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Evan Hau is a pro climber, but most Americans still don’t know his name. He’s the first Canadian to climb 5.15a, and swears his success comes from consistently honing his strengths (and mostly ignoring his weaknesses). In this episode, we chat about how he balances pushing his limits, with his tutoring business, and the process of climbing his first 15a, Sacrifice. We cover the magic of the Bow Valley—the epic limestone crags near Canmore, Alberta—as well as what happens when Adam Ondra comes to town to try to flash your proj. We discuss trying hard on long trips, and his send of Death of Villains last year, his second 15a. Plus, we chat about aging as a climber, with his 40th birthday just around the corner. Learn More About Evan Hau Watch Evan Hau’s Process for Sending Sacrifice https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/13/not-so-undercover-crusher-evan-hau-on-showing-up-and-trying-hard

It’s February, and yours truly is bouldering in sunny Hueco Tanks, Texas. I was reminded a few weeks ago that all climbing is not without risk, when a close friend fractured his ankle bouldering in the park and had to be extracted by SAR. The situation was compounded when a rescuer fell off the low-fifth-class approach and also required extraction. This accident, like the one featured below, happened despite the fact that everyone was playing by the book. In the accident below, two apparently textbook cam placements failed when the leader applied body weight to the top cam on a lead of a slippery granite crack. More serious injury was prevented because the climbers in question had built a solid belay anchor on the ledge below, and the leader and the belayer were both wearing helmets. Still, this is a case in point that you can do everything right and still end up in the hospital.  On May 18, 2024, at about 10:40 a.m., my climbing partner and I prepared to climb Gallwas Crack (5.9) at the Main Wall of Mission Gorge in San Diego. Another friend was with us for his first outdoor climbing session. The three of us had already warmed up. Access involved scrambling eight feet up to a large, flat ledge, then up and over to another ledge at the base of the route. This ledge was big enough to not worry about falling off, but there was a risk of the belayer getting pulled off if the leader fell before placing any gear. We all wore helmets and were very safety focused. The ledge was 40 feet above the trail. We built a three-piece gear anchor to secure the belayer (me), and our other friend sat untethered on the large ledge below and left. Gallwas Crack looked challenging, with slippery rock, but my climbing partner had led higher-rated climbs at similar areas, so I thought it would be possible, though perhaps at his limit. There appeared to be plentiful gear placements. He racked up and we did thorough safety checks. He got up a short fourth-class ramp to a secure stance and put in a No. 0.5 Camalot, clipped with an alpine draw. He climbed to where his feet were level with the first cam and placed another, then climbed to where the second cam was at his waist and placed a third cam. When the third cam was at his waist, he paused to figure out the move, then yelled, “Take! Take! Take!” I pulled in a couple of arm lengths of slack as fast as I could. The rope started becoming taut just before he fell, but it never became completely tight during the fall. I did not get pulled toward the wall as one would expect. The highest (third) piece pulled immediately, and he continued falling. The second piece also pulled as he rotated backward and began falling headfirst. The first piece caught him. I don’t remember being pulled by the rope despite the fact that he fell 30 feet total, past the ledge, and ended hanging upside down, about 30 feet above the trail. He was not moving. Our other friend yelled, “He’s bleeding out of his right ear.” I can't recall the sequence, but someone yelled to ask if they should call 911. I asked our other friend to attend, since he had emergency medical training. I slowly lowered my partner as he was pulled over to the large ledge. As I was lowering, his body shook for a few seconds. On the flat ledge, he had a pulse and breathing was heavy. I called 911 at 10:56 a.m. and learned that someone else had already called in. I clipped my climbing partner into the anchor so I could be freed up to help. I held his head, and he’d periodically sit up and moan, then lie back. We tried to keep him down, and he would tell us to stop touching him. A woman with emergency medical training came over and did a good job helping us all stay calm. She confirmed that my climbing partner could respond to his name, by turning his head. A helicopter arrived, lowering a paramedic with a radio and litter, who assessed his condition. The paramedic tried to place a neck brace, but my climbing partner refused it. When we got the brace on, he immediately took it off. Eventually, he was put on a litter and flown to a trauma center. It was less than an hour after he’d started the climb. One of the pieces that pulled was a No. 3... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/10/the-prescriptionground-fall

Joanne Urioste is a powerhouse in Red Rocks climbing history, and we had her on the podcast to share stories from her recently published memoir, “Collages of Rock & Desire.” Her book is a detailed catalogue of the climbing legacy she shares with her husband George Urioste, including the creation of iconic multi pitch climbs like Epinephrine, Levitation 29, A Dream of Wild Turkeys, and many others. The book is also a detailed account of gear innovations and changing climbing ethics through the ‘70s and 80’s—from swami belts and belay plates, to early adoption of nuts and frontpointing on ice, and adding a run-out bolt here and there to connect discontinuous cracks and make many climbs possible on Red Rocks soaring faces. In the interview, we dive into all of this, plus Joanne and George’s wild love story, managing fear on lead, and climbing as a metaphor for life. You can find a copy of Joanne Urioste's book on Amazon. Buy Joanne Urioste’s Book Watch the Legacy Series Film about George and Joanne Urioste https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/1/22/tales-from-red-rocks-risk-mistress-joanne-urioste

Rappelling is one of the most accident-prone facets of climbing, with improper/incomplete setup being an all-too-common cause of misadventure. In the 2025 ANAC, we featured an accident that involved a rappel fatality from a difficult ice/mixed route in the Canadian Rockies. Steep, multi-pitch winter climbing combines a challenging environment with the technical complexities of big-wall climbing. Gloved hands, copious gear, and often-cumbersome clothing can impede the usual streamlined rappel setup and safety checks. As John Godino mentioned in his 2025 ANAC Know the Ropes feature, the stacked rappel can help ameliorate these issues by promoting “More efficient rappels with reduced risk—what’s not to like?”   At the end of 2024, a very experienced climber named Dave Peabody (48) fell to his death while rappelling from a route on the Stanley Headwall. Alik Berg was Peabody’s partner on that day. Berg wrote to ANAC: Dave and I had been regular climbing partners for about 12 years, with many seasons of winter, alpine, and rock climbing. On December 26, we headed to the Stanley Headwall to climb Drama Queen (170m, WI6 M7). This was a fairly routine climbing day for us. That morning, we saw teams on the neighboring climbs French Reality and Dawn of the Dead. We topped out at dusk (around 5 p.m.) and began rappelling by headlamp. We both used an ATC-Guide on our belay loops and a prusik backup on our leg loops. The last pitch (P4) was the steepest, and we climbed on a single rope (blue) with the second rope (red) as a tag line. The pitch was short enough to be rappelled with the blue rope, while we left red fixed at the beginning of the pitch to pull ourselves back into the anchor atop P3.  This awkward rappel was partly free hanging, and pulling back into the belay required care to not disturb a large, dripping ice dagger. Dave descended first. I soon joined him. He had already begun setting up the next rappel, threading the red rope through the anchor and joining the two ropes with a single flat overhand knot. The P3 anchor is a pair of modern bolts with Fixe rap rings. There was enough space on the small ice ledge to not be crowded, and we busied ourselves with the routine tasks of rigging the next rappel. I pulled the blue rope, verbally confirming with Dave that the joining knot was in place before making the final tug and pulling up the tail to add a stopper knot. We tied an additional stopper knot in the red rope before tossing it off. We noted a bit of a tangle in the red rope that we’d deal with on the way down. Dave readied himself to start the rappel. I was distracted with untangling and tossing the remaining rope from the ledge and did not directly observe his connection to the ropes. He started the rappel, moving normally. As Dave descended, my gaze at that moment was on the overhand knot joining the rope ends. I sensed something was off but couldn’t register what it was. At this point, Dave fell. The interval between sensing something was amiss to when Dave started falling was very short, maybe one to two seconds or fewer. There was enough time to register this thought but not enough to assess, let alone react. I believe he was about five to 10 meters below the anchor when he fell—not when he first stepped off the ledge and weighted the system. In the immediate aftermath, I became fixated on something being “off” with the knot and that being the likely point of failure. It wasn’t until reaching the ground the next morning that it became clear that the knot was not the cause of the accident. When Dave fell, I reacted by grabbing the free-running (red) rope and squeezing hard enough to melt my gloves and burn my fingers, but not enough to slow his fall. In the darkness, I could not see him at the base, only the faint glow of his headlamp. It was about 6 p.m. The team on French Reality had already left the area. The party on Dawn of the Dead had descended, traversed the base of the wall, and were around the corner and out of earshot. About 15 minutes after the accident, their headlamps reappeared as they looped back into view near valley bottom—about one kilometer northwest of my location. I was able to yell down, and they turned around. At 6:45 p.m., they reached the base, and we could communicate properly. It was then that they realized the severity of the situation and activated their inReach.  Dave and I had both carried a cell ... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/1/20/the-prescriptionthe-stacked-rappel

Most climbers journeying to Baffin Island in Canada head to the Weasel River Valley in Auyuittuq National Park, home to the world-famous walls of Mt. Asgard and Mt. Thor, among many others. Yet despite more than 50 years of climbing history in this area, there’s still enormous potential just outside the main valley. In April 2025, an ambitious and creative British team explored the glacier systems east of the Weasel River, finding numerous unclimbed peaks and walls. In April 2025, a four-person team made up of Leanne Dyke, James Hoyes, Ben James, and I flew into the settlement of Pangnirtung. Our hope was to use spring snow cover to ski the length of the mountains to the east of the Weasel River Valley, ascending unclimbed peaks along the way. However, on April 7, strong winds and lack of sea ice prevented us from accessing our planned snowmobile drop-off in Kingnait Fjord (the next fjord east of Pangnirtung Fjord). After this false start, we changed plans and were dropped on April 10 just below Summit Lake at the head of the Weasel River Valley. We had hoped to ski straight up onto the Nerutusôq Glacier, to the southeast of Summit Lake’s outlet, but a lack of snow meant we spent three exhausting days portaging our sleds, food, and equipment up onto the glacier. We made camp three kilometers southwest of Mt. Bilbo (1,842m). From this camp, we made two first ascents. On April 14, we climbed the east slopes to the south ridge of a 1,823-meter peak we named Uppijjuaq. The next day, we made the first ascent of Minas Tirith (1,950m) via its three-kilometer west ridge (PD-), passing tricky steps and steeper granite cracks to an impressive summit tower. We then skied south onto the Fork Beard Glacier, making two more first ascents, the southwest rib of Aqviq (1,860m) and the west face of Inutuaq (1,637m), as well as a failed attempt on a third peak. Next, we headed south on the Fork Beard Glacier, hoping to find a pass at the top of the Turnweather Glacier that would connect us to the Gateway Glaciers to the south, but after two days of searching, no feasible route was found. Fortunately, this unnamed valley had never been visited by climbers, to the best of our knowledge, and we went on to make three more first ascents: the south face of Ukaliq (1,532m), west to north ridge of Uvingajuq (1,615m), and the south slopes of Atangiijuq (1,600m). With so many of the peaks in this area of Baffin given Norse or English names, our team thought it would be nice to instead use the Inuit language to name most of the first ascents. Traditionally, the local population gives names for what the peak looks like or what they see in the local area, and we followed this method. For example, Uppijjuaq means “snowy owl,” Aqviq is “humpback whale,” and Uvingajuq means “diagonal,” after the distinctive ramp we climbed. To end our trip, we skied four days to exit the mountains: first to the west via the branch of the Fork Beard Glacier flowing south of Tirokwa Peak, then south along the frozen Weasel River, and finally to the sea ice in Pangnirtung Fjord. We returned to Pangnirtung village on April 30, having completed seven likely first ascents and skied around 150 kilometers. The weather was surprisingly stable, with many blue-sky days, and although temperatures at the start of the trip dropped to -30°C, it quickly warmed to a comfortable -10°C. The eastern portions of the Nerutusoq and Fork Beard glaciers still have potential for future teams. Accessing this area in summer would be a long journey, but using the spring snow opens up the area. [This mostly British team received support from the Mount Everest Foundation; their extensive trip report can be downloaded here.] —Tom Harding, United Kingdom The 2026 AAJ will publish four more reports from Baffin Island, in addition to the one shared above. We plan to wrap up the Canada section of the book in early February. If you or a friend climbed a long new route anywhere in Canada in 2025, and you aren’t already in contact with an AAJ editor, we’d love to hear about it no later than January 31. Reach us at https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/1/12/the-lineunclimbed-baffin

You did it! Thanks to the generosity of our community, the American Alpine Club is starting 2026 on a strong note. Together, we’re protecting climbing’s future — one gift, one climb, one community at a time. The American Alpine Club made a real, measurable impact on the climbing community. Every one of these wins reflects your belief in the power of this community and your commitment to the AAC. Your generosity is what makes the AAC not just an organization—but a movement built by climbers, for climbers. In 2026, the American Alpine Club plans to continue providing these unique benefits to the climbing community, as well as deepening the quality of our resources for climbers. This includes: Thank you so much for your contribution to the AAC. Your gift enables us to continue delivering critical resources to climbers and fuels the evolution of this shared passion. We’re excited to continue delivering these invaluable resources and look forward to the next chapter.  Thank you for tying in with us. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/18/2025-year-end-appeal

In the 90s, Dave Hume was one of the Red River Gorge's original kid crushers. After climbing became a family hobby, Dave Hume got obsessed—and left his own mark on the sport. In this episode, we talk about what it was like being one of the original Lode Bros, bringing 5.14 to the Red with his ascent of Thanatopsis in 1996, and the one time he beat Chris Sharma in a competition. He shares the story of how his dad and brother bolted the infamous Breakfast Burrito, one of the Red’s most classic 5.10s, and the sense of discovery of finding new crags like Drive By and Bob Marley. Plus, we cover the early evolution of the Red from trad to sport climbing, reminisce about Miguel’s before they sold pizza, and how Dave repeated Just Do It, the U.S.’s first 14c, in an insulting few tries. Dive in to hear some fun stories from this Red River Gorge local hero. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/19/local-hero-dave-hume-on-bringing-514-to-the-red-in-the-90s

Saudi Arabia is nearly ten times the size of Utah, and most of it is desert. Like Southern Utah, the terrain is riven with sandstone canyons and towers, nearly all of them unclimbed. Last January and February, a German trio did a three-week, 4,600-kilometer loop around the desert kingdom, exploring the traditional-climbing potential. So, how did their expedition turn out? It was a mixed bag.… Excited and somewhat stressed, we plunged into the crazy traffic of the seven million–strong metropolis of Riyadh in our rental car. Excited because a journey into the unknown lay ahead: a search for climbs in a country that has only been open to Western tourism since mid-2019. And stressed because only five of our six pieces of luggage had arrived. With a day to kill, Michael “Michi” Bänsch, Daniel Hahn, and I first shopped for supplies, then drove out of the metropolis toward the Edge of the World, a rocky escarpment northwest of Riyadh. The traffic was terrible; one construction site followed another. The entire country is being dug up; money seems endless. Due to the construction work, neither Edge of the World nor the stunning sandstone tower of Faisal’s Finger were accessible. But at least we spent a nice first night in the desert, giving us some relief and preparing us for the coming weeks. The next day, January 20, our last piece of luggage arrived. We took a deep breath and set off toward Wadi Al Disah, 1,300 kilometers to the northwest, fairly near the Red Sea. Settlements were very sporadic, and the closer we got to the Hejaz Mountains, the more fascinating the landscape became. When we entered Wadi Al Disah, our jaws dropped: endless sandstone cliffs, magnificent scenery, and potential for generations of adventurers. Atir Tower, the valley’s landmark, glowed in the evening light. After finding a place to sleep and cook dinner, we went swimming—yes, swimming! A stream flows through the wadi, providing gloriously green vegetation and offering us a welcome cool-off every evening. The next morning, we headed straight to the Atir, a 350-meter tower and one of the few Saudi formations with documented routes. It was climbed by a chimney route on the east side in 2013, by a party including Donald Poe, a U.S. oil engineer and Saudi Arabia resident. In 2020, a group led by Leo Houlding from the U.K. found a new line on the west face and named it Astro Arabia (5.11). We climbed the original route (UIAA V or about 5.7), hoping to encounter rock roughly akin to the well-known Wadi Rum in Jordan, about 230 kilometers to the north. In fact, the rock turned out to be quite brittle and dirty. But what a summit! Over the next few days, we searched for more climbable rock, which was harder than expected: There are endless formations, but upon closer inspection, many turned out to be too difficult, too fragile, or both. The fact that we did not have a drill or bolts didn’t make it any easier. But we soon made the first ascent of a beautiful tower (which had obviously been climbed by locals up to its forepeak), right at the valley entrance. We called it Burg (“Castle”) and the route Uralter Weg (“Ancient Path,” 80m, VI/5.10-). Further into the valley, another peak tempted us, perhaps 100 meters high and with what appeared to be a climbable route. Soon after we started climbing, however, we heard strange noises from below. The SFES (Special Forces Environmental Safety) rangers had spotted us and were ordering us back down. After a lengthy but quite friendly discussion, we were surprised to learn that climbing is prohibited in the entire Wadi Al Disah.  We detoured to a nearby canyon just to the north, Wadi Tarban (or Tourpan), where we climbed Gemini Tower (130m, 4 pitches, V+) and Porcelain Tower (scrambling plus 25m, VI), before being informed by friendly locals that climbing was not allowed there either. So, we left the Wadi Al Disah area earlier than planned and continued to Bajdah, a small town farther north, near the city of Tabuk, where we had been told climbing is officially permitted. Here, a completely different landscape awaited us: an open plain from which countless rocks rise, some enormous massifs, some picturesque needles. It may be hard to imagine, but deciding where to start in a sea of rock is truly challenging. But we soon found some nice objectives, including a two-pitch needle that we named Stoneman, climbed by a new route called Triumph des Willens (“Willpower,” ca 100m, VII-/5.10). We also reached all five summits of a formation we named Felsenbrüder (“Brothers of Stone”), about 150 meters high, by ... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/16/the-linedesert-towers-in-saudi-arabia

If you’re an AAC member at the Partner, Leader, Advocate, or Great Ranges Fellowship level, then you have access to the AAC’s rescue benefit. Make sure you know how to initiate a rescue—before you find yourself in that kind of situation. We know that a lot of our members put their trust into Garmin products* as a backup for when a cell phone isn’t reliable. Here’s how to prepare your Garmin device to contact Redpoint Travel Protection in the case of an emergency away from home: *Did you know that AAC members receive 20% off Garmin products through ExpertVoice? Sign up for your account today at expertvoice.com/group/aac to start shopping with hundreds of brands. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/6/know-before-you-gocalling-for-a-rescue

This month, we feature an accident that occurred in 2025 on Mt. Baker’s Squak Glacier, on the peak’s southern facet. On May 23, Daton Nestlebush fell into a crevasse while on a snowboard descent. His partner Manny Pacheco, travelling on skis, effected a rapid rescue. Pacheco captured a rare POV video of this successful 1:1 partner crevasse rescue and later posted it on Instagram (@pmannyy). Below, we feature this remarkable video, along with a blow-by-blow analysis by IFMGA guide Jason Antin.   On May 23 at 3 a.m., my longtime friend Daton Nestlebush (26) and I, Manny Pacheco (27), set out to ski Mt. Baker via the Squak Glacier route. I’m experienced in ski mountaineering and crevasse rescue, and I hold an AIARE 1 avalanche-training certification. Daton had limited experience in high-alpine terrain—this was his first time on a glacier attempting to summit a Cascade volcano. Earlier, our team had thinned from four members down to two. I took the risk of glacier travel with an inexperienced partner because of my familiarity with the route. We reached the toe of the Squak Glacier at  5:15 a.m. and put on harnesses. I taught Daton how to bury a picket and fix a rope to it—the minimum self-rescue skill one needs if one falls into a crevasse and is still conscious. We reached the top by noon (my seventh Mt. Baker summit). We then transitioned into descent mode and made our way down to the Squak Glacier, skiing 500-foot pitches while taking turns watching each other. At 1:15 p.m., at 7,950 feet, I stopped abruptly when I saw large crevasses 100 feet ahead. I radioed Daton, still above me, to traverse to skier’s right and keep a high line. He passed, and we both started a 300-foot descending traverse to bypass hazardous convex terrain. As I followed, Daton collapsed a thin snow bridge and dropped into a crevasse. He raised his arms into a “T” shape, catching himself between the uphill and downhill crevasse lips. His snowboard tip caught an ice chunk four feet below the surface. Only his arms and head were visible. My most pressing goal was to anchor Daton. I immediately redirected uphill and crossed another small crevasse. I stationed myself 20 feet uphill, using my pole to probe. I told Daton not to move and that I’d throw him a rope in 60 seconds. “You’re going to be okay,” I reassured him.  He was holding himself strenuously by his arms above the crevasse, which we later estimated to be 60 feet deep. He said, “Can you make that 45 seconds?”   Fortunately, the late-spring snow was perfect, and I made a trench and buried a picket in a deadman position, stomped it one foot deep, and backfilled the trench. I clipped the picket and tied another figure eight on a bight 20 feet from the anchor and threw it to Daton. My split-second decision to use the eight was based on urgency. Daton was able to grab the large loop—he later said this was critical to his survival.  I knew the clock was ticking but stayed methodical. Daton grabbed the figure-eight loop with his right hand. As he let go of the uphill lip to clip, he dropped a couple feet, fully weighting the system. At the same time, I attached myself to the rope as a secondary anchor. This all felt like ten minutes but, in reality, it was probably more like 30 seconds.   I wanted Daton to pull himself over the lip, but after his head dropped below the surface, this was no longer possible. I began setting up a haul system by burying my ice axe in a deadman, connecting it to the picket, and creating a master point. I took myself out of the system and reconnected with an extended prusik. The weight transfer lowered Daton another few inches; his head was now five feet under the surface.  Although this stage was less time-sensitive, I was still concerned about “Harness Hang Syndrome”—suspension trauma in which the victim loses consciousness due to lack of blood circulation. I began to rig a 3:1 haul system. I threw a rope end down to Daton, and he clipped it onto his belay loop. Although I was unable to “prepare the lip” with a pole/axe underneath the loaded rope due to the probability of a secondary crevasse, I figured we could problem-solve for this once his head was above the surface. I placed a Micro Traxion on the master point and a prusik on the load line. I clipped the redirected load line onto my belay loop and told Daton to expect to be raised. After double-checking the system, I bear-crawled uphill until the prusik had to be reset. A 3:1 system with friction meant I was pul... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/10/the-prescriptioncrevasse-fall

We are sad to share that beloved AAC community member Charles (Chuck) Fleischman passed away in November of 2025. Chuck was a devoted member of the AAC board of directors from 2013 to 2019, and was truly a person who lived out loud.  Chuck was a Harvard graduate who cofounded Digene Corporation, a molecular diagnostics company. Chuck’s work with Digene, as President, CFO, and director, resulted in the first FDA-approved test to detect high-risk HPV before it caused cervical cancer.  When he semi-retired, he threw himself into supporting other meaningful work, including his board term at the AAC. With Jackson Hole as their home, Chuck and his wife Lisa wanted to make a difference in their community. So their first step, beyond membership, was giving back to the local AAC community by supporting the introduction of solar panels on Cabin 2 at the AAC’s Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch.   As an AAC board member, Chuck was the kind to always be outspoken and always push for greatness. He was very mission driven, always pursued excellence, and held the AAC to those same standards. Phil Powers, past AAC Executive Director, remembers his tough questions, but offered always with an upbeat demeanor, as well as a gregarious laugh.   Chuck’s commitment to the AAC was grounded in his love of the mountains and wilderness. He would ski as many days as the weather gods would allow, including more than 80 days each season, even as he was fighting off cancer. He regularly went on big ski adventures with partners like Jimmy Chin and Kit DeLauriers. Chuck was also a river rat and a committed climber, having summited El Cap, gone on expedition to K2, and floated the Grand Canyon many times.  Chuck lived larger than life, and his impact on the AAC will be felt for years to come. Our thoughts are with Chuck’s family as they process his passing.  “Chuck has been a career mentor but also a climbing and adventure mentor for me. He taught me not only about how to be a professional, and how to take my experience with being on the board of the Bay Area Climbers Coalition and build it into my role as an AAC board member, but he also taught me how to look for big objectives in the mountains. Being on the AAC BOD was probably the biggest summit I could have tried to climb. But he also inspired me to pursue Shasta, Whitney, and other big objectives. It was all directly a benefit of his mentorship.” —Jen Bruursema, former AAC board member “If I was going on a hike with Chuck, I knew it was going to be A) a great day, and B) there were going to be some hard questions to tackle along the way. I knew it meant he really just cared about the Club. He wasn’t going to let a day go by without pushing us forward.” —Phil Powers, former Executive Director of the American Alpine Club https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/10/a-tribute-to-chuck-fleischman

Fuller, Miss Fay Peary, Mrs. Robert E. Peck, Miss Annie S.A.M. Workman, Mrs. Fanny Bullock, F.R.S.G.S. Their names were written in ink, part of the list of founding members of the American Alpine Club in the AAC bylaws and register book. These four women answered Angelo Heliprins' call to establish an “Alpine Society.” The American Alpine Club was established in 1902, but would not get its name until 1905. The founding members determined that dues were to be five dollars a year, about $186.90 in today's money. This early version of the Club was interested in projecting a reputation of mountain expertise: members had to apply for membership with a resume of mountain climbing or an explorational expedition they had participated in. Those without a sufficiently impressive resume would not be accepted as members. All the founders had lists of their ascents and exploratory expeditions underneath their names to drive the point home that this was a club of high mountain achievers. It was no small feat that these women were invited to participate in founding an alpine club at the turn of the 20th century. After all, women weren’t allowed in the British Alpine Club until 1974, forcing women to create their own alpine or climbing clubs. But Fay Fuller, Josephine Peary, Annie Peck, and Fanny Bullock Workman were forces to be reckoned with, each in their own way. They helped steer the American Alpine Club from its beginnings and pushed boundaries in mountain climbing and Arctic exploration, all well before the 19th Amendment, ratified in 1920, gave women the right to vote. Each year, their new accomplishments were published in the bylaws and register book under their name, and some were even invited to speak during the AAC Annual Gathering about their expeditions. Ultimately, these four women are foremothers to American climbing and exploration. Their stories are shaped by their historical context, but the meaning of their mountain achievements is timeless. Miss Edwina Fay Fuller was the first woman to summit Mt. Rainier in 1890. Fuller also climbed other glaciated peaks in the Cascades: Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, Mt. Pitt (now Mt. McLoughlin, which still had a glacier until the early 20th century), and Sahale Mountain. She was described as self-reliant and dogged. Fay Fuller’s ascent of Rainier nearly ostracized her from Tacoma society—not because she was mountaineering but because of what she wore and who she traveled with. Her party of five, all men except for her—scandalous for the time—woke up on August 10, 1890, at half past four and began their arduous journey toward the summit. In a 1950 feature article about Fuller in Tacoma’s newspaper, The News Tribune, she said, “I was very nearly ostracized in Tacoma because of that trip—a lone woman and four men climbing a mountain, and in that immodest costume.” Her “immodest costume,” an ankle-length bloomer suit covered with a long coatdress, was made of thick blue flannel. She also covered her face in charcoal and cream to prevent a sunburn (unfortunately, it didn’t work). Fuller was determined to reach the summit on this attempt, her second up Mt. Tahoma or Tacoma, now Mt. Rainier. Fuller and her group climbed the Gibraltar Ledges, a Grade II Alpine Ice 1/2 with moderate snow climbing and significant rockfall hazard. Today, the most popular route on Rainier is Disappointment Cleaver, a mix of snowfields, steep switchbacks, and crevassed glaciers, but no technical climbing. Fuller and her team navigated the difficult and exposed terrain of there route with little prior experience and with gear we wouldn’t dare use today, successfully summiting Rainier. Len Longmire, their guide—though he had never been to the summit—recalled that one of the group members offered Fuller a hand at an especially dangerous place. “No thanks,” she replied, “I want to get up there under my own power or not at all.” That night, under the stars, the team slept in one of many craters on the stratovolcano, listening to avalanches raging down the mountain. The team continued down safely the next morning, leaving a sardine can containing their names, a tin cup, and a flask filled with brandy as proof of their adventure. Fuller went on to summit the mountain once more with the Mazamas in 1894. Her asc... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/5/guidebook-xvilibrary-feature

Russ Clune is a climbing lifer. He came up climbing at the Gunks, traveled around the world to climb with friends and legends like Wolfgang Gullich, and would help establish the iconic Gunks 5.13 Vandals, alongside Jeff Gruenberg, Lynn Hill, and Hugh Herr. He also shares about sending Mantronix, his hardest climb ever, “back when 5.14 was hard.” These days, he’s a keeper of stories from the Gunks and across the world, and has a running record of Gunks climbing history in his head. On this episode, we meander through stories from Russ’s many climbing travels, explore Gunks toproping ethics and the often forgotten tactic of yo-yo climbing, and set the record straight on some of the most iconic cutting edge Gunks ascents from the 70s and 80s. If you believe conversations like this matter, a donation to the AAC helps us continue sharing stories, insights, and education for the entire climbing community. Donate today! Get Russ Clune’s Book Learn More About Gunks History https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/12/4/setting-the-climbing-record-straight-with-gunks-legend-russ-clune

https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/2/4/guidebook-xiiigrant-spotlight-5rj4d

Luis Contreras is breathing steadily, forcefully, with intention. He is 15 feet off the deck, and has 20 more feet of textured edges, sidepulls, and huecos to top out Wyoming Cowgirls, a 35-foot V5 on Hueco Tanks’ North Mountain that has recently been reopened. A few pads sit lonely in the rocks below. Each of his precise foot placements and composed breaths are indicators of the stakes, and they reflect the time this climber put into top-rope rehearsing such a consequential highball. His movements are linked in chains of powerful bursts punctuated by rests. A certain barely observable shaking reverberates from his core into his limbs, but his breaths and the wind are the song he is dancing to—the shaking and the fear squashed down. For Contreras, “the best climbs are the ones that even if you’re not a climber you walk by and you say, 'Wow that’s a sick climb...' I [am] drawn to these striking tall faces.” Wyoming Cowgirls had always been one of those climbs. Contreras tops out quietly, his focus unwavering until he is fully over the rounded slab of this immense boulder, where he sits. No whoops, no cheers. Just a private adrenaline high coursing through his veins. Instead of celebration, he gazes out to the brush-filled desert beyond. How do you understand the essence of a place? There are of course the facts and figures, the ecology and topography of the terrain, but there are also the traditions and rituals and history of the people who move across it. Such entanglements are why some might say that “the climbing community” (singular) is a misnomer. Our landscapes too-specifically shape us. For example, Rifle is the land of lifers. That tight canyon, with its near-instant access to climbing seconds from the car, allows for kids splashing in the stream, craggers at Project Wall rubbernecking as you drive by, and the daily parking shuffle as you move from crag to crag. Ten Sleep is Adult Summer Camp: Given the long journey required to get there and its minimal infrastructure, the place welcomes tech bros and remote workers to set up shop for a month or the whole summer, with scheduled camp activities limited to river time, brewery time, or climbing time. As a final example, the Red River Gorge is never never land, where a dirtbag might never grow up. Climbing cultures, like any culture, are a mixture of language, beliefs, rituals, norms, legends, and ethics that are largely shared by a community and emerge from the interaction of that community with their landscape. Hueco’s iconic roofs, abundant kneebars, airy highballs, deep bouldering history, importance to Indigenous cultures like the Tigua Indians of Ysleta del Sur, and fragile and rare ecosystem shape its climbers too, on an individual level and at scale. Bouldering in Hueco is an intimate affair. With guides required to access most of the climbing, and groups capped at ten people, “most people know most people, and if you don’t know them it’s only a matter of time,” says Luis Contreras, who is a Hueco guide of a decade and El Paso born and raised. Most climbers at Hueco fall into one of four groups: the El Paso “city” climbers, the lifers who own property right outside Hueco Tanks State Park, the seasonal dirtbags who migrate every winter, and the out-of-town visitors who pilgrimage there (often yearly) when they can scrabble together some PTO. Even the visitors become known entities—once you have a guide you trust, why not come back to climb with them again and again? You’ll likely find who you’re looking for at one of three community hubs: the Iron Gnome, the AAC’s Hueco Rock Ranch, or the Mountain Hut. Within such a small community, a run-in with an old head or unique character is considered commonplace. You might chat with Lynn Hill over beers at the Iron Gnome, or spot Jason Kehl out in the distance developing a new line. You’ll likely wave at Sid Roberts as he leaves the park from his early-morning session, or even share a laugh with the colorful John Sherman—the originator of the V-Scale. But no matter what kind of Hueco climber you are, climbing at Hueco feels deeply entangled—it requires a self-consciousness of landscape, access, and ethics that doesn’t just fall away when you throw down your pads and pull onto rock. But that’s not a downside for locals like Luis Contreras and Joey McDaniel. That’s... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/5/guidebook-xvilodging-feature

You’re in the thick of it. An accident just happened while you were out climbing, and now you have to decide: do I self-rescue, or do I call for outside help? In this episode of the podcast, we dive into that moment of decision, and provide a series of questions that you can use as a matrix to help you decide what to do next. Our guests, Accidents Editor Pete Takeda, and IFMGA/AMGA Guide and Search and Rescue volunteer, Jason Antin, weigh in. Pete reflects on accident reports from ANAC where individuals have self-rescued, called SAR, or had to do a little of both. We break down a few of these case studies to explore what circumstances caused the accident victims to make the decisions they did to initiate rescue. Then, Jason shares what happens behind the scenes when you call Search and Rescue for help, and how self-rescue techniques can supplement a SAR team’s mission and help SAR get to an injured party faster. Dive in to help prepare yourself, in case you ever find yourself in the thick of it. If you believe conversations like this matter, a donation to the AAC helps us continue sharing stories, insights, and education for the entire climbing community. Donate today! Use Jason Antin’s Guiding Services Explore the Archives: Accidents in North American Climbing Become A Member to Get Accidents in North American Climbing Annually https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/20/stay-frosty-the-rescue-matrix-with-pete-takeda-and-jason-antin

Three teams will be honored with Piolets d’Or in Italy this December, and all three contributed feature articles about their climbs to the 2025 American Alpine Journal (AAJ). Tom Livingstone wrote about his and Aleš Česen’s new route on Gasherbrum III in Pakistan; Dane Steadman described the first ascent of Yashkuk Sar, also in Pakistan, with August Franzen and Cody Winckler; and Spencer Gray told the story of climbing the southwest arête of Kaqur Kangri in Nepal with Ryan Griffiths. There’s a lot to love about Spencer’s AAJ piece —it documents an amazing ascent. But we were also struck by the final passage, in which he reflects on the inherent and sometimes insidious risks of Himalayan alpinism. No one got hurt on the climb of 6,859-meter Kaqur Kangri, but afterward Spencer tallied 20-plus minor incidents that each could have ended very badly. Honest self-assessments like this are essential to a long life in the mountains, so we’ve shared Spencer’s thoughts here for readers to consider in light of their own climbing. Objectives like the southwest arête of Kaqur Kangri used to be what most climbing was: trying something kind of hard, an inconvenient distance from home, and relying on imagination as much as effort to turn a thing dreamt into a thing done. There are still plenty of places to contrive that same experience. We just have to look harder—and be willing to court risk in an unpredictable operating environment.  Our team didn’t have what we’d consider a close call, but in debriefing, I still counted 23 discrete times when the risk ticked up. A mule nearly broke my knee with a kick when I tried to bring it into camp one morning. On our first day of climbing, we hustled up a ramp that was probably at the outside edge of the ricochet zone of the upper serac band. Two days later, Ryan [Griffiths] and I both simultaneously realized that we were pushing our unroped luck on low-angle but hard-frozen talus above the west face. “If we slip here, it’s to the bottom, eh?” I said. Of four minor rockfall incidents, we mitigated two by our choice of protected belays and bivvies. Another was friendly fire: On rappel, I chucked a baseball-sized rock so the ropes wouldn’t dislodge it. But I misaimed, and the rock bounced down the snow slope and nailed Ryan in the shoulder. I reasoned that Ryan had probably done something in a prior life to deserve getting punched in the clavicle. He was less sure. On day three, below the snowfield, we pulled through suspended, stacked blocks in a roof that would have chopped the rope had they dislodged. On the upper headwall, my ice tool tethers got tangled behind a cam after I had campused out a diagonal rail. I couldn’t reverse the move, and I couldn’t continue until I had unthreaded the tools. Half growling, half screaming, I locked off on one arm, frontpoints screeching, and freed myself. When he followed, Ryan simply lowered out and jugged.  On the descent, Ryan and I had probably our riskiest moment when we crossed a 40-foot-wide wind slab partway down the upper northwest face. It appeared suddenly, a shallow pocket of cross-loaded danger in an otherwise stable snowpack. The tension on the slope and the soft, hollow thump as our boots and ice tools pressed through the snow put us both on edge. But with no other signs of failure or propagation, and a morning of downclimbing a similar aspect and angle above us, we each judged it safe enough to proceed. An hour before we regained the base of the mountain, fed up with navigating the messy corners of the final glacier, we briefly but obtusely committed to soloing steep glacial ice, embedded with crushed pebbles, as we traversed 15 feet above the bottom of a closed crevasse. We were spurred on by our friend Matt’s tiny light in the distance and the promise of fresh Snickers. Perhaps a week on the mountain and the tedious descent had dulled our nose for risk.  Three days later, we stopped at Chyargo La on the trek back out and took in our final view of Kaqur. I crouched beneath fluttering prayer flags to lounge against a rock, my fingers getting sticky pulling globs of gulab jamun out of a can we’d saved until now for a treat. Kaqur’s summit seracs glinted in the midday sun from what seemed like a very long ways away. Matt and Ryan laughed as I passed them the can for a shot of syrup to wash it all down. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/18/the-linereward

I move, therefore I am. I reminded myself of this throughout the journey to and from Arviqtujuq Kangiqtua, formerly known as Eglinton Fjord. Throughout our five-week, multi-sport, primarily human-powered expedition to Baffin Island, in the Canadian Arctic, Kelly Fields, Shira Biner, Natalie Afonina, and I continued to move. We skied over 100 miles across the sea ice in order to get there, and we slogged for another 100 miles over moraine fields, loose talus, sinking meadows, a frozen lake, and a partially frozen river to get out. Movement was our rule, our rhythm. And as a team of three women and a non-binary person, we were motivated to define this movement on our own terms. Kelly, Shira, Natalie, and I met for the first time in person at the Ottawa Airport en route to the Arctic. Only a few of us had tied in together before this trip. Prior to our real-life introduction, we spent months exchanging messages, photos, screenshots, videos, and group calls on WhatsApp. Now, past the logistical chaos of prep for this expedition, we still had a lot of learning to do about each other. I’m lucky in that I know an abundance of female, non-binary, and queer people who are incredible climbing partners. I prefer to rope up with them because of my ongoing struggles with self-confidence and self-trust that I learned in the shadow of my male climbing partners. Here was an opportunity to move toward my goals and the style of climbing that most inspires me, alongside a group of people who uplift one another. When we received our first grant—the McNeill-Nott Award from the American Alpine Club—I started to feel that other people believed in us, which gave me more belief in myself. Representation is important, and the organizations that supported us believed that too. It was coming together all too perfectly. I stared at the vast ice and seascape before me: Circles of white interrupted the piercing blue water that settled up to a foot deep in some places. We were leaving the bay in the small Inuit community of Clyde River. The gray sky let go of gentle snowflakes that melted on my sunglasses, making my surroundings appear as if I were looking out a window on a rainy day. “So...how thick is this ice?” I asked, my voice wavering. The last time I had put skis on was a number of years ago. On snow, on solid ground. However, I was soon submerged within and captivated by the ice’s symphony as we glided, heaved, soared over, walked, and trudged—depending on the conditions of the sea ice—over a hundred miles on a seascape that was constantly changing. Moving through that environment was dictated by the wind, temperature, snow, and our bodies’ needs. One moment, we would be trapped in a cloud, the snow absorbing the sound around us and sticking to our ski skins so thick that we had to take them off. Moments later, after turning a corner, the winds had blown the clouds and snow off the surface, and we found ourselves flying over the best ice conditions we had yet experienced. That landscape spoke to me, telling me that it, too, exists in states of movement and change. I often look to the natural world to find my own sense of belonging. Being a non-binary person often means that I don’t always find a type of belonging that is representative. I struggle in groups of men. In groups of women, I push back on the definitions and create an exclusionary space for myself. Asking for a non-binary category creates the exact thing I don’t want to exist within: a category. One day, I hope I can exist in a way that is outside the confines of man or woman—that I can exist as myself without needing to choose between explaining and educating, or quietly disrespecting myself. The thing about gender, being non-binary specifically, is that it’s simultaneously the most painful and most beautiful experience one can have. There is a deep gratitude in being the truest form of yourself; there is a wholeness in accepting one’s authenticity. It can also often be painful to a core level. My relationship with gender is like the Arctic wind: always present, sometimes gentle and caressing, other times a chaos that threatens to knock me down. I felt the spirits skiing into Arviqtujuq Kangiqtua. Finally, among those great walls, exhausted, hungry, sore, and cold, we debated where to set up our base camp and had a hard time getting anywhere productive with it. I remember feeling confused about how I could be in the greatest place I’ve ever stood, a place that made my soul feel so full, yet in conditions that m... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/4/guidebook-xvigrant-spotlight

This month we feature an accident that occurred in 2024 on Yosemite’s Manure Pile Buttress when a climber mistied a knot. You can reference this accident in this years Accidents in North American Climbing (page 46). The knot involved was bulky and involved multiple strands of webbing, brought together to tie a single anchor loop. The average climber only needs to know several simple knots but sometimes, even experts can get it wrong. This climber was lucky and escaped with minor injuries. On June 24, 2024 during the American Alpine Club’s United in Yosemite Climbing Festival, a climber led the first pitch of After Six (5.7). At the belay tree, they set up a lowering anchor using a knot on a quad-length sling with two locking carabiners. The climber weighted the rope and lowered. He cleaned the top piece of gear (a camming device). Below, a second cam proved too tight to remove so he unclipped it. The climber continued to lower. At the third piece from the top, the anchor knot failed. The climber fell 80 feet before the belayer caught his fall, when the climber was about five feet above the ground. The climber was lowered and SAR was called. His injuries included a sprained ankle, lacerations on the face, a broken nose, and rope burns on the hands and fingers.  A slipknot looks deceptively like other knots you'd use in a climbing anchor, but when you actually load it, it's not going to hold much at all. Pete Takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing, and IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin, are back to explain how a slipknot can have serious consequences when used in climbing anchors. Credits: Pete Takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing; IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin; Producers: Shane Johnson and Sierra McGivney; Videographer: Foster Denney; Editor: Sierra McGivney; Location: Accessibility Crag, Clear Creek, CO. The climber was fortunate that he had high protection that stopped him from hitting the ground when the anchor failed and lots of slack was introduced into the belay system. The anchor sling was found with an intact overhand knot. The belayer, who wishes to remain anonymous, wrote to ANAC: “We believe it was an attempted overhand knot but it was actually a slipknot.” The still-locked masterpoint carabiners were found clipped to the rope by the fallen climber.  *Editor’s Note: After analysis, it was determined that the climber had attempted to tie an overhand knot but failed to pull the two end strands completely through the knot. He then clipped the two locking carabiners through the unsecured loops. Since there were so many strands of webbing in the mix, it was hard to tell the difference between a fixed loop and a slip loop. When weighted, the slip loops had sufficient friction and compression to hold, if only momentarily, while the ends gradually crept toward release. (Sources: Anonymous and ANAC Canada Editor Robert Chisnall.) https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/12/the-prescription

At the AAC, we believe in the power of climbing to change lives. We are driven by the potential to support our members deeply, to use the AAC’s expertise and legacy to deliver resources that climbers can lean on, and that’s why we are so proud of this Impact Report. Each grant recipient we inspired, each lodging guest we launched into adventure, each climber who has learned how to climb a little more safely through our publications—this is what drives our work. How does it all break down? Here’s how we’ve met the needs of the AAC community this year. Donate today and support the AAC’s work. Just like putting in the work on your climbing project, or that long hike to an obscure alpine adventure, we all know that it takes dedication to progress in climbing. It is the dedication of donors and supporters like you that helps the AAC progress in our work—so thank you! https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/21/aacs-2025-impact-report