Bestselling author Jon Krakauer is hitting back at a vocal online critic.

On Thursday, February 6, Krakauer, 70, that he will publish an and about his bestselling book Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mt. Everest Disaster.

The purpose of the project, Krakauer told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, was to refute what he calls “egregious allegations” made by a . In 2024, Tracy, a California lawyer, recorded a series of his own videos to YouTube that called into question multiple elements of Krakauer’s book.

“I believe standing up for the truth is a moral imperative, even when doing so takes a personal toll and is likely to fail,” Krakauer told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “If you watch my videos, or read the text versions, I’m pretty sure you will see why I took the trouble to post them.”

In his Instagram post announcing the project, Krakauer called Tracy’s videos “bullshit” and an “irresponsible misrepresentation of what happened on Everest in 1996.”

In a statement provided to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, Tracy refuted the claim. He said that Krakauer’s video series simply creates “more confusion” around the Mount Everest disaster. “Krakauer has already agreed to make numerous revisions to his book and this undermines the claim that my videos are bullshit,” he wrote.

Into Thin Air is Krakauer’s first-person account of the deadly 1996 climbing season on Everest, when 12 people died on the mountain, the most in a single season up to that date. Krakauer joined a guided ascent while reporting a story for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű about the growth of commercial expeditions to the peak. He climbed Everest with the guiding company șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Consultants, which was led by New Zealand mountaineer Rob Hall, and he reached the summit on May 10.

But a storm battered the peak shortly after Krakauer and others began their descent, and in the ensuing melee eight climbers and guides, including Hall, perished. Krakauer and others were able to safely descend.

Krakauer’s account ran in șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű in September 1996, and the first edition of the book was published in AprilÌę1997.

The book garnered international acclaim upon its release, and it hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list. In 1998 it was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in the General Nonfiction category. The book was adapted as a TV movie in 1997, and it became the basis for the 2015 Hollywood film Everest.

But Krakauer’s account was also subject to criticism and pushback upon the book’s release. In 1997, a Russian climber named Anatoli Boukreev, who was also on Everest in May 1996, co-authored his own version of events in a book titled ÌęAnd over the years, other writers and Internet commenters have sought to debunk elements of the story.

Tracy launched his YouTube channel in 2018 as a way to explore the mysterious 1924 disappearance of climbers George Mallory and Andrew “Sandy” Irvine on Mount Everest. But in April 2024, he published a video titled “” that generated 80,000 views. Tracy went on to record 17 total videos about the book, including ones titled “Correcting the Record on Krakauer’s Statistics,” and “Response to Jon Krakauer: The Subtle Art of Misdirection.”

“Krakauer has admitted numerous substantial errors in his book and previous interviews,” Tracy wrote toÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. Tracy sentÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű a of mistakes he says are in the book. In Krakauer’s first video, he admits that Tracy’s sleuthing pointed out inaccuracies in the book, and that he intends to update future editions to address them.

But Krakauer’s videos also present point-by-point rebuttals to Tracy’s more serious assertions. The first video, titled “” addresses the impact that bottlenecks had on the ascent.

After Krakauer announced the YouTube series, a handful of prominent mountaineers and journalists voiced their support in the comments section on his Instagram page.

“Words matter. I’m glad you are defending yours but I’m sorry you have to,” wrote Melissa Arnot Reid.

“Jon, I truly believe that you did your very best to tackle this challenging story,” wrote climber Ed Viesturs, the first American to ascend the world’s 14 highest peaks. “You were meticulous in piecing together this complicated event and did your due diligence.”

Viesturs, 65, was also on Everest during the 1996 climbing season and helped rescue some of the survivors from the storm. “Into Thin Air is still the definitive account of the events on the Everest in the spring of 1996,” Viesturs added.

Others, however, are curious why Krakauer has chosen to acknowledge Tracy.

Scott Carney, an investigative journalist, told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű,Ìę“By Krakauer calling attention to this, he’s raising Tracy’s profile. It seems counterproductive.”

But Krakauer toldÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that sometimes journalists should address their online critics. “These days, people seem way too willing to surrender the online discourse to domineering [people] trying to gaslight us,” he said.

The post Jon Krakauer’s Latest Project: Defending ‘Into Thin Air’ from Online Critics appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On Monday, January 20, 2025, President Donald Trump to rename Alaska’s 20,310-foot Denali, the highest peak in North America. The mountain’s name will revert to Mount McKinley, named for William McKinley, the 25th President of the United States, who was assassinated on September 14, 1901.

The decree undoes the work of former President Barack Obama, who, in 2015 officially changed the name from Mount McKinley to Denali, the peak’s traditional name from the Koyukon Athabascan language, which is spoken by Alaska’s Native inhabitants. Denali translates as “the high one” or “the great one.”

The name change will take effect within 30 days. The name of Denali National Park and Preserve, where the mountain sits, will not change.

Policy wonks (and ) know that there has been infighting in Congress about the name of North America’s highest peak since at least 1975. That was the first year the state of Alaska petitioned to use the local name Denali instead of McKinley. Lawmakers from Ohio, McKinley’s home state, pushed back.

But how do the people whose lives and livelihoods depend on the mountain feel about Denali’s name change? We asked some of Denali’s, er McKinley’s, most prominent athletes, guides, and rangers.

Why Alaskans Prefer the Name Denali

The guides and mountaineers who spoke to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű for this story expressed dismay at the name change.

“It’s worth mentioning that the President suggested doing this about six years ago,” says Mark Westman, an Alaska resident and former ranger on the mountain. “And he was told by Alaska’s two senators—both of whom are Republicans and both who are still the current senators—not to do that.”

Indeed, on Monday, January 21, Alaskan Senator Lisa Murkowski, a Republican, : “Our nation’s tallest mountain, which has been called Denali for thousands of years, must continue to be known by the rightful name bestowed by Alaska Koyukon Athabascans, who have stewarded the land since time immemorial.”

Guides and climbers echoed Murkowski’s sentiment—the importance of the name Denali lies in its connection to Alaska’s precolonialÌęhistory, they said.

“The name Denali reflects a local cultural heritage here that predates the United States,” Westman says. “The name McKinley was an arbitrary name given for someone who had never even set foot here. He was from Ohio.”

Conrad Anker, who began climbing in the Alaska Range in 1987, said he was overjoyed when the peak’s Indigenous name was officially restored in 2015. Changing the name back, he said, makes no sense to outdoor enthusiasts, local Alaskans, or the region’s Indigenous population.

“It was fitting to honor the people of Alaska with the rightful name,” he said. “I think it’s worth noting that the vast majority of peaks in the Himalayas have local names.”

Guide Melissa Arnot Reid, the first American woman to ascend and descend Everest without supplemental oxygen, said that precolonial names such as Denali enhance a visitor’s connection to a place. That’s why she encourages her climbing clients to refer to peaks and regions by traditional names.

“Discovering what the local people call a place, and why, enhances our connection to that place,” she says.

Does Anyone Even Use the Name Mount McKinley?

Even before the 2015 name change, climbers and guides frequently used the peak’s Native name, guides told us. Westman, who first came to the peak in 1994, said that while the names were used interchangeably by locals back then, the preference was to call it Denali.

“There’s been a difference in the name Denali for, well, forever,” he said. “Native Alaskans were calling it Denali for thousands of years before anybody else came here. In the climbing community, it’s almost universal—I almost never hear anybody call it McKinley.”

In the days following the announcement, many Alaskan residents appear to agree. On Tuesday, January 21, the group asked 1,816 adults in Alaska about the proposed name change. The survey found that 54 percent opposed it, while just 26 percent supported the change.

Ski mountaineer Kit DesLauriers, the first person to hike and then ski the Seven Summits, pointed out that even Alaska’s political leaders have used the name Denali publicly for decades. “With Denali, the traditional name has been the choice not only of Alaskan Native people, but also of the entire state including its political leadership since at least 1975,” she says.

Dave Hahn of RMI Mountain Guides, who has ascended the peak 25 times, said that the mountain is “big enough to handle however many names you want to throw at it.”

But he stressed that Denali felt like it was always the appropriate title within the climbing community. “I never felt that McKinley was wrong—it honored a president that was assassinated while in office,” he said. “But I think that Denali is truer to where the mountain is, and who the people around the mountain are, recognizing that it’s an Alaskan mountain and not a Washington D.C. mountain.”

Most People Will Still Say Denali

The sources who spoke to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű for this story agreed on one thing: they will continue to call the peak by its Native name going forward.

“I intend to continue to refer to the great mountain as Denali for as long as I’m alive, and I encourage every other climber to do the same,” wrote authorÌęJon KrakauerÌęin an email. “Trump might be able to officially rename it, but he will never be able to force me to call it anything except Denali.”

Ultrarunner Jack Kuenzle, who in 2023 set the fastest known time for ascending the peak, echoed the sentiment.

“I can’t imagine anybody will be actually utilizing McKinley,” he said. “I’ve never heard it called that.”

Keith Sidle, who teaches mountaineering courses with the Alaska Mountaineering School, said the only thing he expects to see change is how the mountain is named on maps and signs. Sidle said his climbing buddies are already saying online that they will continue to use the Native name.

“It’s changing a name on a piece of paper, it’s not changing the mountain,” he said. “To the people that it really matters to, it’s not changing anything.”

The post Trump Just Renamed North America’s Highest Peak. These Climbers Will Still Call It “Denali.” appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

If you grew up on any one of the Great Lakes, like I did, you may have heard of the sea lamprey—a vampiric creature that literally sucks the life out of a lake trout. As a kid, I thought they were a myth, a horror story that parents liked to tell kids on fishing trips. I wasn’t aware of the havoc this parasitic fish wrought on the entire region when it first wiggled its way from the Atlantic Ocean into the largest freshwater ecosystem on earth.

A new documentary, The Fish Thief: A Great Lakes Mystery, unpacks the ecological crisis created by the lamprey, and the extraordinary effort to contain it. “The sea lamprey is what put invasive species on the map in the Great Lakes,” says director Lindsey Haskin. “For many people, it was the first time they become aware of the scale of damage that’s possible.”

The Great Lakes—Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan, and Superior—straddle the border between Canada and the U.S. Five million people fish them every year, reeling in tasty catches like yellow perch and walleye, and even coho salmon, which was introduced for sport fishing in the late 1960s. Recreational and commercial fishing in the Great Lakes region is a $7 billion industry. Growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, on the shore of Lake Erie, my earliest outdoor memory is fishing with my dad from the Neff Road breakwall.

Oscar-winning actor J.K. Simmons narrates The Fish Thief. Simmons describes how sea lampreys worked their way into the Great Lakes from the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway to Lake Ontario. For most of history, Niagara Falls prevented them from spreading any further.

That changed in the early 1900s, with improvements to the Welland Canal, which bypasses Niagara Falls to create a shipping channel between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie. The first sea lamprey was found in Lake Erie in 1921. By 1938, sea lampreys had infiltrated the rest of the lakes, all the way to the farthest corners of Lake Superior.

Sea lampreys resemble eels with their long tubular shape. But their mouths are unmistakable: a suction cup lined with concentric circles of fangs, spiraling down to a toothed tongue. They latch onto other fish, create a wound with their razor-sharp teeth and tongue, and suck out blood and other fluids.

In the Atlantic Ocean, where sea lampreys have lived for more than 340 million years, they are mere parasites, attaching themselves most often to sharks and other sea mammals. But in the Great Lakes, very few fish are large enough to escape unscathed from a sea lamprey encounter. By the 1940s, the blood-suckers were killing their hosts—lake trout, lake whitefish, and ciscoes—in droves.

The region’s fishing industry began to collapse in the 1950s, paralyzing towns and Indigenous communities on every shoreline. By 1960, the annual Great Lakes catch, once around 15 million pounds of fish, had plummeted by 98 percent to a mere 300,000 pounds.

The Fish Thief, which has won awards on the environmental film festival circuit in North America and Europe, is the first to tell the story of the lamprey in its entirety, from the initial mystery of droves of dead fish, to the resulting ecological crisis, to the efforts to find a solution. It was eight years in the making.

Haskin, who grew up in the region, near Detroit, says they filmed in a variety of regions, “from the far east extremes of Lake Ontario all the way to Duluth, Minnesota, and down to Chicago.”

What stood out most for Haskin about the project was the tenacity of the people involved devising a solution to the lakes’ ecological collapse. “The original title for the film was Relentless, which applied to the sea lamprey, but also to the people that did battle with it,” Haskin says. “Their original ideas failed, but they just stuck to it and kept going and kept going and kept going and eventually found a solution that has been workable for almost 70 years now.”

Part of the challenge was the cross-border cooperation required to study, test, and, eventually, implement processes to bring the ecosystem back into balance. It required federal government oversight, which most of the fishing industry, and many of the states and provinces bordering the Great Lakes, were hesitant at first to enlist. But eventually, they ran out of options. There was nothing left to do but trust that the government (and science) could find a solution. In 1955, the U.S. and Canada formed the Great Lakes Fishery Commission, the first joint agency of its kind.

The commission confirmed that it was impossible to eradicate sea lampreys from the Great Lakes. But scientists could greatly reduce the invasive species’ numbers by attacking them during their larval stage, when they live as filter-feeders in lake tributaries. Some 6,000 compounds were tested to find the best “lampricide,” a pesticide capable of destroying lamprey larvae without significantly impacting other organisms, or causing long-term damage to the ecosystem.

Administering the pesticide to larvae in tributaries, as well as using barriers and traps to prohibit full-grown sea lampreys from making it out of the tributaries into the Great Lakes, cut the “vampire fish” population by 90 percent. The Great Lakes Fishery Commission, in partnership with U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Fisheries and Oceans Canada, and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, has been working to keep sea lampreys at that benign level ever since.

The sea monster of my youth is real. The next time someone from back home brings up sea lampreys, I’m going to have a whole lot more to add to the story.

The Fish Thief: A Great Lakes Mystery is set to release on January 31, 2025 in the U.S. and Canada, where it will be available to stream, download, or rent on platforms including Apple TV/iTunes, Amazon, Google/YouTube, and Tubi.

The post ‘The Fish Thief’ Explores a Crisis in the Great Lakes Caused by the Sea Lamprey appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

This past fall,ÌęConnor Herson decided to take a four-month break from his studies at Stanford University to go rock climbing. Herson, 21, is pursuing a degree in engineering, but his studies have often butted up against his desire to climb the toughest ascents in the country.

For the past three years, balancing college and climbing has meant squeezing as much of the latter as possible into winter, spring, and summer breaks—plus the occasional weekend trip to Yosemite during the school year. At age 15, Herson became the youngest person to free climb the Nose route on El Capitan.

“I’ve always balanced school and climbing but it’s gotten a lot trickier as I’ve gotten deeper into both worlds,” Herson told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “I really wanted to see what I could do in a full season of Yosemite climbing.”

Herson made the most of this most recent break from class. In November, he free climbed one of the hardest routes up 3,000-foot El CapitanÌęalongside famed American climber Tommy Caldwell. The ascent—which only a handful of other climbers have done before as a free climb—cemented Herson as Yosemite’s next great star.

“Connor is part of this super young generation that’s incredibly strong from having been brought up in modern-day climbing gyms,” Caldwell told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “But he’s also an outlier among people his age in that he’s chosen to apply that strength and skill to big-wall climbing, which is so awesome to see.”

On El Capitan, Herson and Caldwell free climbed a route known as the Heart, one of the most technically difficult lines up the granite behemoth. Of the Heart’s 31 pitches, a whopping eight of them are at the 5.13 level. Ìę

The Heart was first free climbed in 2015 by Mason Earle and Brad Gobright, following five years of planning and attempts. Free climbing is a style that requires climbers to rely on ropes and equipment only for safety—they cannot haul themselves up the route with gear. Other than Gobright, Earle, Caldwell, and Herson, the only other person to have successfully free climbed the Heart is Alex Honnold, in 2023.

Herson and Caldwell spent three days ascending the Heart, hauling their food, water, and portaledgesÌęas they went. Herson told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that free climbing on El Capitan with Caldwell was the realization of a lifelong dream.

“He was one of my heroes growing up,” Herson said. “Of all the El Cap legends, no one stands out as much as Tommy Caldwell.”

Herson grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. His parents were avid climbers, and theyÌębrought Herson and his sister, Kara, to the local climbing gym from the time they were toddlers. Herson started participating in competitive climbing events in middle school, and holds three national titles in sport climbing at the youth and collegiate levels.

He and his family also regularly traveled to Yosemite on weekends, and they took vacations to classic crags all across the U.S. Herson learned to trad climb (short for “traditional”) on these trips, placing his own gear for protection on the rock. His parents also introduced him to big-wall climbing—multi-pitch routes that cover thousands of verticalÌęfeet. Herson was just 12 years old when he first climbed Yosemite’s 2,000-foot Half Dome alongside his dad, Jim, who is a robotics engineer.

“My parents give me a lot of support with life in general and in climbing,” Herson told Climbing in 2022. “They have made a lot of sacrifices. There are times when we go to crags which might not have the best routes for them.”

Herson’s classes in engineering at Stanford don’t leave him as much time as he’d like to devote to big-wall climbing. He prepared for what he called his “gap quarter” this fall in Yosemite by cramming in a weekend of climbing there with Alex Honnold in May. Among other projects, the two completed the second free ascent of a route called New Leaf. Afterward, Herson had to hurry back to school for a midterm exam.

“Being in physical shape is one thing,” Herson said. “But more for me is the mental stress of school assignments or just anything school-related.”

He added, “Even if I’m not overtly thinking about that while climbing, it’s in the back of my mind.”

Herson spent the spent the past two summers in Canada’s climbing capital of Squamish, British Columbia, a world-renowned destination with multiple big walls. By the time he roped up with Caldwell for the Heart, Herson was already in very elite company, having ticked off all of the hardest single-pitch trad climbs in both Squamish and Yosemite, including Squamish’s iconic Cobra Crack. His preparations paid off on El Capitan.

“He was the most solid person I’ve ever seen climbing up there,” Caldwell said. “He’s also very level-headed and safe—like he wore a helmet all the time.”

Caldwell also started climbing big walls in Yosemite as a teenager with his dad. But that was 30 years ago, when rock climbingÌęwas much more of a fringe sport. “He’s just so much more advanced than I was,” Caldwell said.

Still, some things never change. Big-wall climbing comes with logistical challenges, particularly how to haul your food and supplies up the route. Herson was eager to learn Caldwell’s best practices. “There are a lot of small tactical strategies that he’s such a master at,” Herson said. “It was so cool to be able to climb with him and leverage that, and just learn so much from him.”

One of Herson’s biggest takeaways from the experience is that even Caldwell struggles on El Cap. “He doesn’t struggle that much, but when he does, and it was something I struggled on too, it’s just really validating,” said Herson.

Herson plans to resume his studies at Stanford in January, following the holiday break. In the meantime, he’ll continue climbing in Yosemite until the snow starts to fall. After the Heart, Herson told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that he would like to try every free-climbing route on El Capitan. “Not all in one season or anything,” he said. “Just slowly working away at trying all of them.”

“The combination of challenges on El Cap, of placing your own protection to keep it safe while at the same time pulling moves that are close to your limit, really speaks to me,” he added.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

Caldwell can’t help but wonder what Herson would be able to accomplish in Yosemite if he pursued climbing full-time. “Up on the ledge [on El Cap], we mostly discussed how many semesters to take off from Stanford to climb,” Caldwell said. “As a parent, I’m in this weird position because I’m sure his parents don’t want him to drop out of school.”

Caldwell added, “But I’m also like, you could change climbing forever.”

The post Connor Herson Took a Break from Stanford to Climb One of Yosemite’s Hardest Routes appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Alex Honnold’s latest climbing project has taken him back to Yosemite National Park.

Honnold, star of the Oscar-winning 2018 climbing film Free Solo has spent the last few weeks attempting to free climb El Capitan’s famed route The Nose, the 2,900-foot vertical climb that is among the most famous routes in American rockÌęclimbing.

You might be wondering:ÌęHasn’t Alex Honnold already climbed The Nose? He has, maybe 50 times by his estimation. Honnold actually set the speed record on the route with Tommy Caldwell (1 hour, 58 minutes, 7 seconds) in 2018. But Honnold has never free climbed the route—a style that allows climbers to use ropes and climbing gear for protection but not to aid the ascent.

Since Lynn Hill first freed the Nose in 1993, about 15 other climbers have ascended it in this style, including Caldwell. Honnold has been working on the endeavor for one month now, climbing with a variety of different partners. He caused a big reaction on Instagram on November 29 when he posted photos of his attempt to free climb the Nose with the actor Jared Leto.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű caught up with Honnold in Yosemite while he was hunkered down in his van with his family, waiting out a storm. He opened up about his latest project, why he roped up with a Hollywood heartthrob, and why the Nose remains the greatest big-wall climb in the world.

OUTSIDE: What was the catalyst for you to attempt to free the Nose? It’s been done more than a dozen times before so it’s obviously not a world first. Is this personal?
Honnold: It gets done and it’s certainly doable, but it’s still a very significant thing in climbing. The Nose means a lot to me personally. It’s been there throughout my entire climbing life. It was my first El Cap route; I aid climbed it in 2005 or 2006. I started working on the speed record with Hans Florine in 2012, and then working on the speed record again with Tommy Ìęyears later. The Nose is part of big linkups I’ve done like the Triple Crown.

It’s been this yardstick against which I can measure my own progress as a climber, starting from just the aspiration of climbing the Nose, and then trying to climb it faster, and then trying to climb it free. There’s always something hard you can do on the Nose.

 

View this post on Instagram

 

It’s also sort of unfinished business. I made some preliminary attempts to free it the same season that Tommy and I were working on the speed record. I thought it would make sense to try to work on a free climb at the same time. But it turns out they’re mutually exclusive goals because the style of climbing is so different [speed climbing the Nose involves aid climbing, among other tactics]. It’s too hard to train for both at the same time. So I focused on the speed record. This season, I’m re-focusing on free climbing it.

You’ve been posting photos to Instagram of some of the people you’ve crossed paths with on the Nose while attempting to free climb it. There’s a lot of them. How do you manage that?
It was particularly crowded this fall season. I think there are more climbers now and the level of climbers is rising over time. People are just more able to do things like that. Which I think is great.

There’s definitely been some complaining about overcrowding on walls in Yosemite. It’s hard for me to say because I always have positive interactions with everybody on the wall. Climbers I encounter say, ‘Oh my God, can I take a selfie?’ And they’re all really nice. It’s allÌęreally chill and fun. But I don’t know if that’s the experience that everybody has.

I think the key is clear communication, for passing parties, rappelling through parties, whatever. Just being like, ‘Hey, how are you guys doing? What are you planning to do? Here’s what we’re doing. How is that going to impact you? How can we work together to make sure that nobody is held up by the things that we’re each trying to do?’

In my experience on the Nose, everybody is up there having the big adventure of their life. And generally everybody wants to have a good time up there.

How do you prepare to free climb the Nose?
The main way I’ve been practicing is by rappelling it, and I did that mostly with Brette Harrington. She was also working on free climbing the Nose. Brette and I rappelled it together maybe like a half-dozen times. You rappel the whole wall, stopping to work on the key pitches as you go down.

There are two hard pitches: Changing Corners and the Great Roof. I mean, there are a lot of other pitches that are challenging in their own ways, but those two pitches are so much harder than the rest that they’re kind of the only two that matter.

I’m doing a variation on the Changing Corners which has never actually been done, which has a long and storied history of various people checking it out, but never quite committing to it. I did it on top rope years ago, so I know that it goes, but nobody’s quite done it that way yet.

Tommy gave me a lot of grief for it. Changing Corners is super historic, because that’s the way Lynn Hill did it. And there are iconic photos of her on it. There are iconic photos of Tommy Caldwell and Beth Rodden, when they did the second and third ascents. Everyone’s grown up seeing these cool images of the Changing Corners. So Tommy was like, What are you doing going around it? You’re ruining a classic! You’re destroying the Nose!

But then he belayed me on it [last week], and after watching me on it, he was like, Okay, you’re not destroying a classic. Because basically [the variation] is still very high quality, it’s still quite hard, and it looks pretty. It’s also really sharp granite that’s so far split open every one of my fingertips.

Has your perspective on the Nose changed at all since you’ve started trying to free climb it? Has it taught you anything new in these past four weeks?
It’s more that my perspective on it hasn’t changed, and that it hasn’t changed all that much in the not quite 20 years since I first climbed it. The thing with El Cap is that despite all the things that I’ve done on it over the years, you still look at the wall and you still think, Man, that is impossibly big and looks so hard. It’s just still so inspiring.

El Cap is still the most magnificent wall on Earth , and the Nose is still the most striking line up it, and when it really comes down to it, is still quite hard to climb. It always commands respect.

Okay so then how does Jared Leto fit into all this?
He’s always wanted to climb El Cap, and we were both in the Valley and it just kind of worked out. He’s been wanting to climb it in a day, but hasn’t had the time to get that kind of fitness. I was planning on going up wall-style [spending multiple days and nights camping on the wall] to try to free the Nose. I texted him, half-joking, Why don’t you join us? We can camp together. He texted back, ‘Wait, like actually, can I come?’

 

View this post on Instagram

 

We’ve been climbing together for almost ten years, just very sporadically. It started when he first got into rock climbing, which I think was 2015, and decided to make a little film project about it. He hired Renan Ozturk to film him going rock climbing around the West. One day Renan—he’s a friend—texted me, ‘Hey, would you go solo Matthes Crest with Jared?’ I was in Yosemite climbing anyway and was like, ‘Cool, an active rest day.’

At the time, Jared was training to be the Joker in a movie and was super fit for it. He was really muscular. And he had green hair. We had a great day climbing. Since then, we’ve climbed in the same places a few times. I took him up one of the Flatirons in Boulder once, because he was in Denver for a concert, things like that.

He was great on the Nose. It was awesome. He top-roped like ten of the 31 pitches and jugged the rest. It was pretty impressive. Nick Ehman, who was the third person climbing with us, commented, ‘Jared doesn’t get scared.’ There’s all these weird things on the Nose, like lower outs and swings, and one part where he was basically dangling on a rope in mid-air at the very top of El Cap. It just does not bother him at all.

Want more ofÌę°żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’sÌęnews stories?Ìę

The post Alex Honnold Has “Unfinished Business” on this Iconic Yosemite Climb appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

If, like most people, you live your life outside the small community of elite ski mountaineers, you may have never heard the name Greg Hill. Born far from big mountains in Quebec, Canada, Hill moved west to Revelstoke, British Columbia, with dreams of becoming a heli-skiing guide. After years of watching the Selkirk Mountains change with a warming climate, he gave up mechanized travel in the mountains seeking a greener approach.

In 2010, when Hill was 35, he climbed and skied more than two million vertical feet. His 2019 film, ElectricGreg, documented his quest to climb and ski 100 peaks without burning any fossil fuels. Hill’s most recent achievements, like setting the FKT of the Rogers Pass to Bugaboos Ski Traverse, are near his Revelstoke home.

In October, Hill published a memoir, titled I Could Die At Any Moment. The book, written with Hill’s rare blend of humility and audacity, was ten years in the making. It explores his compulsive drive to reach maximum potential, even in the face of life-threateningÌęrisk.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű caught up with Hill to discuss risk, reward, and an unexpected insight that came from writing his story.

OUTSIDE: The book’s title is pretty dark, but then the cover shows you and a climbing partner looking overjoyed atop a mountain. Is this contrast intentional?

Absolutely. It’s a juxtaposition. The photo is me and my buddy Chris Rubens on top of Bugaboo Spire in British Columbia. The Bugaboos are like the Patagonia of Canada—these incredible granite spires. It was a dream of mine to climb that peak. It was just a moment of pure exhilaration at having finally accomplished that climb. The idea with the cover is that, yes, we all know we can die, so let’s live this life to the fullest.

There’s inherent risk anytime you enter the alpine. I don’t let myself get weighed down by the darkness, but at the same time it’s important not to forget that you’re going to die—that we’re all going to die. There’s this cheesy saying that every day is a gift, that it’s a present. By really embracing the fact that we die, it allows us to fully embrace the fact that we’re alive and to go for it.

You’ve led a life full of accomplishments in the mountains. Why did you decide to record it in a memoir?

I’ve always wanted to write a book. I have journal entries about it from the time I was 18. I’m 48 now and I guess I finally felt like I had enough maturity—it takes a certain maturity to be ready to speak about things that are hard to speak about—and I wanted the book to be as open and vulnerable as possible.

After the kids were born, I started leaving a letter on my computer desktop for Tracey [my wife] to find if I were to die in the mountains, because if you’re a risk taker there’s consequences if things mess up, and I’ve always understood that. I wanted my kids to have something to help them understand why I would risk it all, even though I knew the consequences. And the same goes for my wife and my friends.

Thankfully, I’ve lasted this long. My kids are now 17 and 19, and they know me really well, which is awesome. The book was basically an extension of the idea to leave something behind that tried to explain what I do and why. There are lots of people that lose friends and family to adventure. I feel like if there’s a way to somehow explain why we do it, then I should try.

How does the mental load of writing a book compare to that of pushing your limits in ski mountaineering?Ìę

Anytime you’re doing something that has value and is challenging to you, there’s going to be doubts, there’s going to be fears. Overcoming them and moving forward is kind of the biggest challenge. For months, I was so scared that I’d finally written this thing, that I was putting it out there. And now it’s like, okay I did it, here we go! Having big goals and dreams—be it a physical or mental challenge—and finally accomplishing them is so rewarding.

Could you tell us a little about the added features loaded in the ebook that hardcover readers will miss?

I have all this footage of me doing all these different things in the mountains. I felt like if I could use it properly, it would add another dimension to reading by creating this emotional layer that brings you deeper into the story. I’ve embedded more than a dozen videos into the ebook. They are raw, unedited moments that bring you straight into my mountain experience.

Like after the avalanche in Pakistan when I broke my leg, you can see me talking into the camera about my thoughts on risk and reward and whether it’s worth it. It’s almost like breaking down the fourth wall and really getting to know the protagonist by seeing me sitting there crying and dealing with the consequences of risk.

What accomplishments are you most proud of, and is there anything in your career that you regret?

I’m most proud of my kids. I mean, I love all these things I’ve accomplished, the personal challenges and stuff, but it became very clear that they are the most important things that I’ve created in this life.

I’m realizing more and more my biggest goal is to impact others and ideally empower them to live their dreams. Looking back on chapters of your life, there’s these things that made so much sense and were so important, but then as you grow and change, they’re not anymore.

There’s lots of unfinished things out there in the mountains for me, and I think I have to accept that and move onto what has more value now and is more important now. My latest goal is inspiring others to live life to the fullest.

As for insights, I talk about my weed addiction a little bit in the book. I feel like I want to be more available, to be a better person, especially for my wife. I haven’t smoked in three months, and I won’t until my 50th birthday, which is a year and a bit from now, just to really try to be as emotionally available as possible.

The post Extreme Skier Greg Hill Goes Deep on Risk and Adrenaline in His New Book appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

This past summer, hikers on , 14,438-foot Mount Elbert, were met by a peculiar welcome committee.

Volunteers from Colorado Fourteeners Initiative handed out WAG bags near a padlocked receptacle marked “human waste pack-out bags only.” On some days, a researcher from Penn State University stopped visitors to ask questions about—you guessed it—poop.

Called Clean 14, the infrastructure was the latest in a multi-year research project undertaken by PACT Outdoors, a Colorado-based company that designs products for sustainable pooping in the backcountry. The project aims to improve the way that hikers and officials in Colorado, and potentially the rest of the U.S. West, handle solid human waste on public lands.

“Our stance is that if you give people better tools and processes they’ll happily use them for the betterment of themselves and everybody else,” PACT Outdoors co-founder Jake Thomas told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.

The problem with Colorado’s current poop protocol, Thomas said, isn’t ignorance. “People know you’re not supposed to poop in the outdoors and just leave it there,” he said.

Instead, he believes the current infrastructure and processes are to blame for the uncovered poop found alongside trails. PACT’s goal is to figure out what methods and products help people either bury their waste, or pack it out. ThisÌęprocess involves creating product prototypes, launching pilot programs, and researching behavior.

Thomas toldÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that little research existed on the topic prior to PACT’s efforts.

“Somebody once told me that the things most in need of innovation are the things people least want to talk about,” Thomas said. “And in this case it’s true. Human waste in the outdoors is a massively under-researched topic.”

PACT conducted its first study shortly after its launch in September 2000. The company, which was founded by Thomas and Noah Schum, surveyed 25,000 customers of the now-defunct outdoor retail giant Moosejaw about their pooping habits. Seventy two percent admitted to improperly managing their poop while recreating outside. People’s understanding of the Leave No Trace principle of to bury their solid waste also varied widely.

“We realized we needed to simplify and standardize it,” Thomas said. “There are kits for so many other things in the outdoors—first aid, cooking, camping. Why not for pooping?”

The company’s first product was a compact, portable, outdoor bathroom kit containing a small but durable shovel, wipes, and hand sanitizer. The kit also contained tablets of a fungal structure that speeds the decomposition of poop. Two years later, PACT OutdoorsÌęunveiled a streamlined version of this kit called the PACT Lite, which came with an even smaller, more ergonomic shovel that stores the mycelium tablets and wipes in its handle.

In 2023, PACT Outdoors received grant funding from Colorado Tourism to hand out 3,500 PACT Lite kits at trailheads, ranger stations, and visitors centers across the state.

“We called it “Doo” Colorado Right,” Thomas said. “It confirmed our belief that people will do the right thing if they have the right tool.”

Rangers told PACT researchers that it’s difficult to talk to outdoor users about poop preparedness. But having a product to give to people changed the tone of the conversations, Thomas said. “Suddenly they’re engaged, they feel empowered,” he said. “They are a part of the solution. They’re not just somebody who’s being managed and regulated.”

The positive response to “Doo” Colorado Right led to PACT Outdoors’ initiative on Mount Elbert. The program explored an even more unsavory topic: Picking up your own poop and packing it out via a WAG bag. The trails on fourteeners include significant stretches in the alpine, where there’s not enough soil to break down human waste. Many routes include long stretches of snow and rock, where waste will remain open to the elements. In these environments, Leave No Trace rules dictate that visitors pack their poop out.

To help communicate the WAG bag plan on Mount Elbert, PACT Outdoors borrowed from research done on pet owners. Creating physical infrastructure—specifically, bag dispensers—helps dog owners pick up and dispose of their pet’s poop.

The company also gleaned insights from three years of interviews conducted with hikers. According to this research, hikers are less prone to pick up their poop if they have nowhere to put it. Human feces is considered a biohazard because it contains pathogens that cause disease. You’re not supposed to just toss it in the trash.

PACT’s solution was to build a kiosk at the Mount Elbert trailhead stocked with complimentary WAG bags, and a sanitary receptacle for disposing of them. A researcher from Penn State tracked results for 20 days and surveyed hikers on their general attitude toward WAG bags.

Thomas says the results, reported in , surprised PACT staffers. For 30 percent of the hikers, nature’s call aligned with the presence of a pit toilet. The other 70 percent had to do their business in the wild. Of those who pooped in the wild, 57 percent were in a place where they could bury it, and the other 43 percent used the complimentary WAG bag. “The long-standing belief that people just aren’t going to pack out their poop didn’t hold up,” he said.

“We feel pretty confident from the study that we’ve not been giving people enough credit for what they’re willing to do if it’s properly introduced,” he added.

PACT Outdoors’ vision is to put a WAG bag kit kiosk and human waste receptacle on all 58 of Colorado’s Fourteeners. Each kit will be printed with instructions in big bold letters, as well as information to help drive greater adoption. There will also be humor: The backside of the outer packaging is called The Daily Dump, a mock newspaper. The kit will include an enzyme that deodorizes and dehydrates the poop, killing some of the pathogens and making it easier to pack out.

It’s an ambitious plan that could have a huge impact on some of the busiest trails in the state. The Colorado Fourteeners Initiative recorded 260,000 hiker use days on the peaks in 2023. Mount Elbert sees 15,000 hikers a year, most of them in a highly concentrated span of eight to ten weeks in the late summer. According to PACT, an estimated 1,650 people poop on the mountain each season, and many of them are unfamiliar with packing out their own poop. Currently, Rangers hike the peak with llamas to haul the feces back down.

Thomas points out that people are quick to understand the environmental impacts of human feces in the wild, for example as a water source contaminant. And we all grok the negative effect on both locals and tourists when someone slips in a pile of human poop at an otherwise iconic Colorado wilderness site. But far fewer people realize how expensive and resource-intensive the status quo waste management process is for the Forest Service and BLM. “Districts or offices in high use areas have told us that it’s about half of their annual budget,” Thomas said. “That’s huge.”

The current protocol generally includes pumping and cleaning vault toilets and disposing of mishandled waste. Thomas and his colleagues think PACT Outdoors’ innovations will eliminate the cost of having to clean up rogue poop. Plus, fostering a pack-out-your-poop culture will alleviate usage on existing vault toilets, as well as reduce the need for building more of themÌęin the future.

“There’s a lot of steps that need to happen between now and then,” Thomas said. “But the first step, in our minds, was will people pack out in this type of environment? And we feel pretty confident that the answer is yes.”

The post A Colorado Company Wants to Change the Way Hikers Poop in the Backcountry appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In the summer of 2023, climbers Tommy Caldwell and Alex Honnold tackled an adventure of monumental size: they biked, hiked, and sailed 2,600 miles from Colorado to Alaska, and then ascended a massive granite monolith deep in Tongass National Forest called the Devil’s Thumb. The duo made history: they became the first climbers to ascend the 9,000-foot formation’s five jagged peaks—a challenge known as the Diablo Traverse—in a single day.

The adventure is the focal point ofÌęNational Geographic’sÌęlatest feature-length documentary, titledÌęThe Devil’s Climb,Ìęwhich debuted in October. Caldwell, who conceived of the adventure, spoke with șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű about some of the most pivotal moments that were left out of the film.

“We spent four days doing like a quarter mile an hour bushwhacking through the Alaskan wilderness,” Caldwell said. “It was the hardest part of the whole trip, all the way from Colorado, but none of it’s in the film.”

Most climbers attempting to scale the Devil’s Thumb get there via helicopter. But for the film, Caldwell and Honnold spent 38 days biking 2,320 miles from his home in Estes Park, Colorado, to the tiny town of Prince Rupert, British Columbia, where the roadway ends. Then, the duo sailed for ten days up the Alaskan Panhandle, before trekking 20 more miles to reach the peak.

The hike to the peak should have been relatively straightforward, following a historical route up a glacier. But the glacier had melted into a lake of slush and icebergs when the duo reached it. So instead, Caldwell, Honnold, and the eight-person National Geographic film crew had to chart a new route in the adjacent valley—an old-growth temperate rainforest.

Caldwell recalls being “soaked to the bone” by the dense, wet understory, fighting his way through ten-foot tall Devil’s Club, a shrub covered top-to-bottom in noxious thorns, for “hours and hours.” One of the crew developed trench foot. Another almost fell to their death while the group was hiking after dark along a steep, forested hillside above Class V rapids.

“They lost their footing and just disappeared through the forest below us,” Caldwell said. “We thought they fell into the rapids. Luckily, they stuck it right at the lip of the cliff.”

Caldwell and Honnold’s longest, most sustained effort of the entire journey occurred during that trek. They put in 15-20 hour hiking days because it was impossible to move quickly through the vegetation. “The bush is so thick,” Caldwell says, “there were periods were we didn’t even touch the ground, where were just kind of like hovering.”

He hit rock bottom, mentally, during the trek, and credits the filming crew with renewing his focus. “We’re bushwhacking in the rainforest, completely wet, kind of lost, just miserable, and suddenly one of the guys who loves to sing starts beatboxing,” Caldwell said. “The whole crew joins in and starts rapping, making up this song.”

The spontaneous injection of levity was exactly what Caldwell needed. “The film was very focused on Alex and I,” he said, “but there were so many other people who were a big part of it for me.”

One of those people is Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard. Caldwell and Honnold spent a couple days at Chounaird’s house during the early portion of their expedition, while biking through Jackson, Wyoming. Caldwell originally dreamed up of the Devil’s Thumb climb as a way to shine a spotlight on the Tongass National Forest. Specifically the need to protect it from logging and other development—a cause also championed by Chouinard, who Caldwell said is “essentially my boss” these days.

Besides being a professional climber, Caldwell also works for Patagonia as a Global Sports Activist. “A big part of my job is trying to figure out places that have a conservation need and a climbing component,” he said.

Chouinard was part of the reason Caldwell decided to expand the Diablo Traverse into an epic adventure, to do it human-powered, and to do with his best friend Honnold. Caldwell had recently read A Wild Idea, a biography by author Jonathan Franklin about the late businessman and conservationist Doug Tompkins, and was inspired by the conservation work (and expeditions) Tompkins and Chouinard had done together in Patagonia.

Caldwell calls his and Honnold’s time with Chouinard the “most endearing” part of their journey. Biking to Chouinard’s home, Caldwell quickly realized how many of the original houses in Jackson had been scraped to build mansions. Not Chouinard’s. It is the same as it was 50 years ago when it was purchased. Pedaling up the driveway, Caldwell noticed a beater Subaru, “the shittiest car I’ve ever seen in my life,” with a bumper sticker proclaiming “Every billionaire is a policy failure.”

Chouinard stepped out of the modest home to greet Caldwell and Honnold. “He’s wearing this stained white t-shirt and these jeans that he probably got when he’s a teenager that he’s cobbled back together with hand-stitched patches,” Caldwell said. “And we were like, Oh my god, he really lives it.”

Caldwell had hoped that the conservation angle would have been a larger part of the documentary film. Particularly the time he and Honnold spent with an Indigenous leader and activist named Marina Anderson on Prince of Wales Island, while they were sailing in the Tongass National Forest archipelago. Caldwell first met Anderson at a climate conference in Miami, and was excited to learn about her home region’s ecology and biodiversity.

While the cameras were rolling, Anderson taught the climbers about the importance of temperate rainforests (Tongass National Forest is the world’s largest at nearly 17 million acres) and took them salmon fishing. Those scenes were ultimately cut. “It was a little bit of a hard pill to swallow, honestly,” Caldwell said. “We were ultimately making this story to save the forest.”

Want more of șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű’s in-depth coverage of adventure stories like this one? .

The post Tommy Caldwell Takes Us Behind the Scenes of ‘The Devil’s Climb’ appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Professional surfer Keala Kennelly was sipping her morning cappuccino at home in Hawaii on October 13 when she received a text from a friend. The message said that the World Surf League, organizer of competitive surfing’s Championship Tour, was planning to hold a 2025 competition in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates.

Kennelly, who came out as gay two decades ago, was outraged. UAE laws .

“I felt sick to my stomach,” Kennelly told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. “How can WSL expect an LGBTQ+ athlete to travel and compete in a country where their very existence is illegal?”

Kennelly, one of the most decorated women’s surfers ever, wrote a scathing note about the WSL’s decision and . She wrote that hosting events in countries that have documented human rights violations should be unacceptable. She expressed concern for Australian surfer , a two-time world champion, who is openly gay and is slated to compete in the WSL 2025 Championship Tour.

“I decided to make the post to raise awareness, hoping that using my social media platform would outrage people like hearing the news outraged me,” Kennelly said. “I also wanted to show support for Tyler so she knows she is not alone and that she has people backing her.”

Kennelly wasn’t the only person from the surfing community to comment on the decision. While Wright did not comment, her wife, Lilli Wright, . “Tyler has competed on this tour for over 14 years and has had the pride flag on her jersey since 2020,” Lilli wrote. “Even after winning 2 world titles she is still not valued enough by the WSL to be considered when they sold this event.”

Lilli penned her note under a photo of Tyler Ìęjogging down the beach with a surfboard underarm, next to a pinned post of the couple’s striking wedding portraits from 2022. “WSL have the duty of care to their athletes to not put them in potentially life threatening circumstances like this,” she added.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű reached out to the WSL for comment, but we did not receive a response.

The Abu Dhabi leg of the Championship Tour will take place February 14-16, 2025 at the Surf Abu Dhabi artificial wave pool on Al Hudayriat Island, a stretch of sand just south of the city where officials have constructed a BMX park, road cycling track, and water park, among other attractions. According to the WSL’s press release, the surfing venue features groundbreaking wave-making technology from the Kelly Slater Wave Company and is home to the world’s largest and longest human-made wave.

The WSL is not alone in staging events in the UAE—nor is it the only league to receive criticism for doing so. Every February, the world’s best cyclists line up for the UAE Tour, the opening event of the sport’s UCI WorldTour, the highest category of competition. Since 2009, auto racing league Formula One has staged the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix at a state-of-the-art auto track. Abu Dhabi hosts some of the best tennis players of the year in an event called World League, and even the National Basketball Association stages an exhibition event in the UAE, called the Emirates NBA Cup. The UAE hosts other major international events for beach volleyball, soccer, and sailing.

Critics have called this practice “sportswashing”—when repressive countries attract international sports to seem more in line with Western ideals. The New York Times of holding sporting events like NBA preseason games in Abu Dhabi, citing Ben Freeman of the Quincy Institute: “When you think of the U.A.E., they want you thinking about tennis. They would love for you to think about the N.B.A. [. . .] much rather have you thinking about that than all the bad things that are also part of their reputation.”

In her Instagram post, Kennelly specifically called out the UAE’s track record on human rights, specifically for LGBTQ+ people and women. “Emirati women live under male guardianship,” she wrote. “Honor Killings can go unpunished, as the victim’s family can pardon the murderer.”

According to , an advocacy and research group based in New York City, authorities in the UAE can also arrest people for a variety of vaguely defined “flagrant indecent acts” including “public displays of affection, gender nonconforming expressions, and campaigns promoting the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) people.”

On October 16, the Queer Surf Club, an international organization that coordinates meet-ups for like-minded surfers, to urge the WSL to remove Abu Dhabi from its World Championship tour calendar.

“The WSL have chosen to support a government that criminalizes LGBTQIA+ people and discriminates against women, and in doing so are choosing to place their athletes, support teams, and spectators at risk,” reads the opening paragraph to the petition.

More than two-dozen organizations, ranging from London Surf Film Fest to Surf Queer Mexico to Trans Cyclist Collective, have taken up the cause, promoting it on their own social networks.

Kennelly told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű that she would “Absolutely not” travel to Abu Dhabi. “Some of the comments on my post said things like “get over it, just don’t do gay things while you are there,’ she said. “But even if I traveled there without my wife, I look like a lesbian. I have short hair, I don’t dress in feminine clothes. Even if I wasn’t physically harmed I can’t imagine how badly I would be treated in a place like that.”

Kennelly retired from WSL competition in 2007, and she’s doubtful that Wright or other current competitors will speak up against the UAE event. Article 14.04 of the specifically prohibits athletes from making comments that cast the league, WSL management, judges, or its sponsors in a negative light. This rule extends to a surfer’s social media.

Lilli Wright declined to comment to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű when contacted. “I definitely think it is a very important discussion to be had,” she wrote in response to a request for an interview. “But at this stage I’m not comfortable saying anything further.”

But she also wrote candidly about how uncomfortable she feels at the thought of Tyler competing in a place like Abu Dhabi, while at the same time recognizing how disadvantageous, career-wise, it would be for her to skip the event. “I see how hard my wife works every day on her career and it’s unreasonable to expect her to just not go,” she wrote. “Her life is worth more than one event, but I can’t not acknowledge that missing this event would put her career at a huge disadvantage.”

Lilli ended her post by circling back to her frustration with the WSL: “At the end of the day, WSL had absolutely no business selling this event to this location expecting their only openly queer athlete to go along quietly.”

The post Pro Surfing Is Headed to Abu Dhabi. LGBTQ+ Athletes Are Outraged. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Two American rock climbers from Utah with less-than-household names recently set a new speed record in Yosemite National Park.

On October 20, Tanner Wanish and Mike Vaill, both 32, scaled El Capitan, Half Dome, and Mount Watkins in succession—collectively known as the Yosemite Triple Crown—in 17 hours and 55 minutes. Their time shaved approximately 35 minutes off of the previous record, set in 2018 by Brad Gobright and Jim Reynolds.

“We were just trying to go sub-24 hours, so it was kind of amazing to learn we’d broken the record,” Wanish told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.

The Yosemite Triple Crown is one of the toughest objectives in big-wall climbing, requiring mastery of a broad range of climbing skills, as well as physical endurance and impeccable planning. The massive link-up ascends more than 7,000 vertical feet spread between 71 pitches on three different iconic rock faces, with nearly 20 miles of hiking in between. Simply breaking the 24-hour mark places the duo in exclusive company: only eight other parties have done so since famed climbers Dean Potter and Timmy O’Neill first went under 24 hours in 2001. In 2012, Alex Honnold and Tommy Caldwell became the first (and so far only) team to freeclimb it—using gear for protection but not aid—completing the link-up in 21 hours and 15 minutes. Later that year, Honnold set the record for completing the Triple Crown as a team of one, doing it in 18 hours 55 minutes.

A former Navy SEAL, Wanish has only been rock climbing for four-and-a-half years. But the Salt Lake City-native has already ascended some of the hardest routes in the park.

“I was shooting above my pay grade because I feel like that’s how you get better,” Wanish said. “With the Triple Crown, we didn’t have any guarantees or know we were going to succeed there.”

Wanish and Vaill, who lives in St. George, started climbing together in Yosemite in 2021 after connecting via the Mountain Project website. They first ascended the Nose—the 2,900-foot route on El Capitan—in October of that year. “We climbed 50 hours straight through two nights to beat a storm,” Wanish said.

In subsequent years, the duo took on harder routes in Yosemite and succeeded. In 2022 they ascended the northwest face of Half Dome and the Freerider route on El Capitan. In 2023 they took on the NIAD (Nose in a Day), hoping to complete the ascent in 16 hours. They did it in nine.

“I remember we were sitting up at the tree on top of the Nose, wide-eyed and silent after what we’d done,” Wanish said. “In that moment, it was like the whole valley opened up to us, like we could climb anything.”

A week later, they completed their first link-up: the Nose and the northwest face of Half Dome, a challenge known as “Double.” Wanish called it “the best day of climbing ever.” Before they’d even topped out, they’d decided to try the Triple Crown in 2024.

After receiving advice from other Triple Crown climbers, they decided to follow the standard order of climbs: Mount Watkins, then the Nose on El Capitan, before completing the Northwest face on Half Dome. The unofficial rule for timing the route is that the clock starts when the first climber touches the first wall. It ends after both climbers top out on the third route. The clock doesn’t stop for hikes or drives in between routes.

Wanish and Vaill touched the rock at the base of Mount Watkins at 4 P.M. on Saturday, October 19. Wanish took the lead for the first half, with Vaill taking over to the top. Climbing in blocks like this is standard for speed attempts, as it’s more efficient than switching leads every other pitch. Their total time to climb the 2,200-foot route was 2 hours and 55 minutes.

They got back to Wanish’s van at 8 P.M., and his wife was waiting to drive them to the El Capitan meadow. They ate dinner and organized their gear during the drive.

“At the meadow there was a big group of friends waiting on us,” Wanish said. “They were all cheering and it was so good for morale—we knew we were going into a long night.”

They started climbing the Nose at 9:30 P.M. After two hours of climbing in the dark, Wanish hit a low point. “I felt overwhelmed,” Wanish said. “Maybe that’s not the right word. I just knew we had another seven hours of darkness and cold, and another 6,000 feet of climbing ahead of us.”

He swapped the lead with Vaill about halfway up, as planned, at the pitch known as Camp IV. While belaying Vaill, Wanish crammed as many Trader Joe’s Fruit Bars into his mouth as he could stomach. They topped out in 5 hours and 25 minutes and raced down the East Ledges to the meadow where Wanish’s wife was waiting with a big plate of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and plenty of coffee.

“I was eating handfuls of eggs like an animal,” Wanish said.

After a 15-minute drive to Half Dome, the duo had to hike the so-called “Death Slabs” approach to reach the rock face. Normally the hike, which includes Class 4 scrambling, takes three hours to complete. They did it in an hour and a half. “We were charging,” Wanish said.

They hit the wall at 6:30 A.M. and began simul-climbing the 2,200-foot route. Simul-climbing is an advanced technique where both people are simultaneously climbing up the wall together, tied to the same rope, with pieces of protection continually placed between them by the lead climber.

It took Wanish and Vaill 3.5 hours to scale the 2,200-foot route. When Wanish hit stop on his watch, it was 9:55 A.M. on Sunday, October 20. They were astonished by the 17 hours and 55 minute time—it was well under their goal of 24 hours.

“We should go for a fourth wall, we have tons of time left,” Wanish said.

They heard yells and cheers from Wanish’s wife and their friends, who’d been watching with binoculars from the meadow below. Wanish pulled out his phone and sent a photo of his watch with an ecstatic Vaill in the background to Maxim Climbing Ropes, his sponsor. A sponsor representative texted back that the time was the new fastest mark on the Triple Crown. Maxim turned around and posted the news, along with Wanish’s photo, to its Instagram account.

“It was a nice surprise,” says Wanish. “Maybe we should have patted ourselves on the back more, but we were already talking about the ways we could have improved.”

Besides, they already have a new Yosemite climbing objective, one that they hope to complete in October. As for now, Wanish wants to keep the ambitious challenge a secret. “It will be even bigger than the speed record on the Triple Crown,” Wanish said. “I can tell you that.”

The post How Two Lesser-Known Rock Climbers Smashed a Fabled Yosemite Record appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.