devils Tower. One of the things that plan attempted to address was the question of what to do about climbing in June. With long days and relatively stable weather, June is an excellent time to climb the Tower. But it is also an especially sacred time for the nearby tribes. After three years of public comment periods, focus groups, and planning sessions with Native Americans, the Sierra Club, and the Access Fund, the Park Service released its final climbing management plan (FCMP) in 1995.

Among other things, the FCMP detailed a one-month voluntary climbing closure, the first and still only closure of that kind in the U.S. “The voluntary closure will be fully successful when every climber personally chooses not to climb at Devils Tower during June out of respect for American Indian cultural values,” the FCMP stated. In the first year of the plan’s implementation, it looked like that goal might be attainable. In 1995, only 167 registered climbers were tallied—an 86.4 percent reduction from the year before.

The plan’s initial success was short-lived. One of the key elements of the 1995 FCMP was that the June shutdown would be mandatory for commercial rock climbing guides. But in November 1996, the Mountain States Legal Foundation helped several climbing guides file a  against the superintendent of Devils Tower National Monument, the National Park Service, and then-Secretary of the Interior Bruce Babbitt, claiming that the ban was implemented for religious reasons, and hence violated the first amendment. Before the court was able to come to a conclusion, the Park Service preemptively revised the FCMP to make the June closure voluntary for all users, including guide services. The courts ultimately upheld the FCMP, but by that time it was a moot point. One year later, the Park Service conducted an  that recommended that climbing on the Tower should be prohibited altogether; but no change to the FCMP was made.

Over the next decade, the number of June climbers on the monument oscillated between the high-200s and mid-300s. By 2013, that number ballooned to 434. This year, there were 279. It’s clear that 23 years after the FCMP’s implementation, the monument is still far from achieving the voluntary ban’s initial goal.

“The plan will be successful if we get to zero,” says Tim Reid, the previous superintendent of Devils Tower. “But if that doesn’t happen it’s not the end of the world.” Reid was adamant that, considering where we were in 1994, the voluntary closure has been a resounding success. “If the goal of zero climbers in June is not achieved, several other options can be taken,” Reid said. “You can revise the FCMP. You can write a new definition of success.”

It’s hard for me to see how “writing a new definition of success” would be anything other than the latest in a long line of broken treaties with Native American tribes. But Reid advised me not to think of the ban as a zero-sum game. “We want climbers to understand the reasons not to climb, and to make the decision on their own,” he told me. “That was one of the desires of the American Indians involved.”

But not all Native Americans were, or are, in favor of the ban being voluntary. “It’s disrespectful,” Waylon Black Crow Sr. told Krista Langlois in a recent article for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “It would be like climbing a big old cross. They wouldn’t climb that.” Trina Lonehill, the cultural liaison of the Oglala Lakota Sioux, shared Black Crow’s sentiments, and felt that the ban should be mandatory. “You don’t disturb a sacred space,” she told me. “You have respect for it. To respect it is not to disturb it.”

The Pine Ridge Reservation, where Lonehill lives, is the , with rampant alcoholism, a meth epidemic, and underfunded schools and hospitals. Frank Sanders, a prominent guide on Devils Tower and one of the founders of the nonprofit, , cites the state of the Pine Ridge Reservation as evidence that there are bigger local problems to be concerned with than climbing in June. “I could hand out coats, stand on my head, and not climb for a month,” he told me recently as we watched the sunset light up the Tower from the deck of his lodge. “I don’t think but one of those things would have much effect.”

Of course, donating goods and not climbing on the Tower in June, are by no means mutually exclusive. Sanders has done more for the Pine Ridge Reservation (in 2008 he raised by climbing the Tower for 365 days in a row) than most people will ever do. But I don’t believe that gives him a free pass to do something that many Native Americans find offensive. And while Sanders has assured me that he “has met no resistance among the res about whether or not I climb in June,” that view dismisses the feelings of people like Black Crow Sr. and Lonehill.

While the Oglala Lakota of the Pine Ridge Reservation are one of the most disenfranchised groups in the U.S., climbers have got to be one of the most privileged. They can afford to buy thousands of dollars of equipment and travel far and wide to engage in a sport that introduces them to heightened risk of injury or death. That is telling. This is a case of those who have much being asked for something that amounts to a nominal inconvenience by those who have little. How can it be so hard to comply?

As I walked around the Tower a few weeks ago, I noticed a plethora of signs warning climbers of a closure for nesting prairie and peregrine falcons. The falcon closure, of course, is mandatory. If they made it voluntary, the birds wouldn’t stand a chance. Between the hordes of tourists, buzzing drones, and motorcycles and RVs groaning along on the road below, it was so noisy that I barely heard the peregrine’s telltale scream come shrilly down through the pine boughs above.

What I did not see on my walk around the Tower loop was a single sign that mentioned the voluntary closure out of respect for Native Americans. Nor did I see any Native Americans carrying out spiritual ceremonies. The only hint that they had been there at all was the occasional prayer bundle tucked away in inconspicuous corners, like an afterthought.

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