The Beckey - Chouinard, South Howser Tower

Eyeing the next thin slot above, I jammed my fingers in deep and wedged them into the constriction. Far above my last piece of protection, I reached for the silver cam on my harness that would fit inside the crack, before suddenly noticing a rusted piton in the granite to my right. Hammered to the hilt and likely fifty years old. I tried to imagine myself in the footsteps of Fred Beckey, and Yvon Chouinard, questing up the 2000 foot west buttress of the South Howser tower, way back in 1961. No double rack of cams, no sticky rubber, following the endless splitter cracks and offwidth corners with just a simple rack of iron pitons and maybe a few hexes. These two pioneers were the most prolific first ascentionists in North America in their day, and here in the stunning alpine rock playground of the Bugaboos, we truly appreciated their masterpiece, forging one of the most sought after rock climbs in Canada.

 

West Buttress of South Howser Tower at dawn

To our fortune and surprise, we were enjoying a similar solitude to Beckey and Chouinard. Michael Johnston and I were two hundred metres up the 750m long route, there were finally no climbers in sight above or below. The previous day, we had made the strenuous four hour approach hike to Applebee Dome campsite, with the impressive late season glaciers spilling into the valleys from the sheer cracked faces of the Snowpatch and Bugaboo Spires. Instead of setting up base there and settling for an easy warmup, we decided to plough straight on to our main objective, the BC.

Evening trek across to a bivouac spot at Pigeon-Howser Col

Dropping off our excess rope and wide cams (for the Sunshine Crack [5.10+, 500m]), we changed into mountain boots and began cramponing our way up the 45 degree snow slope to the Bugaboo-Snowpatch Col. Without knowing whether this would be hard late summer ice or soft snow, we erred on the side of caution with crampons and an ice axe each, saving our more lightweight setup for the following morning. On the way up, we passed at least five other groups who said they would attempt to climb the BC the following day - no surprise since the forecast was perfect. This worried us, but with our headstart we hoped we would be able to stay ahead of the crowds.

Applebee Dome campsite

From the col that evening, the beauty of the granite spires rimming the glacier distracted us from the last painful slog up to our camping spot close to the Howser towers. The sense of isolation and wilderness was far stronger up here, this was the magic element missing from the otherwise exceptional climbing in Yosemite and Squamish. The scene was being set for a classic adventure.
A surge of spanish trumpets screaming '¡Andale!' riled us awake at three that morning. Each equipped with a combination of microspikes on one foot and aluminium strap-on crampons on the other, we set off for the Howsers, edging carefully down the frozen snow to sweeping glaciers lightly glowing before dawn.

Nearing the toe of the West Buttress, we thought the coast was clear... until two bright down jackets appeared, just packing up their bivouac, we didn't need to guess or ask of their intentions. We upped the pace. Racing to harness up at the base ahead of our friends was unnecessary - coffee had struck them and their foil bivvy bag would be paying the price for conserving these wild lands. Very honourable of them, albeit disgusting.

Cold hands squeezed into cold cracks, numb toes narrowed into tight Scarpas. We were on our way. Two simul climbing 5.5-5.7 pitches led to the first crux of the route, a small 5.10 roof. In reality, the thin flaring finger cracks leading up the roof proved more the challenge, requiring some delicate smearing on breakable crystals; the roof itself was pulled through on solid hand jams, and I relished running out the rest of the rope above.

Michael following the great white headwall

Michael said he had spotted yet another party above: where had they come from? Another long pitch and they were in sight, pitching up the Great Dihedrals, a superb stretch of plum hand and fist jamming. Their strategy was intriguing, having left Applebee at 830am the previous day, they had then bivvied on pitch 5, but were down to just a litre of water between them with more than 10 pitches remaining. Our minimal water rations were also leaking, we worried for them as we quickly passed them on our way to the Gravel Ledges and never saw them again.

Scrappy and awkward terrain above led to the Big Sandy bivouac ledge, even more comfortable looking than its name sake on pitch sixteen of Half Dome, but we were glad not to use it; the Great White Headwall above beckoned. Just simply endless crack climbing of all widths on pure white alpine granite. Delicious. I missed my blown out TC Pros at every step by this point, wearing my tighter backup pair of shoes, the miles of thin foot jamming was increasingly punishing on the toes. I could now fully sympathise with Momo who climbed the 13-pitch 'Angels Crest' in Squamish in her bouldering shoes. Maybe the "5.8 offwidth" would have been a better option after all than our chosen "5.10+ fingers", a regret driven home after I ran out of gear and gave in to a particularly uncomfortable hanging belay.

The Great White Headwall. Photo: Michael Johnston

By the time we reached the final crux "5.10+ face traverse", my energy levels were waning, I'd led every pitch so far and Michael wasn't in a position to take over here. Sometimes when theres an easier option you simply take it, this was alpine climbing after all. I gave Michael a lesson on how to belay a tension traverse, and he slowly lowered me out across the face from two pitons, until I could wrap around the corner into the gulley - a sinch at 5.9 A0. All that was left was several hundred metres of low 5th class climbing to the top, with a bonus rap, and just enough of a "false summit" feeling to give the true summit its deserved satisfaction.



Sweet summit!

It had been Michael's dream to climb the Beckey-Chouinard for over a year, and mine for over a week, and I couldn't have been more happy for him to finally achieve this climb. Since his epic misadventure on the North Buttress of Sabre in Fiordland the previous summer, he was yearning to do it right this time: no more being lost on approach, no climbing off-route and no unplanned bivvies was his goal. It was fulfilling to share some of my experience with Michael who was so keen to soak it all up, and now determined to train up to be able to lead the route next time. No doubt a season in Squamish will serve him well. We abseiled off the eastern rib and reached our tent by dusk. Ramen rarely tasted so good.

Camp on dusk, a long satisfying day

Beta
Single set nuts
Single set cams 0.3 - 4, doubles 0.5-3
15 alpine draws, 2 cordalettes
Crampons and 1 axe recommended for the ascent to Snowpatch-Bugaboo Col and descent from Pigeon Howser Col.
Approach shoes + lightweight strap-on crampons are ideal, or microspikes if very confident.
Check with ranger at Applebee if it is allowed to camp at Pigeon Howser Col as this adds to the alpine experience and shortens the summit day by 3-4 hours.

Water melt was found just below the col in late July. Other water melt was found on the approach to the route on the glacier.

Topo by S. Abegg, M. Thomas

The Nose of El Capitan

My legs hung over the edge. Daisy chains reined me in taught to the wall. I reeled myself back onto the ledge, shortening the tethers with my fifi hook. A bout of cramp surged through my dehydrated legs. I jerked stiff and straight, hamstrings tingling where the harness dug in, then slumped back over the edge and waited for dawn to arrive over Camp V. Only seven pitches remained between us and the summit plateau of El Capitan.



Despite our fears, neither bears nor rangers disturbed our stealth bivouac at the toe of the Nose. We positioned ourselves to pounce on our three fixed lines up the blank east face to Sickle Ledge, established the day before, to keep ahead of our friendly rivals. This time we had a team of four Brits to pace with, who had also stashed their mountain of gear and twenty gallons of water on the ledge above the first four tricky pitches. These blokes, tree surgeons applying their trade to big-wall climbing, were gracious in the extreme and let us crack ahead of them into the entrance to Stove Legs Cracks. This time, we had the entire route ahead of us to ourselves.




Gemma quested out on some wild free climbing and tricky pendulums across the face into the base of that famed four-pitch splitter. The traverses extended our lower-out line to its full length, sending our haul bag for a quick jog before Gemma began the laborious task of ‘hauling the pig’. Thankfully our pig was slim and waist-hauling did the job from day one; meanwhile our British companions below seemed to have plushed out and were paying the price, spending hours dragging up their endless supplies, each pitch requiring an expedition effort itself. They were content to “take it gently” with extra safety margin on water and food for five days, but we were convinced that light and fast was the best strategy for a long route like the Nose, every amount of effort multiplied over those 31 pitches. Over the past five decades, The Nose has been the proving ground of advances in climbing efficiency, the route involving so many complicated manoeuvres to test climbing skill and strategy, with the speed record starting at a generous 18 months and eventually falling to today’s absurd time of 2 hours 23 minutes.




Gemma generously handed over the rack to me for the first Stove Legs pitch, something I had long frothed over, the ‘5.8 glory hands’ pitch. Named after the first ascensionist Warren Harding’s use of iron stove legs from the junkyard to protect the long flaring crack, I plugged in today’s number two camalots, tasted the sweat, smelled the reeking piss of thousands before, and jammed deeper. Free climbing sweet hand cracks on El Capitan, it felt good.

Apart from Gemma getting her foot very stuck in pitch 8, and donating a purple cam to the long line of fixed gear decorating the route, everything went smoothly to the comfy perch of Dolt Tower. I was pleasantly surprised how much of the first half of the route was going free or French-free at modest grades, as we continued cruising up more 5.9 fist cracks to the sensational El Cap Tower bivouac ledge, fifteen metres long, it could host a party but we had it to ourselves. I continued up into the Texas Flake as Gemma began dinner, he belaying services largely unnecessary for the twenty metre high chimney, an intimidating prospect at the end of the first day. I opted for easy chimneying with no pro, versus the alternative of harder chimneying with one bolt, and leavittated my way up the gaping void. Rope fixed, and rappelled back to join Gemma on the ledge for dinner.




“Wooo hoooo!”

We woke to the bizarre sight of silhouettes flying across the sky, somewhere at the top of the Dawn Wall. What first appeared as a high-liner accelerating at an alarming rate, was soon realised to be a dare-devil performing a giant king-swing, arcing a 50-metre radius across the sky, the sight startling us awake and into action. Above our fixed line we had our own King Swing to get involved with, one of the most difficult moves on The Nose.




From the top of the seemingly detached “Boot Flake”, I fixed the line and lowered down thirty metres to the lowest tan dyke. I eyed up the arête way across to my left and started to build up some swinging momentum. My first flailing efforts left me well short of the edge. Each failed attempt was exhausting and frustrating, leaving me hanging on the rope gasping for air with a mouth tasting of dirt. I adjusted my strategy, fine-tuned the rope length even further out, twisted fully side-ways in my harness, and threw myself running sideways along the arc. I finally latched the edge. I then realised I was still five metres short of Eagle Ledge. Still tied off to the top of Boot Flake, I carefully leap-frogged two #4 cams up the off-width crack to the belay stance. In my mind, this was the crux of the route, but without doubt better strategies and techniques exist.



Gemma took over the lead for some tricky corners, and suddenly the Great Roof appeared close above. Guided by the SuperTopo, we docked the bag for two arcing pitches to below the roof, abseiled 70m down, and hauled directly upwards to pitch eighteen. Extra work, but the only real solution to the wandering route. I set to work on the long thin corner up to the Great Roof: offset cams, small nuts, fixed gear; the main challenge being to stretch the rack out and hope to conserve the crucial pieces for the famous under-cling underneath that shadowed cap. Back-cleaning left me exposed to a long but clean fall as I swung from piece to piece, necessary to make Gemma’s life easy as she followed the traverse on jumars. Two long lower-outs placed her below my exciting belay position, and the steep headwall opened up above late in the day.






Pushing hard to Camp V, I stowed the etriers and free-climbed the Pancake Flake, resting several times as the accumulation of physical labour left us sapped and dry. Awkward aiding by headlamp up a tight corner reeking from urine finally released us and Camp V was reached late on the second evening. Dehydrated and exhausted, we slowly unpacked the haul-bag desperate for water and food. Spicy tea and more canned stew slowly revived us. Lights in the valley far below lined the roads and glowed in the villages, we marvelled at our position high up on the wall.





We could smell the summit early the next day, but still knew it would take a full day. Gemma raced up her block to Camp VI in a flurry of etriers and fiddly small gear choking the seams, finding a rhythm.



I took over the lead up the easy terrain up to the overall free-crux of the route: the Changing Corners, rated 5.14a. By aid, the moves around the protruding arête and into the next corner system are as simple as clipping a bolt, but to make those moves free requires a complex sequence or body contortions, palming and smearing that Lynn Hill famously was the first to solve. Still, the thin seam required careful selection of micro-offset nuts, and only the perfect shaped piece would fit in the piton scars. I continued upwards on 5.10+ arching splitter cracks, trying to perfect the techniques of cam-jumaring to save time and gear, jamming in smaller gear along the way to ease the run-outs.




Just below the top-out, the belay stance was truly wild, with the entire spine of the Nose sweeping out below us. Almost a thousand metres of exposure, a dropped carabiner would have landed at the base.




Gemma linked the last two pitches, summit fever rampant, ignoring the hideous rope drag and slabby free moves in approach shoes, she could smell the summit and didn’t stop. I soon joined Gemma at the famous tree that marks the end of the route. We collapsed in the tree’s shade with our gear exploding around us, and downed our last tin of canned fruit. The tippy, tippy top of El Capitan. It tasted sweet indeed.

Half Dome Regular NW Face

"Alastair! Come help me!"

I spun around and sprinted down a slope of broken granite, when a whiff of something toxic temporarily blinded me. Confused, rushing, I tripped down the scree to find Gemma doubled over, screaming, a quivering hand held up covered in orange oil. "What's happened to you!" Strolling down from the summit of Half Dome an hour earlier, our tallest big wall climb to date, we thought all the difficulties were over. Who would have known the last two hours to the valley floor would prove to be the crux.

Two days earlier, those same "two hours" also sent us near boiling point. Four hours into the slabs approach up to the base of Half Dome's Northwest face, we found ourselves stuck over our heads in dense thicket under a scorching summer sun, throats dry and coarse with dirt. It wasn't the first time we'd lost the "trail" that afternoon, hauling ourselves up several fixed ropes and up slick slabs. It was hard to appreciate the immense 600-metre wall above as we desperately tried to find a water source, our bottles empty. We knew there was a spring near the base, but all we had found so far were measly dribbles. I finally heard a scream of joy as Gemma found Yosemite's finest gushing out from the base of the first pitch. Hallelujah.

 Simultaneously our hopes of an un-crowded route were dashed, an American couple had comfortably established camp there; I envied how casual and rested they seemed. I skulled litres from the spring, recovering, while Gemma climbed and fixed the first pitch. Somehow, we were still on schedule, clinging to our Half Dome dream. Mosquitoes gnawed at us that night as we lay beneath a sky full of stars and granite, the prospect of sixteen pitches between us and the next bivouac ledge was daunting but was also the unknown and adventure that we craved.


We geared up by headlight in the predawn; while Sam & Steph climbed ahead, we prepared to jumar our fixed line, when a southern drawl erupted, "Yeah, rock-climbers!" And on seeing both our parties lining up, "Allright! Here's to a day of six people climbin' all over each other!" Alex and his partner Keith had left the car at 3 that morning and planned to summit that night, but weren't willing to let our two parties ahead of them dampen their spirits. "Team work makes the dream work!" Alex reminded us all.

We soon realised that courtesy has its place, but speed was paramount: "OK, we're passing about right now." And Keith was off ahead of us, just as I was about to start the second pitch. These two were using short-fixing speed-climbing tactics, the second jumaring on the fixed line while the leader continued climbing with a loop of slack. Determined to keep pace, I broke a thick sweat, french-freeing the bulges, and linking two pitches to overtake our friendly rivals. We also had a schedule to keep - Big Sandy would be ours by sunset.


Gemma brought up the rear with puff and vigour, getting her fair share of cardio, she jumared her heart out and carrying all the supplies including 7 litres of water as well as the heavy rack I had deposited into the long pitches. After ten rope lengths of moderate alpine terrain, we moved onto the main sheer face of Half Dome. Our diagonal trajectory aimed at a long chimney system required several traversing bolt ladders across the blank face, made even blanker by the significant rockfall event of 2015 where a huge flake exfoliated from the wall.

The new twelfth pitch now brings a unique challenge to the game of aid-climbing, they call it the "rope toss". From the top of an arching crack, a 4m wide blank wall bars access to the base of the chimney. Armed with YouTube beta, I retied the lead rope, and tied a chunky knot at the new sharp end. After several failed attempts, I managed to wedge the knot into the perfectly sized crack, called to Gemma to lower me to below the knot, and jumared up to the belay, C1+.

Up into the chimneys, the Yosemite locals finally shot ahead, while we, offwidth amateurs, found ourselves struggling to choose between a barely protected 5.9 squeeze and unprotected 5.7 stem, both seeming equally desperate. At last we emerged into the sun and enjoyed stellar splitter cracks to Big Sandy, our comfortable accommodation for the night.

A long section of body-width plus ledge welcomed our weary bodies, satisfied by cold dehy, cushioned by Macpac pack foam inserts, and insulated by a new type of stretchy emergency foil blanket by SOL that doesn't rip. All in the name of avoiding Half Dome's hideous hauling and preserving the spine of the second.

I shouldered the pack early the next morning following Gemma's lead of the Zig-Zag cracks, one of the crux free pitches, we were now forced to aid climb our way up the final pitches, with "The Visor" always overhanging above.

We can only imagine Royal Robbins relief to find the Thank God Ledge skirting hard under the summmit overhang, a narrow catwalk with a handy 2" crack for protection. Gemma took a deep breath and managed to tip-toe her way across without resorting to the ugly manoeuvres required of me to follow with the pack pulling me off the wall. The runout 5.8 chimney off the ledge stymied us at first, trip reports quoting a "squeeze that no man or woman should need to endure", and even the scene of an Alex Honnold freak out, but was eventually overcome with much grunting.

Gemma dug deep on the pitch 22 aid crux after ripping a 0.1 cam and caught by a talon hook, she perservered to find a devious skyhook placement, top stepping to the next bolt and a gripping tension traverse on tenuous smears. Tourists and cameras reared their heads from the summit as we finished the last pitch, joyous mantles and an explosion of gear, questions and congratulations from the dozens of hikers poured out. Spare food and water was tossed our way, it was just like we imagined and more, a bizarre summit experience that is usually the domain of a depleted climber's wildest fantasies.

We skidded down the polished tourist cables and skirted the base to our packs, stoked on the climb, already dreaming of pizza on the valley floor. I walked up to the spring to refill our bottles, when Gemma's scream sent shockwaves: reaching into her pack, she had somehow triggered the bear spray cannister, covering her face and hands with potent pepper spray. Visibly shaking, face clenched, I poured our last litres into her stinging eyes, trying to reassure her she would not go blind. I slowly guided her, blind, directing her steps up to the spring - without which would have made a seriously dire situation. Guidebook author Roger Putnam was doing geology work nearby and came to our aid, helping us down the slabs approach, both of our faces and bodies still blazing from the oily spray. An unexpectedly epic ending to what was otherwise a stellar climb of one of America's all-time classic rock routes.

Climbing Moab's Classic Desert Towers

After two months of fantastic ice & mixed climbing in the Canadian Rockies, finally the seasons were beginning to signal a change, with warm temperatures melting off ice pillars and sending avalanche ratings up to extreme. Colours of Instagram were also transforming, from the white, blue and grey of the alpine to the rich orange and red of the desert. Canadians were flocking southwards to the sandstone splitters of Moab, and I felt compelled to join them.

Over the course of two days driving through several degrees of latitude, the snow-caked plains of Canada finally morphed into the desert landscapes Utah is famous for. Living the dirt-bag life near the banks of the Colorado River, we warmed back into rock-climbing with the ridiculously convenient Wall Street crag on Potash Road.

Five minutes from Williams Bottom campground, Wall Street is home to hundreds of crack climbs and face routes all literally right next to the road. Belaying from a lawn-chair next to the car is common place. After a few days perfecting our finger-locks and toe-jams, Tim Banfield and I teamed up to climb our first desert tower, Sister Superior.

Our early start was sabotaged by a tyre puncture on the off-road approach drive, allowing another party to scoop us to the route “Jah Man”, a four-pitch 5.10+ on the south-west face of the tower. Sister Superior is just one of several classic spires in the canyon-riddled area, with the famous Castleton Tower dominant on the horizon.

The first pitch came at the standard sand-bag grade of “5.8+”, which often means unusual climbing in the form of a wide crack or chimney, poorly protected or just plain weird – not something pulling plastic can ever prepare you for. Coined the “Sister Squeeze”, this had us wedged up a body squeeze chimney for a full pitch, Tim seconding with his camera gear hanging off a sling on his harness. From the top of this detached pedestal, thin hand jams lead the route crux, which had thrown off the previous party several times as we waited at the base. A few tricky moves past a flake required alternating heel hooks to reach a “thank-god” hand jam.



After some more cragging at Wall Street, we soon felt the desert call again. This time to the famous Castleton Tower, and a spectacular looking route on the North Face. Along with Jon Bouchard, we ascended a stellar pitch of wide hands, leapfrogging our three #3 cams, to the route’s 5.11a flake lay-back crux, an exciting sequence with feet smeared onto slippery calcite face holds. Tricky finger cracks lead to a bulging hand-crack, and an off-width followed by a jagged fist crack lead to easy but run-out chimneys to the summit. It really was the full gamut of crack climbing all in just three quality pitches! What a route. Belaying up Jon to the summit, I was hit by a hail-storm, and shivered at the exposed belay in meagre base-layers until Jon arrived and we hurried down the rap line, running down to the highway.



An afternoon of bouldering in hot sun at Big Bend by the Colorado River made for a totally different style of climbing, but as the day cooled off we were psyched to make a quick ascent of the Lighthouse Towers. Namely the route adorning the guide-book cover, Lonely Vigil, a four-pitch 5.10 route that climbs up a unique stem-box chimney system. As you approach this intimidating blank looking section, it takes a few moments to realise that the fused overhanging seams can be avoided by simply stemming wide up the chimney, until you slap the glory jug. Standing on the very summit is the most exciting of all, gaining the detached block requires a bouldery mantle with average gear at your feet. With no anchors on top, the moves simply need to be reversed to descend.



Fine Jade was our final tower route, and was one of the best. The classic line fires up continuous splitters for three pitches on the south prow of the Rectory, opposite Castleton. The hardest climbing was off the deck, via steep flared hand-cracks, but the technical 5.11a crux was a finger crack through a bulge half way up the gorgeous face.



The desert sandstone was pristine, especially on these most popular routes, and the quality of the crack climbing was superb. If only these routes were longer! But perhaps that is asking a bit much of these slender stacks of red rock. Moab’s tower routes are perhaps lesser known than the amazing crack climbing at nearby Indian Creek, but offer more adventure into the amazing desert landscapes of Utah. Definitely worth checking out on your next road-trip through the States.