Yamophilia /jæmˈoʊfɪliə/ (noun)

A love of or obsession with the mountain officially known as Mount Laurie (better known as Mount Yamnuska: a name borrowed from the Stoney Nakoda name Îyâmnathka, meaning “flat-faced mountain”).

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Yamnuska (abbreviated as “Yam”) is the birthplace of Canadian traditional climbing and the great training grounds where most Rockies climbers cut their teeth and hone their craft. It is the first mountain that greets you on your right as you drive into the Rockies from Calgary. A motorist might be forgiven for not thinking much of the peak; it isn’t particularly tall, and its face is dwarfed by the much larger cliffs to its Southwest (on Goat Mountain).

However, Yamnuska’s nearly 3-kilometre-wide cliff face boasts a collection of over 200 climbs ranging in difficulty from low-fifth to 5.14b. There are slab climbs, cracks, and burly overhangs. Some lines are pure choss, while other routes are solid limestone worthy of a top-tier French sport crag. It is a paradise that offers anything a trad climber might want, provided they are willing to warm up with 500 metres of elevation gain to reach the base of the cliffs.

This article is my love letter to Yamnuska. In telling the stories of some of my favourite (and most interesting) climbs on the mountain, I hope to inspire others to test their nerves on these storied routes. At the very least, I hope to pass on some key lessons from my time on Yam and tell some entertaining stories in the process. I don’t claim that this selection of routes or experiences is representative of a typical experience on Yam; I have climbed many routes on the mountain that produced much less interesting stories. While I love climbing routes where nothing of interest happens and everything goes smoothly, it makes for a boring story. Instead, this is a collection of some of my more memorable moments on the mountain.

I recognize that not everyone will be familiar with the climbing jargon commonly used when discussing climbing on Yam. Here is a glossary of key terms:

Choss: Loose or poor-quality rock that is prone to breaking.

Fixed Gear: Permanently installed protection, such as bolts or pitons. In other words, all protection except that which you place yourself.

Runout (noun): A section of a climb where protection is sparse or non-existent, increasing the risk of a long or dangerous fall.

Runout (adjective, describing a route/pitch): Offers few (good) gear placements for protection.

PG13 / R / X: Protection ratings added to the grade of the climb indicating how runout/dangerous it is:

• PG13: Sparse or difficult-to-place protection, with sections where a fall would likely cause injury. The typical Yam route is PG13 by most other areas’ standards. PG13 on Yam denotes a slightly higher degree of risk than you might expect.
• R: Very sparse protection, with the potential for dangerous falls that could cause severe injury or death.
• X: No trustworthy gear to stop a fall, and possibly compromised anchors. Soloing, but with a rope.

Piton: A metal spike hammered into cracks in the rock as protection. The advent of “clean climbing” ethics and modern gear saw the elimination of pitons as a way of protecting popular routes. However, pitons still have their niche. Alpine climbers (and Yam climbers) continue to use them to protect routes that might otherwise be too difficult to protect. Current norms around piton use are complicated; Yam climbers might get angry if someone used pitons on a popular route and thereby damaged the rock, but it is generally accepted that climbers can use pitons on dangerous and rarely-travelled routes like Freak Out.

Sandbag: A climb rated easier than its actual difficulty (e.g. a route designated 5.8 that feels more like a 5.10a).

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DIRETTISSIMA [5.8+ PG13]

Round 1: The first time I tried this route, we were rained off the wall. A storm that had not been in the forecast snuck up on us from the other side of the mountain. We had no time to react; we only realized we were caught in a rainstorm once the first drops hit. Three pitches up, we needed to bail. By the time we reached the ground, the route had turned into a flowing waterfall despite the mild nature of the storm.

Key Lesson: The sum of many drops of water is a waterfall. Gully features are especially terrible in storms; light precip can be funnelled by terrain to create much stronger flows than the volume of rain would lead you to expect.

Round 2: Eager to try again, I volunteered to guide a less experienced friend up the climb by leading every pitch. The climb went smoothly and felt substantially easier than my previous attempt. The gear on pitch 1 was easier to find, and I felt more comfortable running it out when needed (either to mitigate rope drag or because there simply was no good protection). We dispatched the climb easily enough, but noted that it felt much harder than 5.8. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; some of the moves on the upper pitches were amazingly fun for the grade. In my view, the most difficult moves on the route were hard specifically because the route was so polished. The passage of generations of climbers has made several sections incredibly slick and difficult to climb. The 5.8+ might have been assigned because the climbing is far more gymnastic in the cruxes than most other 5.8s, but the route was also becoming more difficult over time.

Key Lesson: Climbers often talk about how grades are “subjective.” I think they should also talk about how grades are dynamic. Routes graded long ago, especially in the Rockies where the limestone can easily change through polish or rockfall, may become harder or easier with time. Do not be overly trusting of guidebooks or commonly assigned grades! Go into every route expecting the unexpected, and knowing that a Yam “5.8” may not present the same experience as a 5.8 in Squamish. 

Round 3: The original 34 climbs in the first Yamnuska guidebook are called the “Kallen 34.” Most Yamophiles attempt to complete the list as a tour of the classic lines on the wall. One such route is a variant of Diretissima called “Shuftee” — after climbing the bulk of Direttissima, Shuftee splits out left in the upper pitches to finish on the other side of the summit.

Julian Larsen and Nick Ayers—two other VOCers—were visiting the Bow Valley for a few weeks and were eager to climb on Yam. I was eager to climb Shuftee while the beta for Direttisima was fresh in my mind. I persuaded them to join me (having failed to talk them into climbing the much scarier route, “Balrog”) and we set off back towards the base of Direttissima.

We moved quickly on the approach to the base of the wall, shaving 20 minutes off my previous time. At the base, Julian volunteered to lead Pitch 1. Unfortunately, I did not notice that he had declined to put all of the quickdraws on his harness. He later explained that he had assumed he would not need literally all of them (I had insisted on bringing a rather large number, for good reason). He soon regretted this decision as he ran out of draws midway through the pitch. Since the upper portion of the pitch protects with pitons (with few good cam placements), he found himself severely run out despite the presence of fixed gear that he otherwise would have been able to clip.

45 long minutes after starting, he was at the top. Nick and I seconded the pitch. Unfortunately, Nick had aggressively stuffed gear into Julian’s backpack at the base of the climb, which caused Julian’s 3-litre water bladder to burst. Aside from my 1 litre Nalgene, this was all the water the two had brought. Nick got soaked, as did our jackets. From a stance a few metres up the pitch, he frantically asked to be lowered back down to the ground, where he tried to chug the remaining water as it soaked our gear even more.

KEY LESSON: Water bladders can explode. Since water is important, you ought to be careful of how you pack bladders if you elect to bring one instead of a Nalgene (or other solid water bottle). Dehydration should be a major concern on climbs where no water is available on-route and where bailing may take time.

I quickly dispatched the second pitch before turning the sharp end over to Nick. His pitch was only 5.6, but involved difficult route-finding (there are three possible variants to the pitch) and a significant amount of loose rock. He gingerly made his way up the long pitch in a 45-minute long lead. When we joined him at the anchor, both he and Julian agreed that I should dispatch the remainder of the leads to get us to the top faster. They are both strong climbers, but Yamnuska is hard to manage if you are not accustomed to the tricky gear and suspect rock. Climbing both safely and efficiently requires significant mileage on Rockies-style limestone trad routes, regardless of pure climbing ability. Without our water, we needed to be on the wall for the shortest possible duration. Hence, I would lead. Our lack of water also ruled out climbing Shuftee. It was harder, sketchier, and unknown to me. In contrast, Direttissima was a sure-fire line as I had climbed it merely days prior. The responsible decision was obvious, so we changed our line.

KEY LESSON: When things go wrong, be adaptable. Getting married to the idea of a single route or style of climbing introduces an element of risk. Being willing to change objectives or modify existing plans will help keep you safe.

The rest of the climbing went smoothly, and we topped out before long. Our decision to bail on Shuftee (and to refrain from attempting Balrog altogether) had been the right one; an unforecasted thunderstorm hit as we finished the descent hike. Our relative speed also meant that we made it back to the car without anyone suffering from significant dehydration. I dropped them back at Evan’s grandfather’s house in Calgary (where they had been staying for the duration of their trip to the Rockies), and bid them farewell. Later, Evan reported that he came home to the two of them “absolutely destroyed on my grandpa’s couches.” When asked what had happened, they replied, “Noah and Yam happened.” Perhaps next time I will offer to slow down on the approach.

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THE TONGUE (Left Side) [5.9] + WINDY SLABS (Upper Variation) [5.7R/X]

Round 1: Seton Kriese (a now-graduated former VOCer) and I first investigated The Tongue on June 9th, 2024. The first piece of protection on the first pitch looked to be an old piton alarmingly high off the ground. Even more concerningly, no gear placements above were obvious from the ground; committing to the first pitch would require delicate face climbing, clipping an ancient piton, then continuing up a loose corner without gear into the unknown. The grade of the pitch was supposedly 5.9. I think it may win an award for one of the most sandbagged 5.9 pitches on Yam. After a few false starts where I started up the pitch before downclimbing back to the ground, I lost my nerve and walked away. Our backup climb was The Toe—another one of the rare Yam routes that ascends a pinnacle feature somewhere on the face instead of continuing to the top. While The Toe is an excellent climb, I will leave our ascent of it out of this trip report for the sake of brevity.

That night, I promised revenge on the pitch. Resolve is easily found in the comfort of home, far away from the visceral emotions that dance in your stomach while you navigate a potentially-lethal lead. With a clear head I knew I could lead the pitch, and that my problem had been a mismatch between my expectations and the demands of the lead. I was expecting standard Yam 5.9, and not the 5.9+R that had been presented, which in turn meant that I had failed to get into the necessary headspace to prevent the fear from creeping in. And of course, fear is the mind-killer; I find recovering from being scared more difficult than I find preventing myself from feeling fear in the first place.

Round 2: Austin Goodine was keen to give the route a try. But when we got to the base of it, I realized I could not fulfill my promise to him—or myself—to dispatch the first pitch. I had forgotten my climbing shoes in the car and would need to climb in my trail runners. Even in climbing shoes, the pitch looked scary. In running shoes I would stand no chance on lead.

Luckily, Austin is a strong and bold climber, and he volunteered to take the first pitch without complaint. He danced his way up the face and clipped the piton, before firing up another few moves. A 0.75 cam placement behind a block served as the second piece of pro. After placing it, he went to move off of the block behind which the cam was placed. Unluckily, the block exploded, and the cam ripped as he fell. Austin came to a stop inches from the ground, held up by the only gear remaining in the wall: the single fixed piton. I didn’t need to lower him for him to stand up; by switching from a seated to an upright position, he was already touching the ground.

“Getting back on the horse” is not an easy thing to do. I would have bailed at this point. But Austin is tough as nails. He expressed surprise at the fall; it was his first fall on Yam despite being an experienced Yamophile himself (Yamnuska has a “no falls” ethic on lower-grade gear routes, given the often questionable protection). But despite this, he had no trouble getting back on the climb and sending the pitch on his second go.

KEY LESSON: Within reason, “getting back on the horse” and dispatching a lead, even after a terrible fall, is a good way to develop mental resilience. This must be consciously balanced against safety considerations; developing mental resilience is critical to bold climbing, but there is such a thing as being too bold and crossing the line.

The rest of the climb was less memorable. I led pitch two in a nail-biting lead, made challenging only by my inadequate footwear. Austin brought us up most of pitch three, building an anchor right below the summit tower. I finished off the route by leading the off-width section of the final pitch.

We still had plenty of time left in the day. Since The Tongue does not reach the top of Yam (and instead climbs a tower on the side of the face), our original plan had been to rappel the top pitch of the line and finish climbing up Yam proper via Extender (5.11a). Unfortunately, my shoe-snafu made that an unlikely proposition; climbing 5.11a trad in trail runners is not yet in my range of comfort. Instead, we decided to rappel and hike over to the West end to climb an easy classic that neither of us had yet been on: Windy Slabs.

We rappelled down the right side of the tower. To my dismay, the rappel was awful; some of the anchors are poorly placed, and the amount of rockfall generated by pulling the rope was shocking. Reaching the ground was a relief. However, our peace did not last for long. I never would have expected it, but the scariest moments of the day were yet to come.

Windy Slabs by the standard variation is a rambly, traversing 5.6. It is not a particularly choiceworthy route, though it has a certain mountaineering-type quality about it that makes it pleasant nonetheless. We thought that the beta would be obvious; follow the slabs up and left towards the BBQ Ledge (a feature that marks the top). Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately for purposes of making the climb interesting), Austin accidentally went questing off into a variation of the line that offers substantially less gear. After a slightly longer-than-expected lead, it was my turn for the sharp end. I set off up prickly limestone slabs, which soon turned into a steep and chossy corner. By the time I finished the 60-metre pitch, I had placed perhaps two pieces, neither of which were particularly inspiring. I was still climbing in my trail runners, which had made the experience a rather horrifying one. That said, I had a great deal of fun (in a twisted type-2 sense of the word “fun”). I would recommend this variation to Windy Slabs if you want to make the most of the line.

KEY LESSON:  An easy grade does not make for an easy route. This is especially true of route-finding in the alpine; the line between climbing a straightforward 5.6 and creating a core memory on a spicy lead is often razor-thin.

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 FORBIDDEN CORNER [5.9+ R / 5.10c Variation]

I met up with Evan after he finished a sunrise trail run. Our route of choice—Red Shirt—appeared wet when viewed from the parking lot. We therefore switched plans to our backup route: Forbidden Corner. I had already climbed it once during the Summer of 2023, and the route had gone remarkably well. The route was the perfect next step on Yam for Evan. At this point, his only other route on the mountain at this point was C-Route: a fun 3-pitch climb on the East end of Yam that we had climbed not long before.

We soloed the first half of pitch one, and roped up on a large ledge. I quickly dispatched the remainder of the pitch and brought Evan up. I then set up on pitch two. The previous time I climbed the route, I had taken the 5.10c sport-bolted alternative line, which seemed more appealing. This time, I wanted to sort out the 5.8 corner. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the terrain; the closest thing to a 5.8 involved pulling an unprotectable boulder problem above a ledge that would hurt to land on (read: it may be lethal). I chickened out and backed off, offering the sport 5.10c pitch to Evan.

Here, I fucked up. I forgot just how much distance there was between the final bolt and the next anchor; the pitch was very much mixed. But I remembered it primarily as a sport-bolted pitch. Evan therefore declined to take any trad gear before he set off up the pitch. Before he knew it, he was wildly run out (read: ~7 metres above the last bolt, with another 10 metres to where we suspected there might be an anchor). I radioed up to him that, per the topo, there ought to be an intermediate piton anchor. Unfortunately, no such anchor existed.

KEY LESSON: A good chunk of the topos in the Yamnuska guidebook are flat-out wrong. Pitch distances are often inaccurate, and freeze-thaw cycles, climber traffic, and retro-bolting efforts mean that fixed pitons and bolts are not always where you expect them.

Luckily, half ropes offer many benefits. Among their advantages is that you can untie from one, then lower the end back to your belayer to receive a care package of cams. After pulling off this tenuous rescue operation, Evan tied back into the second rope and set off—properly equipped—to finish the pitch. Whoops: sorry for the gear beta sandbag, Evan!

KEY LESSON: If you learn to use them, half ropes are often superior to single ropes. Longer rappels, reduced rope drag, redundancy in case of ropes cutting, lower fall forces, and usefulness for rope rescue techniques all count strongly in their favour. I have “rescued” a leader by having them repurpose one of the ropes as a tagline to retrieve crucial gear (e.g. dropped/forgotten gear) multiple times now. Forbidden Corner is just one example.

The subsequent pitches up the “forbidden corner” feature make for blissful climbing. But before long, the beautiful corner comes to an end with an unlikely rightward traverse. Here, my memory failed me, and I couldn’t remember how far to continue before traversing out to the right. We contemplated one possible sequence, but rejected it due to difficulty; the moves seemed closer to 5.11 than 5.9+. Luckily, Evan dared to push upwards into a loose section of the corner, and found the traverse above it.

Soon after came the portion of the route that gives it the “R” grade designation. A blank limestone slab offers no real protection for 20 metres. After clipping an old piton at the top, you traverse far left before hauling into a corner system that feels much harder than the stated 5.6 grade before reaching an anchor. Overall, it was one of my most enjoyable leads of the day.

Any happiness we may have had from climbing runout 5.6 was soon quashed when we noticed an unforecasted storm system moving in. I quickly dispatched the crux pitch on lead before the rain began, but Evan was not so lucky. A mix of water and graupel started to pelt him as he traversed into the section with the hardest moves, causing him to struggle. By the time he made it up the pitch, we were both fairly exhausted, and the route had become problematically wet.

We were one pitch from the top, but an actively flowing stream of water now covered the way. I did not feel like climbing up a 5.7 flowing with water, so I improvised an escape to the right. I swore the moves felt like runout 5.11a on lead, but that may have been a product of fear and fatigue; Evan dispatched them relatively easily on toprope and repudiated my claimed grade. Regardless, the route was complete. In repeating a climb I had already dispatched with ease, I had managed to find myself in a mild epic.

KEY LESSON: Conditions matter, and mistakes compound. Familiarity is not sufficient to prevent things from going wrong: don’t get complacent.

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DREAMBED [5.11b]

Instead of giving up on Yamnuska after our less-than-stellar day on Forbidden Corner, Evan set his sights on a grander route: Dreambed. As a photographer, his vision was to shoot someone leading each of the noteworthy pitches on the route top-down. This would require him to lead each crux, then untie from the ropes and have one of the other climbers lead the pitch as well. It was an ambitious plan. I roped Seton Kriese into our scheme, and off we set.

Round 1: I was to lead the first pitch: an easy 5.10a. For whatever reason, the pitch felt impossible to me. I flailed for much longer than I care to admit before giving up three-quarters of the way up the pitch. We were off to a terrible start.

Evan took the lead in my stead and quickly got us to the top of the first pitch. I tied in again for the second pitch (and technical crux). While the lower climbing felt better, I noticed that my climbing was far from precise. My poor climbing caused me to whip at the crux when I misplaced my hand on a key hold. As I fell, a sharp bit of rock on the side of the hold cut through the skin on my thumb. I asked to be lowered down to dress the cut, as I would not be climbing 5.11b while slipping on my own blood.

Again, Evan took over leading, with Seton belaying him (while I rappeled down and attempted to extricate a yellow totem from pitch 1 that I had gotten stuck on my lead). In an impressive performance, Evan dispatched the pitch. Meanwhile, I began to vomit. The mystery as to why I was climbing so poorly had been revealed. I was sick.

I returned to the ground and radioed up to the others that we were calling it there. We left that day without the send (and without the cam).

Round 2: The following weekend, we were back with a vengeance. I dispatched the first pitch easily. Evan led the second pitch, then dropped the rope for me to lead it as well. The scariest moment came after the crux, where you’re looking at a large swinging fall into a corner if you were to mess up the last difficult move before easier terrain. That Evan climbed this pitch with a backpack full of camera gear and a static line boggles my mind.

Pitch three was purely my lead. I made a mistake in the sequence and ended up taking a small whip. A second try brought me to the top. Evan and Seton both fell seconding, making me feel a bit better about my mistake. The sequence is slightly misleading when reading it from below, but relatively easy when you figure it out.

Pitch four was supposed to be my lead as well, but I couldn’t convince myself to commit to the starting moves, since it appeared to risk an ankle-breaking ledge fall if you made a mistake, and I could not tell if I was on-route. Evan offered to give it a go, and found a better line further to the left; good thing I didn’t commit to the line I had been staring at! In another wildly impressive lead, Evan sent the pitch.

Seton took over for the traversy 5th pitch, offering Evan and I a chance to rest. Evan then took over again for pitch six, before dropping the rope for me to lead as well. This pitch contained some truly remarkable climbing on solid limestone, and in my view is one of the best pitches I have climbed on Yam.

Seton led pitch seven as well, which offered surprisingly tricky moves for the grade it received (5.9). This again let us recover for pitch seven, where our double-lead strategy saw both Evan and I leading the glorious final pitch to the top.

With all the photography shenanigans, the climb stretched out for a shockingly long time. In the end, we took a full 16 hours car-to-car. Hopefully, we will one day return to put down the line clean (with no falls) in a fraction of the time.

KEY LESSON: Photography sometimes complicates things. Pack lots of snacks when doing a photoshoot.

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EASY STREET [5.6 PG13] — (Birthday Barbeque)

Easy Street was both my first ever multi-pitch and my first ever trad climb. I have returned to it a number of times over the years, and every time, a (rather unoriginal) thought has occurred to me. The climb terminates on a ledge referred to as the BBQ Ledge, named as such because it is large enough that you could unrope and have a barbeque. What if I actually had a barbeque on it?
For my 24th Birthday, I decided to make it happen. The day before my birthday I invited Julian and Evan to join in the shenanigans. I borrowed Will Raleigh Smith’s 100L haul bag and my mother’s camping BBQ, then purchased four steaks, one pack of Korean Short Ribs, 2 portobello mushrooms, a pepper, and some Grizzly Paw soda. Everything (plus climbing gear) went in the pack.

Once upon a time, when I first started trad climbing, Easy Street did not feel all that easy. Some of the pitches are rather run out; I recall being scared on lead there. Now, Julian and I flew up the route with ease. He placed a few cams and clipped a few pitons, but otherwise practically jogged up the route. I followed with the backpack threatening to pull me off the wall every time I shifted my weight. While I led a single pitch, Julian hated the backpack enough that he requested to lead the remainder of the route. I agreed and resumed my role as the team’s pack mule.

While we were climbing, Evan Wong was hiking via the descent route. Unfortunately, he chose to follow a GPX track that I had sent him. That GPX showed the location of the ledge (which is why I sent it), but I had unfortunately chosen a track where I had taken a line of descent down the scree, rather than the hiking trail. Evan trusted the file a bit too much and ascended my line of descent. Unfortunately, this meant that he had to climb more than a hundred metres of atrociously loose scree with a backpack weighing in excess of 50lbs. Whoops.

We met Evan on the BBQ Ledge. He soloed the start of the upper 5.8 exit pitches to set up a fixed rope from which to shoot from above. As we barbequed, he ascended his fix line and shot some incredible top-down photos of the barbeque (he was sponsored by a certain alcoholic beverage company, and needed to take some photos for their advertisements). Hilariously, these photos were later posted and then promptly removed from that brand’s social media; perhaps a feast on a cliff was slightly too unhinged for marketing purposes.

A few other climbers topped out on the BBQ Ledge while we cooked. The incredulous reactions were satisfying, though we felt guilty that we didn’t bring quite enough food to share. Turns out that climbing Yamnuska with a 100L haul bag (or ascending scree with a very large backpack) builds a rather significant appetite.

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FREAK OUT [5.9+ R]

The name speaks for itself. Freak Out is a Yamnuska testpiece that demands mastery of bold, runout, and chossy climbing. The grade is “only” 5.9, but the “+” designation indicates that it is a serious sandbag, and the “R” makes it clear that the route lacks adequate protection, even in the context of Yamnuska climbing (virtually all Yam routes would be at least PG13 elsewhere).

For years, I had discussed the climb with Will Raleigh Smith (a former VOCer). We knew that if we could climb Freak Out, we could venture into harder test-piece big-mountain routes deep in the Rockies with proof that we possessed the relevant competence to succeed. In a sport where earned confidence is key to keeping yourself safe, we knew that a send of Freak Out would help us keep our heads cool during sketchy leads elsewhere.

KEY LESSON: Bold trad climbing requires earned confidence. If you are blindly confident, you will find yourself in situations you do not have the skills or strength to deal with, and end up injured or worse. If you are insufficiently confident, your resolve will crumble when it absolutely must not, and despite possessing the skills and strength, you will nevertheless end up injured or worse. You must therefore acquire confidence honestly by pushing your limits in responsible increments. Pushing boundaries involves venturing into unknown terrain, and so you are necessarily taking a risk. The trick to growth, then, is to understand your own risk tolerance. How far and how quickly can you specifically push things given your own competencies and dispositions? You ought to rely on analogies to other areas of growth in your life that don’t have such high stakes to try to understand how you respond to pressure and new challenges. If you understand this, then you can set yourself onto a path of growth in high-stakes adventure sports.

Unfortunately, the timing never worked out for us to get on it, and we let the dream sink into the background. While I pitched the route to several other people, none were interested. This route has a serious reputation; even experienced Yam climbers are reluctant to get on it. However, my string of rejections ended when I pitched the idea to Philip Setter. After climbing the Cheesmond Express on Ha Ling together (another chossy test-piece), Freak Out seemed like it would be trivial. The Cheesmond Express had involved runouts exceeding 30 metres above old fixed pitons. Freak Out would be easy by comparison.

Round 1: The plan was for Philip and I to swing leads, with him taking odd pitches, and me taking even pitches. We packed a triple rack (with pitons) and set off to the climb. It is easy to find, as the climb stands alone on the wall, with no routes immediately beside it. A proud, steep crack runs up a sector of chossy yellow rock.

Philip’s first lead was somewhat comical. He declared that the rock was pretty good, then promptly and unexpectedly ripped off a large block. He also cursed extensively as he tried (unsuccessfully) to avoid the rodent feces that coated most of the best holds inside the crack. An hour and a half later, he had sent the pitch.

Pitch two was supposedly the psychological crux of the route. You set out around a corner onto stacked dinner plates, and quest up some runout corner systems until you reach a piton belay capped by a small overhang. I found the dinner plates rather straightforward. The standard Rockies “downward” press made them feel rather easy, if a bit precarious. I paused once above to be certain of my direction as I did not want to quest up the wrong corner only to find myself in much harder terrain without a means of escape. The topo makes things rather easy though, and I found myself at the belay alcove. I pulled the roof above to verify that I had not stopped short. Seeing no obvious alternative belay, I downclimbed and supplemented the anchor with some gear of my own.

Pitch three involved some of the spicier climbing of the day while leaving the belay. Not far above, Philip managed to place a pecker piton, which made the climbing feel a great deal safer. Unfortunately, I could not extricate it as the second, since we were sharing a single hammer, and he had placed it too well to be removed by hand (or with a rock).

Pitch four was, in my view, the distinct crux. A series of traversing rightward steps force you to haul on dubiously attached flakes and jugs. The climbing is steep and runout, offering poor protection. Even if the gear held, it tended to be far enough to your left that a large pendulum would result. A fall on this pitch would be a very bad idea. A few steep moves bring you out a remarkably good crack system to the top of the cliff, where trees are available to make a belay.

Despite many of the holds not being attached, the climbing is genuinely rather good. The route is shockingly steep for the grade and there are a variety of movement types. I thought the value in this route would lie exclusively in proving to myself that I could keep my head together well enough to lead it. Instead, I found a high-quality climb with classic-level movement. If not for the rodent feces, significant runouts, and the fact that none of the holds are attached, it would probably be the most popular route on the mountain.

Round 2: Having loved the route so much the first time, I offered to lead Will up the climb before I left the Rockies to start law school in September. This time, I brought a double rack (instead of a triple). Each pitch felt easier the second time, so instead of the leads approaching or exceeding an hour, I dispatched each pitch somewhere between 15 and 30 minutes. I even managed to retrieve the piton that I had left on my previous ascent, returning the climb to its proper run-out status.

In Will’s opinion, a good amount of the gear would not hold as the rock is just too poor. Despite taking quite a bit of gear, it is not necessarily reliable. Treat this route with a healthy dose of respect.

The spiciest part of this second ascent came right before I pulled the final crux on pitch four. Despite testing all my holds, I ripped out a block in my left hand and nearly fell. Luckily, my choss-climbing technique saved me; by ensuring each hold was solid before moving off of it, and never trusting a new hold too much, I managed to catch myself without falling despite ripping the hold as I began to weight it.

KEY LESSON: There is an art to climbing choss. Tread carefully, and never trust something without testing it. Try to push “down” on a hold, rather than pulling “out.” Hit holds and listen to the sound to evaluate how solid it might be. Pay careful attention to how the rock is attached, and what prevents it from coming out if it does not appear to be fully integrated into the wall. Always ask what will happen if your newest hand/foothold were to blow. Could you catch yourself?

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