OpenBeta Forums

The mountain’s scale, as seen through my own eyes, terrified me. Film and photographs, a 60-year-old trip report, and even the topo sketches I had stared at for hours before arriving—none of them captured the size, or the exposure, or the weight of it. Lying in its eastern valley, listening to the static hiss of rain against nylon, I couldn’t sleep. I had been catfished by my own dreams. Any confidence I had built up in the Cordillera Blanca now felt suspect. Bootpacks and snow anchors set in place by mountain guides, lively refugios and high camps, and broader terrain that was mostly walkable; these were all crutches that fed into my delusion, now taken away by just one close glimpse at Jirishanca. On June 2, 2025, after a few hours of tossing and turning in my sleeping bag, I set off with my partner Eric Kanopkin to climb Jirishanca Chico, a 5,400-meter peak in the Cordillera Huayhuash range of Peru. The grassy hills that rolled up to Niñacocha, the meltwater of the Rondoy Glacier, were flooded with rainwater and cow manure. Our double boots squished loudly as we went up the valley, waking and startling cattle as we passed. We were indiscreet spies under the cover of midnight’s darkness, clambering across no-man’s-land toward what we assumed was our acclimatization objective. The first time I had seen the Huayhuash was back in 2024, from the popular hilltop sport climbing crag of Hatun Machay. I was there with Maxwell Hodges, a friend who helped introduce me to the climbing life—as well as to the Cordillera Blanca. That day, we were sunning ourselves on rock, a happy respite from slogging up the Blanca’s sloping glaciers. “Why don’t we head there?” I had asked him, pointing toward the jagged, snowcapped massif of the Huayhuash. All we knew then of that place was the famous climbing accident recounted in Joe Simpson’s Touching the Void. While descending a 6,000-meter peak called Siula Grande in 1985, Simpson broke his leg and fell into a crevasse, which ultimately resulted in one of the most epic survival stories in mountaineering. Max just laughed. We weren’t ready. He was right; we could barely lead the bolted 5.10s at Hatun without our legs shaking. Throughout a season of climbing the high peaks of the Cordillera Blanca and another year of climbing in Colorado, I could not stop thinking about the Huayhuash. Max and I climbed tourist peaks like Chopicalqui, Tocllaraju, and Pisco, and since we were always surrounded by other climbers and guides from all over the world, it was easy enough to mimic the common patterns of ascension even on our dirtbag budget. We followed the well-worn paths made by pack mules and beater taxis. Throughout our adventures, I kept my head up to admire the condors, untethered by the ground’s limits, as we were. The Huayhuash represented something different to me. Unlike the Blanca, it hosts no regular climbing activity; it’s harder to reach and has a higher concentration of more technical peaks. The number of climbers coming into the range each year can be counted on one hand. A significant reason for that lies in its history. The Huayhuash was closed off to climbing in the late 1980s into the ‘90s, as a result of the violent hegemony of a Maoist terrorist group called El Sendero Luminoso. Foreign climbers were turned away from the remote area for years, and the Huayhuash faded off of ticklists. Even after its reopening, the Huayhuash brought in limited climbing activity, while the Blanca, just hours to its north, expanded in popularity. After leaving Peru in 2024, I was still drawn to the Huayhuash, but not just for the austere beauty of its mushroom-capped ridges and dramatic summit pinnacles. The mystique that shrouded the range, the lingering stigma among climbers, was what really captivated me. It was simply bizarre to me that two ranges, the Huayhuash and the Blanca, so close and similar in geography, could be perceived so differently by climbers. Stoked, ambitious, and just out of college, I was determined to go find out for myself. Once the sun rose, warm colors illuminated a world of winter above us. Eric and I were finally on the Rondoy Glacier, heading toward Chico’s northeast face. To climber’s right, Jirishanca’s north ridge was a sweeping ramp of snow and ice into the golden and pink heavens. That was the ultimate route that we were preparing for on Chico, a goal that ironically seemed farther out of reach the closer we got to it. I was worried that I was already in over my head, but my fear was dissipating from the restless night before. Dwarfed by the apu, the Quechua’s mountain gods, I was moment... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/15/the-huayhuash-is-still-open

In this episode, we have climbing legends Jamie Logan, Jack Tackle, and Ken Currens on the podcast to retell the story of an accident and rescue on Denali from 1979. Jack Tackle and Ken Currens were climbing partners with a number of big mountains and first ascents under their belt, and in 1979, it was their first trip to the Alaska Range. They had decided to attempt the unclimbed southeast face of Denali (also known as Mount McKinely). This face would later become known as the Isis Face. In the middle of the climb, Ken, on lead, took a 250 ft fall when snow gave way beneath him. Once the rope came taught, he was hanging in mid air over a cliff, his femur badly broken. The rescue that followed is a story for the ages. We dive into the mechanics of the accident, what Jack Tackle had to do to get help, and how Jamie Logan and Mugs Stump—two of the most impressive alpinists of the time—were critical in helping save Ken. She and Mugs are especially known for the first ascent of the Emperor Face the year before, and though Mugs has passed, Jamie was able to fill us in on their experience of the rescue. In this episode, these climbing legends put together, in real time, the pieces of this story (that they all remember a tad bit differently)—47 years later. Learn More About Jack Tackle Learn More About Jamie Logan The First Ascent of the Emperor’s Face in the AAJ https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/3/5/denali-rescue-1979-the-untold-full-story

Less than a thousand feet from the summit, on the north face of the Eiger, Gaston Rébuffat hooked a finger into a piton, left behind from a previous ascent. The night before, as they bivvied, Rébuffat was surprised to find himself sleepless, with a sense of bad omens. “The stars seemed so near that you could touch them, and the Milky Way shone with sinister brightness,” he wrote in his book Starlight and Storm. On that July day in 1952, their surroundings did prove sinister. Stuck behind several slower parties and faced with warming temperatures, Rébuffat’s team had to inch their way across the tedious traverses that guarded the summit, often taking alternate routes in order to avoid bottlenecks. As luck would have it, Rébuffat hooked that piton at the exact moment a thunderous crack boomed from above. A massive rock came tumbling down, bursting and splitting into pieces that struck Rébuffat on the head. “But the finger hooked through the piton still held. It was very painful, and felt as if it had been sawn through.... A little blood fell from my cap and reddened the snow-flecked rock.” Yet, with his head aching and the motivation drained out of him, Rébuffat carried on. Rumor has it that Rébuffat had stuffed his hat with socks, as was the custom at the time when climbing in areas with rockfall danger, and some credit this habit for saving his life. Well, that and the piton. Without the padding of his rudimentary “helmet,” Rébuffat might not have become the first man to climb all six of the great north faces of the Alps. Since then, it’s fair to say climbing helmets have undergone an evolution. The history of head protection in climbing starts earlier than Gaston Rébuffat’s injury on the Eiger. There was a parallel evolution, but staggered, between those climbing in the mountains and those exploring underground in caves. In 1936, the trailblazing French caver Pierre Chevalier reported, “Helmets are beginning to be considered essential in sport caving.” However, during this period, and until around 1950, climbers aboveground were still wearing wool berets as the standard headwear. In 1948, Chevalier’s Escalades Souterraines (Subterranean Climbers) was published. It was one of the seminal works in early caving. In the early 1950s felt hats became the norm. When there was risk of rockfall, they would occasionally be stuffed with socks or newspaper. This is where Rébuffat’s story takes the stage. Four years later, in 1956, the ninth edition of Accidents in North American Mountaineering (now Accidents in North American Climbing) already showed an increasing preference for protective headgear. In comments preceding the accident reports, the editors wrote: “Another point that should be re-emphasized is the desirability of wearing a plastic helmet to protect the head from falling rock in areas where this danger is present. This has become a standard practice for some rock climbers in the Yosemite area.” As helmets for other sports evolved, so too did climbing helmets. In 1954, Amisano Gino Valenza (AGV) produced the first fiberglass motorcycle helmet. It was used by many climbers until climbing-specific models became available. Walter Bonatti knew helmets were critical. Describing his last ascent of the north face of the Matterhorn, done solo in winter, he wrote: Again once more, I look to lighten my pack to move more rapidly. I toss food, two étriers, some pitons. I am tempted to get rid of my helmet as well, the glorious plastic helmet that, for four years, accompanied me on the most difficult enterprises. But after an instant of hesitation, I stay my hand and hold the helmet to my chest. I caress its bumps as if they were wounds: each one of them corresponding to a rock, fallen off Mont Blanc, the Andes, so many other mountains. I placed it back in my pack. It’s clear Bonatti recognized how many times the helmet had prevented injury. Despite the weight of early helmets, anyone who had their life saved by one would appreciate their value. The new, lighter fiberglass motorcycle helmet and its growing use by serious climbers spurred the creation of helmets designed for climbers. Sporthaus Schuster was one of the earliest to come... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/12/safer-than-socks-in-your-hat

Part of the Climbing Grief Fund’s (CGF) mission is to expand the conversation around grief, loss, and trauma in the climbing community, and interrogate narratives that can be unhelpful to healing. In this episode, we unpack some of the unique challenges faced by caregivers after a loved one gets into a climbing accident, and explore why it can be helpful for caregivers to get mental health support too, not just those directly impacted by an accident. In section one, we have the CGF Therapeutic Manager, Trevor Davis, on the podcast, to talk about the scope of the Climbing Grief Fund, as well as its ongoing expansion and impact. Trevor chats with Jay Louie, a therapist in the CGF Directory and a CGF committee member, about these topics, and together they frame the conversation about why CGF resources are for caregivers too. In section two, we dive deeper with Jay, as they share some case studies to illustrate the very human experiences of caregiving after climbing accidents. They share these case studies from their professional experience as a therapist and AMGA Guide, described anonymously, with permission from their clients. In section three, we sat down with Andrew Kirchner, an incredible supporter of the Climbing Grief Fund and a survivor of a climbing accident himself. Andrew describes his accident, and how it made him realize that the accident didn’t just happen to him, it had a dramatic impact on his loved ones as well. Andrew also elaborates on what motivated him to make the Edwards-Ginsburg fund, and thereby support the CGF’s work so generously. Donate Before March 10, and Double Your Impact Apply to the Climbing Grief Fund Grant Explore the CGF Mental Health Directory Learn More About (or work with) Jay Louie Learn More About (or work with) Trevor Davis https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/27/a-team-sport-the-psychology-of-caregiving-after-a-climbing-accident

It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that Geoff Hill had chopped up frozen human waste—overflowing from a 200-liter barrel. He was a graduate student at the University of British Columbia (UBC), studying the effects of climate change in the Canadian Arctic. The university had arranged a deal with the Inuit whose land he was standing on. The students could conduct research there, but they could not leave any trace, including human waste—hence the chopping. All around him, the Arctic gleamed in shades of dense ice, the ocean a penetrating blue. Below the tundra, in a hole, out of sight, was where the research team kept the thing no one ever talks about: a frozen bucket of human waste, a.k.a. a “sht barrel,” as Hill often calls it. Tucked away. Put elsewhere. And that’s the trouble. In a wilderness like the Arctic, there is no elsewhere. As a climber who fell in love with alpine rock, Hill has spent much time on the road driving toward his next climbing destination. He learned quickly that what he loved most was swimming through a 5.10 hand crack high on a steep, sunny wall. That lifelong thirst for high-country granite would bring him to many wild places, including Mt. Barrill in the Ruth Gorge, El Cap, the Bugaboos, and Mont Blanc’s aiguilles. An epic during an alpine climb in the Canadian Rockies in 2004 spurred him to start reading Accidents in North American Climbing, and he would continue engaging with the AAC throughout his climbing career—for the rescue benefit, community, and research grants that would, in turn, help catalyze his calling. His passion for these alpine landscapes was boundless, but Hill’s educational path in environmental science was bringing him up against the reality of outdoor recreation’s environmental impact. He wanted to do something about it. Hill began with driving, launching the Biodiesel Project at UBC, which added sodium hydroxide and methanol to a vat of recycled cooking oil to create an alternative to diesel. “It was fun and dangerous in the beginning,” he recalls. “The pH is crazy. Like, if it splashed in your eye, for sure it would have dissolved a hole in your eyeball.” But it worked. He would fuel up his 1993 Volkswagen Jetta with this biofuel and hit the road to Canmore, Squamish, and even Yosemite. He would later teach some Yosemite rangers how to run their own trucks on biofuel from their waste kitchen grease. Called by the mountains, Hill toyed with becoming an ACMG Guide (the AMGA equivalent in Canada), but when he failed his exam, he realized his heart wasn’t in it and that he’d rather serve the mountain environment itself—not clients. Funded by Canada’s Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council (and an AAC Research Grant), Hill started ringing up the rangers and national park personnel he’d worked with during his previous studies and guide training. He wanted to study the alpine environment in a way that would produce practical results: What did they need help with? Again and again, the National Park Service spoke to the problem of human waste management. Tara Vessella, who runs the backcountry program in Rocky Mountain National Park, spoke of the ongoing struggle to find new land for pit toilets. As Hill recalls her saying, “I cannot find a spot in the forest to put a new pit toilet because every time I dig a hole in the ground, I find old sht.” The pit-toilet model, so ubiquitous in the United States, wasn’t sustainable for backcountry landscapes with such intense visitation numbers. So Hill, recalling his frozen-waste-chopping days, embarked on a PhD that would make everyone else’s “business” into his business. Humans expel feces and urine daily—what we term “waste” when it’s not well integrated into the ecosystem, especially our poop. Yet when we look at the terms more commonly used for animal poop—dung, scat, droppings, guano—the “waste” subtext is absent, revealing a bias toward thinking that human excrement is dysfunctionally related to the natural environment. But Geoff Hill believes it doesn’t have to be that way. The science is pretty straightforward: Human urine (and all mammal urine, for that matter) is excellent plant fertilizer. Meanwhile, human poop is food for invertebrates and microorganisms—in fact, in the process of eating mammal poop, microorganisms produce rich organic matter that makes for fertile soil. https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/15/elsewhere-the-problem-of-human-waste-management-in-the-wilderness

As we step into 2026, I want to begin with gratitude. The support you provide the American Alpine Club through your membership and donations enables us to deliver meaningful work to climbers across the country. Your commitment strengthens the AAC and ensures that we can continue to serve our members. Climbing is built on connection: the bond between partners, the shared experience at the crag or on an expedition, and the knowledge passed from one generation to the next. This year, we are deepening our focus on uniting climbers and celebrating the culture that gives meaning to our time on rock, ice, and alpine terrain. We are building programming that strengthens members’ connections and creates more opportunities to gather, learn, and celebrate climbing. We look forward to sharing more in the coming months as we build toward 2027 and our 125th anniversary. Across the country, our lodging facilities remain places where friendships are formed, knowledge is shared, and adventures begin. We continue to deliver critical publications and media, including The American Alpine Journal, Accidents in North American Climbing, monthly Prescription videos, the American Alpine Club Podcast and The Cutting Edge. Our core member benefits, including rescue and medical benefits, discounts, and access to our world-class library, reflect our commitment to supporting climbers wherever their journeys take them. The AAC plays a unique role in sustaining and strengthening climbing. We maintain the record of climbing so it continues to inform and inspire climbers today. We create moments of connection where people see themselves reflected. And we remain committed to being a sustainable and adaptable organization prepared to meet the evolving needs of our members. Inside these pages, you will see the AAC’s charge reflected: a commitment to learning, the power of member contributions, and the meaningful journeys climbers undertake around the world. In this edition of The Guidebook, you will find: Each of these contributions reflects a core part of our mission: supporting climbers, learning from experience, honoring our history, and strengthening the connections that define this community. Thank you for being part of this effort. I am grateful for your continued support and look forward to the work ahead. Ben Gabriel AAC Executive Director https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/15/a-message-from-aac-leadership-aac-updates

Since 2010, climbers have been exploring the mountains, cliffs, and boulders above the village of Rakchham in northern India’s Baspa Valley, drawn by varied, high-quality climbing and relatively modest elevations in this quiet corner of the Himalaya. Last fall, two Montana-based climbers—Ryan Griffiths and Seth Timpano—spent several weeks in the area. Here’s their story. In late October and early November 2025, Ryan Griffiths and I climbed new routes on two unclimbed peaks above the Baspa Valley. We were based out of the village of Rakchham  at around 3,150 meters, with a small advanced camp on the Rakchham “plateau” at 4,100 meters.  After a week of acclimatizing, we spent October 21 and 22 climbing the northwest face of Peak 5,400m. This gave quality moderate ice and mixed climbing, but was not particularly sustained, as the route was split by a small pocket glacier, which we used for a bivouac. The 800-meter ascent had difficulties up to WI4 M5.  We next tried the east ridge of unclimbed Daboling (ca 6,050m) at the head of the valley. Starting from a high camp at around 5,400 meters, we climbed 13 pitches on mostly good granite, although at times the climbing was tedious and the terrain felt like stacked Jenga blocks. The line was classically alpine in nature, and it is difficult to assign a rock or mixed grade.  Our high point was around 5,850 meters. Four or five more pitches would have taken us to the summit slopes, but without bivouac gear, and knowing the descent would be complex, we made a conservative call to retreat. Our descent involved a dozen rappels (exclusively on rock anchors), first down the ridge then onto the steeper south face.  After a short rest in town, we ended the trip by climbing a 200-meter granite tower that tops out at about 5,100 meters. This is the Fourth Pillar of Ray Peak, as defined by the Austrian team that visited the area in 2019 (AAJ 2020). Ryan and I climbed the south face of this tower in five pitches, four of which were 5.9 or 5.10 and composed of perfect granite. We rappelled our route.  Overall, we found this to be a beautiful area with impressive boulders and excellent alpine rock potential. However, the alpine ice will require very specific—perhaps rare—conditions, as the mountains are losing their perennial snow.  Modern climbing in Rakchaam and the Baspa Valley has a somewhat unlikely origin story for an alpine zone: It began with bouldering. In 2010, well-known European climbers Elie Chevieux, Frederic Nicole, and Bernd Zangerl explored the Kinnaur district of Himachal Pradesh and discovered the Baspa Valley, “a veritable Shangri-La for the rock climbers,” as Chevieux wrote in AAJ 2012. Their stories about the climbing near Rakchham prompted a steady stream of visitors over the next decade. (Spanish climber Silvia Vidal was another early visitor—she soloed a 1,000-meter wall in the area in 2010.)  No one was more infatuated with the area than Zangerl: He has traveled from his home in Austria to Rakchham more than ten times. Zangerl also is one of the driving forces behind community efforts aimed at making climbing a sustainable activity that benefits and is welcomed by local residents. He recently published the first guidebook to bouldering in the area and helped spearhead a bouldering festival this past October, along with the locally led Rakchham Mountaineering & Adventure Club. A community website, rakchham.com, is a great resource for climbers considering a visit, providing beta, information on permits that support the local community, and an offer to help alpinists avoid peaks that the local people consider sacred. In 2022, Five Ten produced a beautiful 20-minute video, directed by Ray Demski, showcasing Rakchham and the efforts to preserve its beauty and culture while the Baspa Val... https://americanalpineclub.org/news/2026/2/18/the-linefrom-bozeman-to-the-baspa

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