[This story originally appeared in Alpinist 88 (Winter 2024-25), which is now available on newsstands and in our online store. Only a small fraction of our many long-form stories from the print edition are ever uploaded to Alpinist.com. Be sure to pick up the hard copies of Alpinist for all the goodness!–Ed.]
EGO IS A SLIPPERY, strangely powerful thing. To be alive is to have an ego. There is no avoiding it. Any climber worth their salt must understand their relationship with ego. It affects not only the individual but also those around them, even the environment and future generations, a ring of ripple effects.
IN SEPTEMBER 2023, I stopped at City of Rocks, Idaho, for a few days. I’d never been to the historic climbing area before, though I’d read about it for years. One of the area’s most famous routes is Crack of Doom on Morning Glory Spire; it might have been the first 5.11c in the United States when Greg Lowe climbed it in 1965. A host of other testpieces abound on that rock alone, and I hoped to try them all. But I was solo and couldn’t be certain if I’d meet anyone to climb with.
I still remember the buzz I felt when I pulled into the campsite and finally got to touch the fine-grained granite with its huecos and patinaed edges for the first time. A large rectangular boulder bordered the site, complete with a flat landing. I spent that first evening getting a feel for the texture and style of the place, piecing together every conceivable line on the block, fully content.
In the morning I packed a bag and set off on a walkabout to deepen my understanding of the City, soloing easy routes on as many formations as I could. I soon encountered a group of three talented climbers who invited me to climb with them over the following days.
On my last day, I found myself with a supportive partner and an opportunity to try some of the harder routes on Morning Glory Spire. A pair of young Germans were already racking up for Crack of Doom, so I went around the corner and grit my way up the rowdy, spooky arête of Strategic Defense (5.11c/d, 100′). My feet occasionally paddled for purchase on the rounded stone between the five widely spaced bolts, but I got to the top without falling. “One of the first ‘sport’ routes at the City,” writes guidebook author Dave Bingham, who completed the first ascent in 1986. Whew! I was grateful to have put in time on the easy free solos.
When I returned to the ground, the Germans were battling the upper fissure on Crack of Doom, learning how to wedge their hands and fists properly. Apparently the crux boulder problem that guards entry to the crack—which starts as a fingertip seam—was no sweat for them. Instead it was the 5.9 jamming that had them power grunting. Despite the struggle, both sent. I waited in the shade off to the side, not wanting to spoil the chance for something closer to a true onsight experience (not knowing anything about the moves).
When at last it was my turn, the morning sun was just starting to kiss the opening crux: a puzzling traverse in from the left around a bulge about ten feet above jagged boulders. There’s no protection to be had until you clip a jangly piton where the seam starts. “Most mortals stick-clip the pin,” Bingham’s 2016 guidebook reads. My partner, a local, encouraged me to pre-clip the piton. After a brief up-and-down reconnaissance, I discovered how committing and off-balance the unknown sequence would be just to reach the pin at waist level, so I agreed.
“It is better style to not stick-clip!” said one of the Germans, half my age with bronzed flexing muscles. I nodded. He repeated it, as if trying to provoke a reaction.
What they couldn’t understand was that there was a bigger picture at stake for me. I have already broken bones in the name of pride, and I’ve become increasingly aware that even minor injuries present a burden to my wife, family, friends and colleagues: medical bills, time off work, months of diminished physical ability, a grumpier temperament—all for what? It would only take one miscalculation, one slip on granite that was becoming warmer and slipperier by the minute, and my little excursion could end in a bad way.
Moments later I was cruising up the hand crack, hardly caring that I marred my “onsight” by stick-clipping the wiggly piton. The key word is hardly. If the pin hadn’t been there, perhaps I would have chickened out, but then I would’ve had more motivation to return when I felt ready. Or I could have swallowed my pride entirely and set up a toprope.
The self-assurance and commitment that a person must summon are what makes these climbs more rewarding. Strategic Defense wouldn’t be as memorable if it had bolts every six feet. Some people are sure to argue that it was established as a “sport climb,” so why not update it according to current expectations? Isn’t it egotistical to artificially preserve contrived risks? Why not make all routes more accessible to everyone? I would answer that this attitude is just as egotistical—treating rock climbs more like commodities for mass consumption than opportunities for different experiences. “Just skip the bolts if you want the risk,” goes the classic retort, which is absurd to anyone who understands what it takes to tap into true commitment and self-reliance. It’s when the options for retreat are more limited that we discover how well we know ourselves and our capabilities. It is a tango with ego, yes, but “dangerous” climbs are significantly less dangerous when you’re prepared for them and approach them with patience and humility—traits that increasingly seem to be lacking in today’s “Send it!” culture.
While it only takes a brief lapse in judgment to impact loved ones by ending up in the hospital or the grave, it also only takes a few mavericks with power drills and relatively little knowledge to significantly alter routes, even entire crags, for all those who come after. I’m not saying that we should never change old routes, only that I wish for people to pause and reflect more before taking aggressive actions that affect so many others.
I was saddened to learn that Lighthouse Tower near Moab, Utah, recently suffered such blows. The tower’s most popular route features three quality pitches up to 5.10 to gain a slabby ledge below the final short, slender pinnacle. From here you can enjoy a nearly 360-degree view above the Colorado River before rappelling down. If you wish to stand atop the nipple of the true summit fifteen feet higher, there are no anchors on top, so you must commit to down climbing a 5.9 mantel move that is mostly unprotected. In 1970, Harvey Carter, Gary Ziegler and Tom Merrill became the first people to stand on that finger of stone after throwing a rope over the block and prusiking up the other side. I vividly remember climbing it in 2001 when I was eighteen: the dizzying vertigo I felt as I made mental notes of where the footholds were, knowing they’d be trickier to find when I reversed the moves. Apparently sometime this past season, bolts and chains were added to the summit, making it more accessible for the increasing number of climbers who are coming to the tower with less experience (and perhaps more entitlement to stand on the tippy-top). Someone complained about the development online and soon after that the bolts were chopped, leaving ugly scars—ripple effects of dueling egos, a sign of the times.
As we face deepening rifts in what people want for climbing, we are facing similar rifts in America. The culture war is widespread.
Donald Trump has just been reelected. His administration is known for aggressively prioritizing industry, profit and deregulation, with the environment being treated more like a commodity to be exploited. The outdoor industry continues to oppose many of Trump’s efforts. But the outdoor industry itself inadvertently threatens to commodify the places we love, such as promoting activities like climbing in the name of “growing the sport.” We cite the benefits of making these experiences more accessible; we quantify the profits and participants to illustrate the powerful demand and how else these lands can be utilized for the economy.
Meanwhile, now that climbing is in the Olympics and has been shown to provide viable career opportunities, more and more people are entering the “sport” with a different focus and philosophy. What they are seeking on the rocks and mountains is changing.
As editor of this magazine, I am a cog in this industry. I see it as my job to remind us of our history, our original values and inspirations—the less tangible aspects of this activity that we love—and what stands to be lost if we allow ourselves to be swept up in the modern rabid thirst for more: more difficulty, more vertical feet, more attention, more likes on social media, more money, more clout, more marketing power. More easy pleasure. There is always more to be had, until there isn’t.
It is my hope that we may learn from the Indigenous peoples who stewarded these lands for so long before settlers arrived and violently expelled them in the name of God, country and industry. Perhaps, before all that is precious is gone, we will learn to step back from our mindless consumerism and our needy impulse to categorize things as black or white, and instead embrace the grey fog where life unfolds. To do that, each of us must regularly take the time to learn and understand ourselves and how we are connected to everything around us.
That’s the beauty of a committing route—it obliges us to pause for self-reflection. Take the time to learn a place; read its history; feel the friction of the rock on your skin, the exposure nipping at your heels as your clothing snaps in the wind; enjoy the sensation of being little more than a beige or neon dot moving over a skyline that is older than time, just another organism crawling around, part of the landscape. Forget any notion of glory, for few, if anyone, will ever know or care. Listen to your heart, beating with adrenaline tempered by calm breaths. Escape your ego for those fleeting seconds or minutes. That is where you’ll discover the best gifts that climbing has to offer, which can’t be quantified by any numbers—only the personal insights and glow of inner joy that you may bring home to loved ones, provided you come down safely from the high.
