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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

In this episode of the podcast, we have adventure writer Owen Clarke on the pod to talk about rage bait, and how it’s showing up in climbing media and culture. Owen Clarke is a prolific writer, who regularly contributes to Summit Journal and Climbing.com, as well as many other media outlets. Recently, he covered rage bait for an article on Climbing.com, where he dove into a case study of the free soloist Lincoln Knowles. Rage bait is content that is intentionally created to elicit strong reactions from people—it’s trolling with intention, in order to drive clicks, comments, and other forms of engagement. Dive in to this episode to hear from this expert about why rage creates engagement, how shock-factor in traditional action sports media lends itself to evolving into rage bait, the unique elements of climbing rage bait, and why its specific to short-from media. Learn More About Owen Clarke Read More About Rage Bait in Climbing Culture https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/11/6/understanding-the-climbing-rage-bait-trend-with-owen-clarke

This event was supported by Vibram, Adidas FiveTen, and First Western Trust.  At this year's AAC Gala, the energy for celebrating climbing was unprecedented. Three hundred sixteen climbers from all over the country gathered in Denver, CO, including longtime members, athletes, awardees, and climbing legends. The night was filled with bold stories of climbing, community, and history. There was a thread connecting them all: the American Alpine Club. “The AAC is a people-first organization,” Nina Williams remarked in her opening speech. She noted that the AAC’s grants, lodging, events, advocacy, library and archives, volunteers, and membership all bring people together.  AAC Executive Director Ben Gabriel noted that climbing isn’t only about the summits we reach but the partnerships we build, and as the AAC looks towards the future, we are stronger together.  As one way to celebrate the richness of the people that make up the AAC, the 2025 awards were given out for accomplishments in climbing, advocacy, literacy, and volunteerism. French Groupe Militaire de Haute Montagne of Chamonix received the David A. Sowles Memorial Award. Other award winners included Michael Wejchert for the H. Adams Carter Literary Award, Brooke Raboutou for the Robert Hicks Bates Award, Rick Wilcox for the Angelo Heilprin Citation, and Outdoor Alliance for the David R. Brower Conservation Award. Later, Jack Tackle accepted the Honorary Membership award, and Kelly Cordes accepted the Pinnacle Award during their speeches.  Recipient of multiple AAC grants, AAC member Zach Clanton told the story of his most recent climb on the Southeast Face of The Trickster in Alaska, where he and Matt Kilgerman put up The Raven-Wolf Route (5.10 C2). It was the second ascent the mountain had seen. John Svenson had first climbed it 42 years ago. “This summer, we pulled off a 6,000-foot pure rock climb on a mountain with all the mysteries intact. This was high adventure at its finest,” said Clanton.  During this climb, Clanton felt connected to past generations of Alaskan adventurers like Svenson, an Alaskan artist and climber, whose art was included in the Gala auction. The climb inspired Clanton to connect to his artistic side. Clanton went on to reflect on how the Trickster ascent represented how all of those AAC grants over the years had literally changed his life’s trajectory. When former AAJ editor and Pinnacle Award winner Kelly Cordes took the stage, we learned he was a super fan of Jack Tackle when he was a young climber in the 90s. When Tackle visited Missoula, Montana, where Cordes was living at the time, Cordes went to hear him speak. After Tackle was done speaking, Cordes got the courage to go up to Tackle.  “Jack gave me the gift of his attention and his presence, and I came away feeling not that I can be him—we all know there’s only one Jack f***ing Tackle—but deeply inspired as a person beyond the super hero I thought he was and who I now know him to be,” said Cordes.  Cordes went on to describe his inspiration drawn from the AAJ—”it was, and it still is, like the Bible to me”—and his many adventures as an alpinist.  After all this talk about Jack Tackle, Tackle himself finally took to the stage and imposed wisdom on the room.  “The three tenets I came up with as my mantra for alpinism were first, commitment. Commitment to the goal, to yourself, and to your partners. Vision, the second one, was the ability to see what is possible and make a plan to achieve it. And the last was trust. Trust in yourself and trust in your partners,” said Tackle.  Much like the chatter around a campfire after a long day of climbing, this Gala was full of high energy, sharing stories and laughter. The celebration of our climbing history and the push to pave the way for the future of climbing were inspiring. With all the laughter and catching up with old friends, there was an undertone of passion—passion for what we want to see next, passion for the importance of storytelling, and passion for uplifting one another. When climbers come together through the AAC, we make an impact.  The money raised through the liv... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/23/the-2025-annual-benefit-gala-celebrating-the-climbing-life

The vast Nyanchen Tanglha (a.k.a. Nyainqentanglha) ranges in Tibet span more than 750 kilometers in an arc north of Lhasa—it’s one of the world’s great collections of unclimbed or seldom-climbed high peaks. In the first decade of the 2000s, the Japanese geographer and photographer Tamotsu Nakamura, an AAC honorary member, published a series of articles describing these mountains, including a three-part opus in AAJ 2003 on mountains “East of the Himalaya” (also the title of Nakamura’s landmark 2016 book), with enticing photos from the Nyanchen Tanglha East range. A bit of a gold rush followed, with various Western climbers snagging the first ascents of attractive summits in Nakamura’s photos. However, there are major logistical difficulties to climbing in this area, including road access and permits. The last AAJ articles about climbs in the Nyanchen Tanglha by Western climbers were published in 2017. Into the breach has stepped a cohort of Chinese alpinists who have rapidly gained experience and skill in their home mountains in recent years. Now ready to tackle more difficult and remote objectives, they have made many impressive ascents, aided in part by rapid development of road and rail networks in Tibet. Three climbs from late 2024 are highlighted below. These reports could not be completed in time for the 2025 AAJ, but these ascents and many more in Tibet will be described in detail in next year’s book. Many thanks to Xia Zhongming, who facilitates and writes AAJ reports from China— including these three—and has contributed greatly to the world’s knowledge of modern Chinese alpinism. In 2005, British climbers Mick Fowler and Chris Watts made the first ascent of Kajaqiao in the Nyanchen Tanghlha East mountains. Two years later, Fowler returned with fellow Brit Paul Ramsden to climb Manamcho, a spectacular, Matterhorn-like peak nearby, by the northwest ridge. In September 2024, Chinese alpinists Liu Junfu and Wang Shuai climbed Manamcho’s second route, up the southwest side of the 6,264-meter mountain, in one long day from high camp. To overcome a crux rock slab near the top, Liu tied a rope to one of his ice tools and threw it up the rock. After more than ten tries, the tool stuck and Liu was able to batman up the rope and surmount the slab, opening the way to the summit. See the full report. In the southwest section Nyanchen Tanglha East lies Nenang (6,870m), the highest of this range’s unclimbed peaks. Around 10 kilometers from Nenang to the west and east stand two spectacular mountains: Chuchepo (6,613m), west of Nenang, and Jiongmudazhi (6,590m) to the east. Both peaks were noted in AAJ 2007, but no known attempts were made on either peak until August 2024, when Tong Haijun and Wang Yongpeng from China climbed Chuchepo by a direttissima on the northeast face. On August 16, the two began their approach from the Niwu Valley to the north, establishing advanced base at 5,300 meters after an 11-hour day. From there they scoped a feasible line up the northeast face. The next day, the pair spent seven hours crossing the snow-covered, crevassed glacier before camping at 5,900 meters. On the 18th, the two left camp at 3 a.m., and after a difficult pitch to cross the bergschrund, they continued up easier terrain to reach 6,230 meters before sunrise. The major technical difficulties now followed. Wang led a pitch where the ice was too thin to place screws and the rock too compact for cams. Tong then climbed a very run-out pitch on snow-covered compact rock. After this, the snow became deeper and the difficulties eased. Wang made a final belay in deep snow a couple of meters below the summit ridge, and Tong then tunneled through the cornice and continued up left to the highest point. The 700-meter route was graded D+ M4 AI3 75°. See the full report. Less than a month after climbing Chuchepo, Tong Haijun and Wang Yongpeng returned to the area in September 2024 to attempt the first ascent of Jiongmudazhi (6,590m). Again, Tong and Wang approached from the north, via the Biyong Glacier, where they spent a very difficult day bypassing an 800... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/9/the-line-stunning-peaks-in-china

It is with great sorrow that we honor the passing of AAC member Balin Miller (23), who died in a climbing accident in Yosemite in October 2025. Miller was an astonishing rising star, dedicated to the sport and exceedingly bold as an ice climber. He was an AAC member for four years, and received the Mountaineering Fellowship Fund Grant (MFFG) multiple times, which awards climbers age 25 and younger with funds to explore remote areas and seek out climbs more difficult than they might ordinarily be able to do. The AAC featured one of his MFFG-funded trips to Canada in our publication, Guidebook XII. In the pages of “Mountain Sense,” you will get a glimpse of this stalwart ice climber who had a goofy side.  Miller was known for his audacious solos, like his solo of Fitz Roy, and the infamous Reality Bath in Canada—until Miller’s ascent, unrepeated since it was first put up by Mark Twight and Randy Rackliff in 1988. Though he was best known for these solos, he also regularly roped up with partners he trusted, accomplishing notable climbs like the Harvard Route on Mt. Huntington, Deprivation on Mt. Hunter, and the Ragni Route on Cerro Torre.  Before he passed, Miller had been working on a story for the 2026 AAJ about his 2025 summer season in Alaska. One highlight achievement of that summer was his historic solo of the Slovak Direct (M6 WI 6 A2; 9,000ft) on Denali (Mt. McKinley). The AAJ will be publishing his story posthumously to honor his legacy, accomplished in such a short life.  While we honor Balin’s life and accomplishments here, more than anything, we are left with a somber realization of the pain experienced by those who are grieving him. Our thoughts are with Balin’s family and friends, and all who shared a rope and a laugh with him.  If you or another climbing in your life have been impacted by the loss of a loved one in the mountains or in a climbing accident, you can get support. The AAC’s Climbing Grief Fund offers funding for climbers to seek therapy to start their journey through grief and loss.  Learn more about how to apply to get funding for therapy services, below. Or, access our directory of knowledgeable climbing and outdoor-sports-oriented therapists. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/15/a-tribute-to-balin-miller

It’s Rocktober and across the continent climbers are sending their projects. This month we remind you that mishaps in “safe” genres like sport climbing can have serious consequences. This accident occurred in 2019 and was only reported this year. However, in the newly published 2025 ANAC, we feature several similar groundfall accidents. As you’ll also see below, we’re also featuring a human factors post-accident analysis that reveals some recurrent themes and behavior patterns. These are introduced in an article written by Dr. Valerie Karr. On June 22, 2019 B, a male climber was leading Where Egos Dare (5.12a) as a cool-down after a long session. The four-bolt route was easy enough to run a quick lap and as a result B, “didn't take it seriously and was climbing very arrogantly… without careful consideration of the consequences.” Besides being short and punchy, the route also has several hard clips that put the leader within groundfall range. B was, “…cooling down after a hard day of projecting. At the third bolt I pulled a bunch of slack to clip and my foot popped.” He had placed his foot carelessly on a bad part of the hold when it slipped. He had an arm full of slack and, “…decked straight on my butt.” He suffered lumbar compression fractures and fractured sacrum. “I was mere inches away from a shelf that, that had I impacted with my lumbar spine, I would've undoubtedly been paralyzed.” Though in serious pain, he, “walked out under my own steam. Likely due to adrenaline.” B fell approximately 15 feet. A pit/trough below Where Egos Dare created a ledge that one could hit in a fall. He had stick clipped the first bolt but, “Had I stick clipped the third, this accident wouldn't have happened. Back then I considered it ‘cheating’ to clip more than the first, which in retrospect is silly.” He adds, “Sport climbing is flippin’ dangerous! For all the sketchy gear routes I've done in my life it was a 35' tall 12a sport climb that nearly cost me the ability to walk. Unfortunately, I don't think most sport climbers have a clue about this.” Finally, the fallen climber said, “I’d add that one should climb more carefully. Because this route was well below my redpoint level I didn't take it seriously. Ultimately, I put my foot to the right of the actual foothold and that is what did me in. Luckily, I'm physically 100% now, but it was such a close call that I definitely have residual psychological effects. My wife still has trouble belaying me despite it not being her fault. I think the psychological impacts of such accidents cannot be overstated.” (Source: Anonymous Climber.) This groundfall is a classic case of risk normalization in which repeated exposure to hazards without consequence, lowers the perception of danger. Over time, shortcuts—clipping from poor stances, eschewing procedures like a higher stick clip, and a casual approach to moderate climbing—diminish the perceived hazards of consequential terrain. On the day of his accident, B admitted he was climbing “carelessly,” on a warm-down route that was well within his ability. Other distracting factors contributed to an atmosphere of informality and distractions at the base of the crag that compounded a sense of invulnerability. B’s narrative also reveals how cultural values within climbing can magnify risk through what he called the “purity ethics.”Beyond simple overconfidence, B acknowledged an internalized idea that stick clipping beyond the first bolt was “cheating.” This belief overrode pragmatic risk assessment. Only after his accident did he reframe those values, prioritizing safety over style with an understanding that it’s “all contrived anyway.” (Source: Dr. Valerie Karr.) https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/15/the-prescriptionground-fall

On this episode of the podcast, we chat with Lisa Roderick about her book: A Place Among Giants: 22 Seasons at Denali Basecamp. As basecamp manager at Denali (also known as Mt McKinely), Lisa was everywhere and doing everything—going out of her way to help climbers even when it wasn’t in her job description. Her job ended up panning out to include: coordinating planes dropping off and picking up climbers and tourists; reporting weather over the radio to nearby pilots maneuvering the Alaska Range; reporting weather to climbers up on Denali without service; and occasionally supporting Denali National Park Rangers in search and rescue efforts. Really only accessible by small planes, the Kahiltna Glacier is its own unique, isolated world—full of inspiration, history-making climbs, risk, worry, fascinating climbing personalities, days sunning on the glacier, and moody weather. Dive into the episode to learn more about Lisa’s decades of experience in one of the most volatile and vibrant climbing hubs on the planet. Buy the Book Here! Learn More About Lisa Roderick https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/10/7/22-seasons-at-denali-base-camp-with-lisa-roderick

First ascents are as much about imagination as they are about strength and skill: They require seeing a possibility where few had imagined one before. River guide and climber Matt Ward had seen the Redside Wall above Idaho’s Salmon River many times, and he dreamed of making the first ascent. The wall looked climbable, but how to get there? The wild story of how he and Ky Hart solved that problem is published below. Matt’s story appears in AAJ 2025, which is now starting to arrive in AAC members’ mailboxes. But not everyone reads the AAJ cover to cover, and we didn’t want anyone to miss this unique tale of adventure. “Beavers!” Ky Hart yelled over his shoulder. “No! Bears!” I yelled back. Actually, it was three bears. Two small black bear cubs were timidly swimming on an eddy line in the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The large mama bear was waiting for her cubs to follow her across, and she stood up tall when she saw Ky and me about to swim between her and her babies. “I’m gonna touch one!” Ky yelled out. My instinct was to do the exact opposite—swim away from them. But the swift current was quickly moving us both directly at the cubs. Fortunately, our appearance shocked them into action. The cubs swam hard for mama, and the current shot us past them. Looking back on the experience later that day, it occurred to me that the fact that Ky’s first thought was to swim over and touch a wild bear cub while its mother watched was one of many things that made him the perfect partner for this trip. Unhinged, yes. But our plan to hike 22 miles, swim three and a half miles of whitewater, and climb a new route on a backcountry big wall would require more than a little madness. Impassable Canyon on the Middle Fork of the Salmon, deep in the heart of Idaho’s massive Frank Church Wilderness, is legendary among river runners and all but unknown to climbers. River permits for the Middle Fork can only be won through a lucky pick in the annual lottery. Once a trip has launched, numerous necessary rules regulate the way that boaters can use the wilderness. One of these prohibits any river trip from camping more than one night in Impassable Canyon. Over three commercial seasons as a raft guide on the Middle Fork, I had become obsessed with what appeared to be the tallest wall in Impassable Canyon. It’s a landmark for the famous Redside Rapid, and because of this, I’ve always called it the Redside Wall. The Redside Wall is 82 river miles from the Boundary Creek boat ramp. The nearest trail to the wall crosses the river 3.5 miles upstream, but only after a 22-mile hike down Waterfall Creek. Over years of dreaming about trying to climb Redside, that seemed like the best option—except that those 3.5 downstream miles aren’t walkable at water level; the river often runs against steep impassable walls. Hitchhiking downstream on river trips would also be illegal, since we wouldn’t be listed on the boat’s permit. During one of many conversations with river and forest administrators on how to access the area legally, I finally asked the right question. “I don’t need a permit to swim in the river, do I?” The answer was no, I didn’t, delivered with a sideways glance and a chuckle. At that moment, I hatched a plan. Ky and I would hike the Waterfall Creek Trail into Middle Fork Canyon, descending over 5,500’ in 22 miles. Then we would swim with our backpacks down 3.5 miles of whitewater, including numerous Class III rapids. Then we would spend three days making the first ascent of a dramatically overhanging wall. Then we would join a friend’s river trip (for which we were listed on the permit) and paddle out. On August 29, 2024, we began the hike. After eight hours on the move, we reached the Middle Fork and made camp near the confluence with Big Creek, where a charred hillside across the river was still smoking from a wildfire. We were awoken repeatedly that night by the sound of trees falling and rockfall. The next morning, we walked until Cutthroat Cove Rapid, where the bank cliffed out. It was time to swim. We eased into the river wearing our PFDs, gasped at the chill of the water, and began the most ridiculous stage of the plan. The bear sighting happened within the first mile. Soon after, our lips were blue, our teeth chattering. Ky found driftwood logs and lashed them to his backpack, which kept him... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/9/25/the-line-a-wild-and-crazy-climb-in-idaho

In this episode of the podcast, we sit down with AAC Librarian Natalie Siciliano to chat about a fascinating part of the American Alpine Club’s history: the days when you used to have to apply to be a member of the Club. The application membership system lasted for over 90 years—which means we have extensive records in our archives that feature the climbing resumes and recommendation letters from thousands of climbing's most fascinating characters. In this episode, we dive into the how and why of this application system, why it got dismantled, and what membership at the Club looks like now. Plus, we take a look at some highlights from the applications of legends like Lynn Hill, Yvon Chouinard, Ichiro Yoshizawa, and more. Learn More About Becoming an AAC Member! Explore the AAC Library https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/9/19/flashback-to-the-era-of-aac-member-applications

Fall is finally here and conditions for rock climbing are prime. Many of you will be heading out onto crags or wall that require rappels. Just remember that while rappel mishaps come in all forms, two common errors are getting off the rappel route and/or getting the rappel rope stuck. To extricate oneself and avoid rescue it’s good to learn the art of ascending a rope. In this incident from 2021, one climber found himself off route. With some basic tools and an understanding of the concept of rope ascension, this climber got his team out of trouble. On May 25, Climber 1 (David) and Climber 2 experienced a common rappel mishap on Devils Tower. David recounts: I share this as a cautionary tale. After climbing the Bon Homme Variation (5.8) and then the Bailey Direct route to top out, we decided to head down by the Meadows rappels. I saw a cairn and some rap rings and rigged the rap, assuming I was on the Meadows rappe route. Boy was I wrong! After descending about 125 feet (with two 60-meter ropes), I realized I was off route. I saw a tiny ledge with a second rap anchor at 150 feet, but when I got there with no Meadows in sight, I knew I was screwed. There was a steady 30 mph wind with gusts to about 45. Luckily, we had a set of small radios, so I could talk with my partner. I pulled up an end and tied in and had him start belaying me. Unfortunately, the climbing was well above my grade and the rock was covered with lichen and offered no grip, so I was going nowhere fast. He started hauling me but didn’t know how to rig something to assist, so I had him tie off his ATC to fix the line. I knew the concepts of selfrescue/ jugging but hadn’t ever practiced. I had to quickly figure it out. I carry a Petzl Micro Traxion as well as a Sterling HollowBlock to use as a prusik. I attached the HollowBlock high and clipped into it with my rappel extension. I put the Micro Traxion low on the rope and rigged a foot stirrup with a cordelette, all while hanging in air 500 feet above the boulder field. I figured out the method—step up on the Traxion, slide up the prusik, sit back on the prusik, pull slack through the Traxion, repeat over and over. A few times, I got to where I thought I could climb, but it was too complicated to switch from jugging to climbing. At one point the sling to my prusik got tangled in the Traxion. Somehow I got the Traxion opened (while just hanging on the prusik) and freed the sling. It’s impossible to relay the genuine fear I had during this experience. In the end it all worked out, and in about an hour I was back on top. I learned a lot.  The Meadows rappels are known to lead climbers astray and have been the location of at least one recorded fatality. The descent is unobvious, despite it being used to descend from the most popular routes on Devils Tower. With an almost 90-year rock climbing history, there are many anchors on the Tower–some at five- to ten foot intervals–that make even well-traveled rappels problematic. As David recounts, “I should have spent more time looking around and been 100 percent sure of the descent route. The top of the Tower is disorienting if you don’t pay attention to the landscape on the ground.” David was smart to carry tools for ascending a fixed rope—a little prior practice would have made his journey back to the anchor a lot easier. Learn and practice safe transitions from rappelling to ascending and the methods to back up such an ascent. Bringing radios was another good choice. David recalls, “It was very windy, and it was impossible to shout. Without the radios I’m pretty sure I would have had to call SAR. Best thirty dollars I ever spent.” (Sources: David, via Mountain Project, and the Editors.) Every year, we receive several reports of people getting stuck while rappelling and having to ascend their ropes. Knowing this one technique would save you a lot of stress and prevent what could be a costly and risky rescue. IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin walks us through ascending a double rope after rappelling off route. We recommend that climbers take a rock rescue course from a guide to get a full in-depth training on how to ascend a rope. Credits: Pete Takeda, Editor of Accidents in North American Climbing, IFMGA/AMGA Guide Jason Antin, Producers: Shane Johnson and Sierra McGivney; Videographer: Foster Denn... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2025/9/17/the-prescriptionoff-route-rappel