Foremothers: The Story Behind the Four Women Who Helped Found the American Alpine Club

Annie Peck (top left)] Library of Congress; [Fanny Bullock (top middle)] AAC Library Collections; [Fay Fuller (top right)] Wiki Commons; [Josephine Peary (bottom)] Library of Congress; c AAC member Foster Denney

By Sierra McGivney, research supported by the AAC Library

Originally Published in Guidebook XVI

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.

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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.

Fay Fuller. Photo by Wiki Commons.

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 ascent led to her becoming a fierce journalist. She went on to cover the Chicago and St. Louis world’s fairs, and helped found the Mazamas in 1894, the American Alpine Club in 1902, and The Mountaineers in 1906. She became the world’s first harbor mistress in Tacoma and was an actress. Expectations be damned.

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Mrs. Josephine Peary attended Spencerian Business College and graduated as the class valedictorian in 1880. Fueled by her own sense of adventure, she accompanied her husband on four of his Arctic expeditions, learning how to hunt, fighting off walruses, and exploring the breathtaking beauty of Greenland. She was considered the “First Lady of the Arctic” and gave birth to her first child, Marie, about 13 degrees, or just under 900 miles, from the North Pole in 1893.

Josephine Peary. Photo by Wikimedia Commons.

“I cannot but admire her courage. She has been where no white woman has ever been, and where many a man hesitates to go,” wrote her husband, Robert Peary—who was embroiled in his own controversy in the early 1900s about whether he “discovered” the North Pole and his treatment of the Greenlandic Inuit—in the preface of Josephine’s book My Arctic Journal.

When the American Alpine Club was formed, sport and trad climbing didn’t exist, and ice climbing was extremely primitive. Exploration was nearly as important as mountaineering in defining the sport.

The American Alpine Club’s foundation was based on exploration and mountain climbing. Indeed, included in the 1902 bylaws was the following mission: “The objects of the Club shall be the scientific exploration and study of the higher mountain elevations and of the regions lying within or about the Arctic and Antarctic Circles; the cultivation of the mountain craft...”

Josephine Peary was not a climber. Her expertise was Arctic exploration, which was wholly unknown to the Western world at the time. In 1891, Peary ventured to northern Greenland with her husband and their crew on the Kite. She spent days under the midnight sun gathering yellow arctic poppies and shooting auks, gulls, and eider ducks.

On September 23, Mrs. Peary joined a small group on a smaller boat, the Mary Peary, to head up Inglefield Gulf. They searched for walruses to obtain the ivory in their tusks and meat for the coming winter. At this time, ivory was in high demand, with the United States taking in 200 tons per year by 1913. The devastating effects of the ivory trade on animal populations have made it illegal since 1989.

Robert Peary had brought a Kodak camera and asked the crew members to row until he said stop. He was so engrossed in getting his picture just right—much like a national park tourist—that he forgot to tell them to stop and ran right on top of an ice cake, nearly tipping the boat over. In the chaos, a walrus was harpooned and it dove underneath the water, dragging the boat off the ice cake and righting it.

But the damage was already done. According to Peary, 250 walruses surrounded the boat and bullets started flying. The walruses were not going down without a fight. Bullets whistled by Josephine’s ears in all directions while she reloaded guns.

“I thought it about an even chance whether I would be shot or drowned,” wrote Peary in My Arctic Journal.

This was just the beginning of their time in the Arctic, and danger was all around them, but she was excited by the uncertainty.

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AAC founding member Fanny Bullock Workman standing on Silver Throne plateau, Karakoram. Public Domain Wikimedia Commons c Image recolored by AAC member Foster Denney.

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Today, Annie Peck might be best known for wearing knickerbockers on her 1895 ascent of the Matterhorn. According to Peck’s article “A Woman’s Ascent of the Matterhorn” for McClure's Magazine, wearing knickerbockers with or without a short skirt was the norm when “high climbing.”

Annie Peck. Photo by Wikimedia Commons.

But not everyone felt this way. Both in and outside the context of mountain climbing, women could face retribution, such as arrest or fines, for wearing pants, but most of the time, they just walked away with damaged reputations or faced social exclusion for their fashion choices. However, some women were arrested for wearing pants and even jailed. Emma Snodgrass, in 1852, was arrested several times for wearing pants in Boston, and Helen Hulick spent five days in jail in 1938 for wearing slacks to a court hearing in Los Angeles.

Peck was a suffragette—whether her pants-wearing was an act of political defiance or a matter of safety, other women had been badly injured or perished while wearing skirts climbing, and she would not be one of them.

“For a woman in difficult mountaineering to waste her strength and endanger her life with a skirt is foolish in the extreme,” wrote Peck in a 1901 article for Outing Magazine titled “Practical Mountain Climbing.”

Peck was a former Latin professor at Smith College who left it all behind to climb mountains and lecture about her adventures. From 1890 to 1910, she climbed a dozen mountains in Europe and Latin America. She would lecture, save up her money, climb mountains, and then repeat the process.

Peck was on the hunt to stand on the apex of America and thought she had found it in Mt. Huascarán in Peru. In 1908, at the age of 58, she successfully summited the mountain on her sixth attempt. She was the first known person to ever stand on top of Mt. Huascarán.

With the help of fellow American Alpine Club member Herschel Parker, a physicist and mountaineer, she determined that the top of the mountain was around 23,520 feet, but she took no measurements from the summit, only the saddle. Peck’s ascent and the associated height she had achieved meant she now held an altitude record, eclipsing Fanny Bullock Workman’s previous record. The claim would start one of the biggest disputes of mountaineering history.

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Fanny Bullock. Photo by Wikimedia Commons.

Fanny Bullock Workman was a fierce woman you wouldn’t want to cross. She had an impressive climbing resume, with ascents in the Alps, the Karakoram, and the Punjab Himalaya— she had one of the longer lists of ascents in the AAC’s founders section.

Deeply ambitious, Workman snatched the women’s altitude record from Annie Peck in 1906 when she climbed Pinnacle Peak in the Nun Kun massif in the Himalaya. This spurred Peck to try to take the record back with her climb of Mt. Huascarán, which she claimed to be higher than Pinnacle Peak.

People were engrossed in their feud. The media couldn’t get enough of two powerful women in the same field fighting for the top spot—or rather, the highest spot. Both women gave interviews for articles in newspapers like the Trenton Evening Times, Harrisburg Daily Independent, Detroit Free Press, and Suburbanite Economist, to name a few—defaming one another and trying to frame the story's narrative for their benefit. Whether their feud was malicious or mutually beneficial, people knew their names and accomplishments as mountaineers first, then as women.

In 1909, the American Alpine Club invited Annie Peck to speak about her ascent of Mt. Huascarán. However, the Club grew concerned when newspaper coverage and fans began to question how she ascertained the height of the mountain. Earlier on the same day of her lecture at the AAC’s annual meeting, Charles E. Fay, Vice President of the AAC, proposed an investigation into the height of Huascarán since “exaggerated reports have recently been circulated by the press...regarding the altitude of Mt. Huascarán.”

News outlets exaggerated the peak’s height to up to 26,000 feet. Peck had not brought an aneroid barometer—a sealed metal chamber that expands and contracts depending on the atmospheric pressure around it—with her on the climb to measure the altitude, nor did she take a measurement from the summit, so she couldn’t be sure about the height.

Workman wanted to end speculation and get her title back. In 1909, she spent the equivalent of half a million dollars to send surveyors to Peru to find the true height of Mt. Huascarán. The surveyors returned with triangulated heights for both the north and south peaks. They determined that the north peak was 21,812 feet (modern technology has determined it is actually 21,831 feet) and the South Peak was 22,187 feet (actually 22,205 feet). Either way, Pinnacle Peak was higher than both.

According to a 1911 New York Times article, the Academy of Sciences ruled in Workman’s favor. The year prior, in a letter sent from Henry G. Bryant, then AAC President, to Annie Peck, Bryant said the AAC sided with Workman’s assessment of the peak’s height. Workman had won back the altitude record, retaining her reign over women’s alpinism.

Caught off guard, Peck didn’t hesitate to make a quippy remark in a letter back to Bryant: “I had not been aware that her interest in my ascent of Huascarán extended so far, though I am not surprised. What fine thing it is to have plenty of money!”

But not all was lost for Peck. In 1910, the Hassan Cigarette Company featured a series of trading cards titled “World’s Greatest Explorers.” Out of 25 cards, Peck was the only woman featured. That same year, the Singer Sewing Machine Company gave away a packet of postcards featuring Peck’s travels and climbing accomplishments with every machine they sold. She still published her book about her expedition on Mt. Huascarán, but switched the title from The Apex of America to A Search for the Apex of America. She was a household name, something money can’t buy.

Still, you wouldn’t have wanted to be seated between Peck and Workman at the American Alpine Club Annual Gathering that year.

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These four women helped shape the Club as we know it today. Fuller, Workman, Peck, and Peary were strong-willed, educated women in a world governed by rules and regulations of what a woman should be. Each woman stood defiant in her own way. Fuller was independent. Peary welcomed exploration. Peck believed in safety regardless of norms. Workman was dogged in all of her pursuits. They were courageous and ambitious, petty and imperfect. They were history makers. They were part of something bigger than themselves.

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Guidebook XV—Rewind the Climb

A World of Appalling Grandeur

The First Ascent of Mt. Logan

By Hannah Provost with support from the AAC Library

Photos from the Allen Carpé Collection in the AAC Library

The snowy fortress of Mt. Logan massif had opened its door after weeks of siege. It was June 23, 1925, when Allen Carpé and five others stood atop the highest peak in Canada for the first time, the sheer pinnacle of the summit plunging down sharply to the Seward Glacier below.

To Carpé, in the thin air, it felt like every moment was twice lived.

And in the media storm and flurry of drama that followed, he would be called upon to set the record straight—and relive those moments yet another time.

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At first glance, the 100-year-old story of the first ascent of Mt. Logan might have a familiar outline—a band of men push up and up to ascend to the great heights, facing great hardship along the way. In the classic telling, we follow the expedition leader Albert MacCarthy as he spends weeks caching supplies in the dead of winter, utilizing sleds pulled by snowshoe-clad horses, and higher up on the mountain, cunning dog teams that fight whenever left alone.

In the classic telling, we follow MacCarthy, American Alpine Club representative Allen Carpé, American Norman Read, Colonel Foster, and the others on the expedition as they ferry their own gear back and forth between each subsequent camp, the measure of days the number of heavy loads these men have carried to the next advanced base camp, or their proximity to frostbite. With teeth on edge, we’d read of 11 journeys through a precarious icefall as they consolidated their camp above 10,000 feet, transporting nearly a ton of equipment and food.

Once high on the massif, we’d delight in the cunning trick, attributed to MacCarthy, of planting 600 bare willow branches in the blowing snow every hundred feet, to prevent against getting lost in the whiteout. Such trail maintenance would ultimately save lives and precious time, but still couldn’t prevent one rope team from losing their way during a storm that chased them down from the summit. Those men spent 42 hours without shelter in the freezing, grainy snowbanks, only realizing their mistake when they found themselves walking in circles, back on the summit plateau, the slopes ominously appearing at unexpected angles.

The theme of that story is loneliness, drudgery, and the sheer force of will needed against the worst conditions that such an icy world could offer.

Reflecting on these themes, Carpé writes in his own telling of the ascent, published in 1933 in the American Alpine Journal: “I think it was during these days that the awful loneliness of these great ranges was first borne in upon me with something of the force of a personal experience. Until we turned the corner into the Ogilvie glacier, we could look back down the valley and sense the presence of the lower hills and of living things. Now as we worked in toward the savage cliffs of Logan we entered a new world of appalling grandeur, and our little band seemed insignificant and very much alone. We had no support behind us, no organization of supply, no linkage at all with the outer world. We were on our own.”

That telling is perhaps best left to those who experienced it. But a 100-year distance can sharpen the focus of our lens on something else—the mundane letters and newspaper stories that came afterward, that can so easily be forgotten as part of the story, and that might tell us a little something different about the legacy our climbing ancestors have left us.

There are, of course, the historical accounts—a hundred pages dedicated to the planning of the ascent, scientific studies accomplished during the expedition, and the story of the climb itself, all included in the Canadian Alpine Journal. Because the AAC was not yet publishing the American Alpine Journal (it would do so for the first time in 1929), the American account of the ascent was published in the Appalachian Mountain Club’s journal. The American public, too, was in awe, with repeated articles appearing in the New York Times, the Boston Transcript, and others.

But a flurry of letters from September 1925, dashed off in angry haste with cross-outs and misspellings, reveal a gap in the telling. The writer, expedition member Norman Read, repeatedly argues to his friend and reader, Allen Carpé, that the representations of the expedition in the media are “positively disgusting in its sensationalism and its falsity.” He asks Carpé to write the story the right way—to tell it in a manner ‘worthy of the fraternity of mountaineering.’ The letters are a source of 100-year-old gossip—they tell of personal disgruntlement and vendetta, but also raise a question that a century later still holds: If there is no cheating in climbing, only lying, then what do you do about a little storytelling flair—a little hyperbole? What are the ethics of telling a mountaineering story right?

Flip over one of The New York Times clippings that features the story of the Logan ascent, and you’ll see pictures of the season’s debutantes printed in sepia—flaunting flapper dresses and long strings of pearls. It was the 1920s: a period of extravagance, economic growth, and patriotism after the horrors of the First World War. Only a decade before, in 1913, did the first people stand atop Denali (Mt. McKinley). In 1924, a highly public attempt on Mt. Everest ended in the disappearance of George Mallory and Andrew Irvine, generating considerable speculation about whether they had made the first ascent before going missing. The American Alpine Club was founded in 1902; the Alpine Club of Canada had started in 1906. Amid this milieu, as they watched the U.K.’s Alpine Club take their shot at Everest, the Canadians and Americans had started to look around for their own slice of history. There was a lot at stake— this ascent needed to make a splash.

From the get-go, the Logan expedition was known to be a massive undertaking in logistics, and MacCarthy took on the labor of caching the supplies needed for a siege-style ascent, so deep in the Canadian interior that it was a slog of over 100 miles from the nearest town to Logan’s surrounding glaciers. As Carpé would write, MacCarthy “was not a man to hold back when there was work to do.” MacCarthy, as leader, dominated the expedition, and this really rubbed Read the wrong way.

Read alludes to “unpleasantness of the trip” and “personal grievances” in his letters. And it seems that such unpleasantness wasn’t all in Read’s head. MacCarthy, in his own account of the trip for the CAJ, closes with an acknowledgment of his behavior, and quite the excuse: “Thus, at midnight on June 28th, we again were down to the level where men think and breathe and work in a rational way and so may be held accountable for their actions. If sometimes while above that level, I was harsh and disagreeable, I ask that my companions please forgive me.”

Many accusations pile up in Read’s letters.

Read had heard whispers that the Canadians hadn’t even wanted the Americans to come along, and in Read’s opinion, Foster and MacCarthy were colluding to take all the attention from everyone else.

In the newspaper stories citing MacCarthy and Foster as sources, aspersions were cast that Read had deserted his companions in an hour of need, that another expedition member was weak and ineffectual, that Carpé was a coward and had wanted to turn back during the final summit push, and that “[MacCarthy] forced [Carpé] on since he felt that the official representative of the American Alpine Club should reach the top.”

And then there was the hyperbole—yes, they had rafted back down the river as the final leg back to town, but they were not “plunging through the swift waters of canyons” by any stretch. Similarly, there was plenty of heroism in the expedition, but the newspapers likewise stretched the danger they faced in the final snowy pitches. Read writes: ”Nobody was in a precarious position and there was no danger of loss of life that I could see. Such accounts as these hardly seem to fit in with the ethics of true mountaineering.”

In each of his letters, Read nudges Carpé to set the record straight. Always, it is some version of the note in his last letter: “Someone ought to really write the true story and blow up their attempt to distort the facts.” It was the 1920s version of double-texting: Read, experiencing intense emotion after reading each newspaper story, wrote Carpé multiple letters before ever receiving a response.

Allen Carpé did set the record straight—in fact it was one of his last acts. Carpé’s accounting of the Logan expedition, included in the 1933 AA J, was published posthumously, after he went missing on Denali in 1932. It is suspected that he fell into a crevasse while attempting to help a fellow expedition member. He had brought a draft of what would become the 1933 AAJ article, intending to work on edits for a magazine, before he vanished on the mountain. It is one of his last known writings.

Seven years after the original ascent, Carpé’s story is reflective of the man himself. In his AAJ obituary, W.S. Ladd describes Carpé as a “quiet, shy man” with a “clear, calculating mind...precise in his methods” and with “little patience with inefficiency.” Indeed, “all his efforts I shall always think of as being governed by one motive—precision.”

Allen Carpé (right) with Howard Palmer.

How did Carpé, given this characterization, receive Norman Read’s undifferentiated vitriol for the leaders of their expedition, and the (supposedly inaccurate) tales told in the media? Carpé’s own letters back to Read have yet to be found, if they even survive at all, and yet penciled-in commentary in the margins points to a potential understanding of his mind.

The marginalia could be Carpé’s reactions to Read’s letters—or maybe Howard Palmer’s, whose papers they were found with, or an unknown other—but regardless the marks are enough to question the full veracity of Read’s grumbling. “Not strictly true” is noted in the margins where Read shares his version of events to prove he didn’t desert his fellows. Yet Carpé does address some of Read’s concerns in his own account—he clearly wasn’t discounting Read outright. Whether we should consider Carpé’s account as universally true, it’s hard to say—but at least he seems a more measured and dispassionate observer of the tale than either Read or MacCarthy and Foster.

Carpé’s telling captures great trials with understated grace. Describing the summit, he writes:

What did we see, how did we feel, what were our thoughts in that precarious half-hour of victory? The first question is the easiest: we saw fog about us, and rare glimpses of a world far below of which we seemed not at all a part, and for a time we saw in the fog gigantic shadow mind...precise in his methods” and with “little patience with inefficiency.” Indeed, “all his efforts I shall always think of as being governed by one motive—precision.”

How did Carpé, given this characterization, receive Norman Read’s undifferentiated vitriol for the leaders of their expedition, and the (supposedly inaccurate) tales told in the media? Carpé’s own letters back to Read have yet to be found, if they even survive at all, and yet penciled-in commentary in the margins points to a potential understanding of his mind.

The marginalia could be Carpé’s reactions to Read’s letters—or maybe Howard Palmer’s, whose papers they were found with, or an unknown other—but regardless the marks are enough to question the full veracity of Read’s grumbling. “Not strictly true” is noted in the margins where Read shares his version of events to prove he didn’t desert his fellows. Yet Carpé does address some of Read’s concerns in his own account—he clearly wasn’t discounting Read outright. Whether we should consider Carpé’s account as universally true, it’s hard to say—but at least he seems a more measured and dispassionate observer of the tale than either Read or MacCarthy and Foster.

Carpé’s telling captures great trials with understated grace. Describing the summit, he writes:

What did we see, how did we feel, what were our thoughts in that precarious half-hour of victory? The first question is the easiest: we saw fog about us, and rare glimpses of a world far below of which we seemed not at all a part, and for a time we saw in the fog gigantic shadow

images of ourselves...As to the rest, I fear we were too spent to make the answer very exciting. Almost automatically we went through the appointed routine: hand-clasps and congratulations, a round of motion pictures, the empty gesture of a record of names and date thrust into the snow. Then we turned and began the descent in the gathering storm.

Whether truly Foster and MacCarthy’s fault, or the heavy hand of overexuberant newspaper editors, the sensationalism of the media recounting of the Logan ascent feels a little familiar to our modern gaze. In Carpé’s hands, the moments of low morale at the false summit, or the small moments of heroism, like when in their haste to descend they were all going the wrong way before Read saw the error and corrected course, feel truer.

In Carpé’s more stoic account, there is danger and bravery, heroism and moments of a greater spiritual connection. The drama is already there, in the act of climbing itself. Even if some of Read’s fighting words come from a place of hurt ego, perhaps his larger point isn’t so off the mark. We don’t need to add anything in for effect—climbing already has a built-in plot. Logan was already a world of appalling grandeur.

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Guidebook XIV—Rewind the Climb

David Hauthon on Directissima (5.9), The Trapps, Shawangunks, New York. Land of the Mohican and Munsee Lenape people. Photo by AAC member Francois Lebeau.

Setting the Standard

By the Editors

Before there were 8a.nu leaderboards and Mountain Project ticklists, before there were beta videos and newspaper articles for every cutting-edge ascent, there was a word-of-mouth understanding of who was setting the standard of the day.

Pushing the standard of climbing at the Gunks has proven to be key in the history of climbing in the United States, and any connoisseur of climbing history will know the names of Fritz Wiessner, Hans Kraus, Jim McCarthy, John Stannard, Steve Wunsch, and John Bragg—all AAC members by the way. But what often gets overlooked in the whispers of rowdy Vulgarian parties, naked climbing antics, and strict leader qualifications that swirl around Gunks history are the distinct contributions of women to Gunks climbing. A central figure in this story is the unique character Bonnie Prudden.

First, we must set the scene. Prudden was most active climbing in the Gunks in the late 1940s and early 1950s, when climbing on rock was done in sneakers with a hemp rope. Rather than boldness, a strict no-falls attitude pre-vailed, and good judgment was prized over achieving the next cutting-edge grade. Pitons and aid climbing were status quo, and without a priority on pushing the limits of the sport, the time period was considered non-competitive. While Wiessner, Kraus, Prudden, and others were climbing 5.7s (even occasionally 5.8), most climbers stuck to routes rated 5.2–5.4.

Climbing in the Gunks started with Fritz Wiessner, who went on a developing tear starting in 1935. He and Hans Kraus would be the leading developers of the area until the late 1950s, collectively establishing 56 of the 58 multi-pitch climbs put up in that period. In 30 of those first ascents, Prudden played a role, and she wasn’t just tagging along.

With competition on the back burner, the significance of leading was murky. Some of the climbers at the time proclaimed that there wasn’t a big difference between leading and following. However, the great tension and division that would characterize the Gunks’ history— between the Appalachian Mountain Club climbers (Appies) and the rebel Vulgarians that opposed their rules—came down to the question of regulating leading. The Appies, the dominant climbing force in the Gunks until the Vulgarians and other rabble-rousers splintered the scene in the 1960s, created a lead qualification system, determining who could lead at any given level. Alternatively, some climbers were designated as “unlimited leaders,” who didn’t need approval to lead specific routes.

Although they were painted as control freaks by the Vulgarians, the truth behind why the Appie crowd was so invested in regulating leading (and minimizing the risk inherent in climbing) was because they were keenly aware of the generosity of the Smileys, the landowners who looked the other way as climbers galavanted around on the excellent stone of the Trapps and Sky Top.

Bonnie Prudden was lucky enough to rise above all of the drama. As a close friend and frequent climbing partner of Hans Kraus’s (who was obviously an “unlimited leader,” being one of the first, and much-exalted, developers of the area), Prudden had frequent access to new, difficult climbs. In interviews with researcher Laura Waterman, Prudden relayed that in the early years, while climbing with her then husband, Dick Hirschland, she always led because of their significant weight difference. Later she took the lead simply because of her skill, tutored by Kraus and Wiessner.

Shelma Jun on Harvest Moon (5.11a). Photo by AAC member Chris Vultaggio.

Prudden took her first leader fall on the 5.6 Madame G (Madame Grunnebaum’s Wulst) and recalls catching a fall from Kraus only four times. At the time, 5.7 and 5.8 was the very top of the scale, and Prudden was keeping up—and sometimes showing off.

The story of the first ascent of Bonnie’s Roof, now free climbed at 5.9, is often held up as proof of Prudden’s talent, and rightfully so. But the gaps in the story and the fuzziness of Prudden’s memory of it might reveal more than the accomplishment itself.

On that day in 1952, Prudden thought the intimidating roof “looked like the bottom of a boat jutting out from the cliff,” as she wrote in an article about the climb in Alpinist 14, published in 2005.

Overhanging climbing was still a frontier to explore, but Kraus was a man on the hunt for exposure, rather than difficulty. It just so happened that the massive overlapping tiers of Bonnie’s Roof would provide both.

Prudden wrote about the first ascent: “I don’t remember who took what pitch since by then we were swinging leads. But I do remember quite well reaching the Roof’s nose. This airy feature was the reason for the climb. Getting to it had been one thing; getting over it would be something else.” The very fact that she couldn’t remember the precise order of leads indicates how commonplace this was for her—how comfortable she felt on the sharp end.

Kraus struggled for a long time to find a place for a piton over the roof, and ultimately backed down in a huff, ceding the lead to Prudden. As she started up on the sharp end to see if she could locate the next hold that Kraus could not, she quickly found a hole over the lip that would take gear, a massive positive jug that was hard to see from below. She nailed in the piton without weighting it, pulled over the lip with ease, and ultimately climbed the pitch with only one point of aid. It seems that she “floated it,” as we might say today. Rather than the giddy breathlessness one might imagine upon pulling a strenuous lip encounter and succeeding where Kraus could not, Prudden’s first ascent seemed to get a shrug of the shoulders. This was just the usual business, and her telling of it reveals just how blasé climbing at the top of the standard was for Prudden.

Carmen Magee on Tulip, (5.10a). Photo by AAC member Chris Vultaggio.

Prudden’s involvement in 30 first ascents, including several at the highest difficulty of the day, had her setting the standard of the time. But researcher and historian Laura Waterman has uncovered a weird quirk to Gunks climbing history that should be noted. Women were involved in over half of the FAs during the 1940s, but decreasingly so in later decades. For example, between 1960 and 1970, only 5% of first ascents involved women.

Indeed, many female climbers of the later decades note a cultural sentiment about the frailty of women regarding sports, as an AAC Legacy Series interview with Elaine Matthews, iconic Vulgarian during the 1960s and 1970s, reveals. According to Matthews and others, there was a perception that women and girls “might hurt their reproductive organs” if they ran or did other forms of athletics. Women would not be climbing at the top of the standard in the Gunks again until the late 1970s.

Funnily enough, though she had an outsized effect on early first ascents of multi-pitch Gunks classics, none of these climbs were included in her climbing résumé when Prudden (then going by her married name, Hirschland) applied for AAC membership. Though she was accepted as the 652nd member of the AAC in 1951 on the merit of the mountains she’d climbed, today her legacy is much more tied to first ascents like Bonnie’s Roof, Something Interesting, Oblique Twique, Hans Puss, and Dry Martini.

For the women who came after her, perhaps the shrug at the Bonnie’s Roof belay is more important than the first ascent.

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The Gunks: A Climbing Timeline

The Time of the Appalachian Mountain Club or “Appies”

• 1935
  European Fritz Wiessner discovers the Gunks’ climbing potential and begins opening up new routes in the 5.2–5.5 range.

• 1940
  Hans Kraus, another European climber, arrives in the Gunks. By 1950, Kraus and Wiessner would be responsible for putting up 56 of the 58 multi-pitch climbs in the Gunks. Twenty-three of the FAs went to Wiessner, 26 to Kraus, and seven to them both.

• 1941
  AAC members Kraus and Wiessner put up High Exposure (5.6), a Gunks classic.

• 1945
  The “Appies,” or members of the Appalachian Mountain Club, are regularly climbing at the Gunks on weekends. Due to safety concerns and fears of stepping on the toes of the private landowners, the Smileys, the Appies soon adopt a strict set of regulations, including requiring registration to come on climbing trips, designating rope teams and climbs, and creating restrictions on who is qualified to lead and at what level.

Bootleggers

• Early 1950s
  The Bootleggers, largely consisting of Kraus’s climbing circle of friends, sidestep the restrictions of the Appies and often climb the hardest routes of the time.

• 1952
  AAC member Bonnie Prudden leads the intimidating roof of what would become Bonnie’s Roof, with one point of aid, when her climbing partner, Kraus, can’t figure out the roof move (now climbed at 5.8+ or 5.9).

• 1957
  AAC member Jim McCarthy puts up the hardest rock climb in the Northeast with Yellow Belly (5.8 or 5.9), through a steep roof, ushering in a culture of pushing the standard.

The Vulgarians

• 1957
  Art Gran splits with the Appies. The Vulgarians are born when he joins and mentors some college party kids who begin resisting the leader regulations upheld by the Appies.

• Late 1950s
  Rich Goldstone and AAC member Dick Williams establish boulders now graded up to V6 and V7 in the Trapps, though bouldering is mostly considered a training tool at this time.

• 1960
  Jim McCarthy introduces the first solid 5.9 at the Gunks with his ascent of MF.

• 1967
  AAC member John Stannard climbs the iconic Foops, ushering in 5.11 using repeated falls and rehearsal tactics.

• 1970
  The first Vulgarian Digest is published; “blame” goes to Joe Kelsey.

The Clean Climbing Era Begins

• 1972
  The clean climbing movement, largely spearheaded by John Stannard in the region, overhauls the old ways.

• 1973
  Standard and AAC members Steve Wunsch and John Bragg usher in 5.12 while trying to free old aid lines. Of particular note are Kansas City (5.12-) and Open Cockpit (5.11+ PG13).

• 1974
  Wunsch frees Supercrack, probably the hardest climb in North America, possibly even the world, at the time.

• 1977
  Barbara Devine reestablishes the women’s standard (after an extensive lull), climbing Kansas City and desperate 5.11s like Open Cockpit, To Have or Have Not, and Wasp Stop, among others. In 1983 she does the first female ascent of Supercrack.

The Great Debate on Ethics and Style

• 1983
  AAC member Lynn Hill makes a splash as one of four Gunks climbers to master Vandals, the Gunks’ first 5.13.

• 1986
  “The Great Debate” is held at an AAC member meeting, attended by many Gunks legends, fleshing out questions about rap-bolting, hangdogging, and other modern climbing tactics versus the traditional style of ground-up development and ascent.

• Late 1980s
  AAC member Scott Franklin pushes Gunks standards with his ascent of Planet Claire, sometimes considered the world’s first traditional 5.14, but which later settled at the grade 13d. Franklin also establishes modern testpieces like Survival of the Fittest (5.13a), which he later solos, and Cybernetic Wall (5.13d).

Resurgence of Bouldering

• 2006
  The Mohonk Preserve and the American Alpine Club (alongside the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation, and Historic Preservation and the Palisades Interstate Park Commission) partner to create a campground within walking distance from some of the Gunks’ greatest crags.

• 2023
  William Moss establishes a 5.14d R at the Gunks with his first free ascent of Best Things in Life Are Free (BT).

• 2024
  Austin Hoyt puts up The Big Bad Wolf, the first V15 in the northeastern United States.

A huge thanks to Laura and Guy Waterman and Michael Wejchert, whose research and book Yankee Rock and Ice is the basis for much of this timeline.

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Book Your Stay at the Gunks—AAC Lodging

The AAC’s lodging facilities are a launch pad for adventure and a hub for community. Experience this magical place for yourself by booking your stay at the Samuel F. Pryor III Gateway Campground today.

AAC members enjoy discounts at lodging facilities across the country. Not a member? Join today.

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A Tribute to Virginia Boucher

Sal Marino, Janet Robertson, Dave Robertson, and Virginia Boucher in the Minarets, 1956. Courtesy of the American Alpine Club Library

Virginia Boucher
May 26, 1929 – March 9, 2025

It is with great appreciation that the American Alpine Club honors and celebrates the life of Virginia (Ginnie) Boucher—an unsung hero in the Club’s history. 

Virginia Boucher climbing at the Garden of the Gods, 1948. Courtesy of the American Alpine Club Library

Virginia Boucher was the chair for the AAC Library Committee for a decade, and a driving force in introducing best practices to the AAC Library from the 1990s onward—including online access to the AAC’s library catalog, expansion of library staff, and implementing interlibrary loans in this highly niche space of mountaineering libraries and literature. Boucher was also instrumental in the physical move of the AAC Library from the AAC’s original Clubhouse in New York to its current location among the mountains of Golden, Colorado. 

Boucher received the 2005 Angelo Heilprin Citation from the AAC for exemplary service to the Club, thanks to her transformational leadership at the AAC Library. Not only did her leadership bring the full force of library science to bear on this now world-renowned library and archive, but she also helped steward the acquisition of many pieces of the John M. Boyle Himalayan Collection and the Nicholas B. Clinch Collection, two keystone collections in the AAC’s current holdings. 

In the notes announcing her award of the Heilprin Citation, the Award Committee shares some tidbits that suggest that Boucher wasn’t just the bookish type—she also had a flair for adventure. The committee notes that she and her husband, Stanley Boucher–a lifetime member of the AAC—were known for their unplanned night descents, and had a hilarious story about fighting off porcupines in the San Juans. She climbed the Grand Teton, Rainier, and many of Colorado’s mountains, and in her early years started off her climbing at the Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. 

Sal Marino, Virginia Boucher, and Janet Robertson in the Minarets, 1956. Courtesy of the American Alpine Club Library

Boucher’s extensive impact as a volunteer for the AAC’s Library Committee was fueled by her love for the mountains and her calling as a librarian. But by the time she was serving on the committee, she had left climbing behind her. In her autobiography, she writes of this part of herself: “I know a number of those who have ‘summited’ Mount Everest…those who are addicted to boulders, and a few such as myself who climb [only] in our memories.”

But even so, climbing was a part of her history and identity, and after shepherding the AAC Library into the world-class institution it is today, she recalls how her volunteer involvement with the AAC Library brought her full-circle in her career: “I have drawn upon my special library experience…to give the best advice I can to this emerging and unique library… And finally, I have returned to my beginnings; I shelve books once again.”

Guidebook XII—Rewind the Climb

Photo by AAC Staff Foster Denney.

The Naked Edge

By Hannah Provost

If you had to tell the story of the evolution of climbing within the history of one route, your most compelling choices might be The Nose of El Capitan or The Naked Edge in Eldorado Canyon. In this way, The Naked Edge is a time capsule containing within its memory: the much dreamed-of first ascent finally climbed by Layton Kor, Bob Culp, and Rick Horn; a period defining free ascent by Jim Erickson and Duncan Furgeson in the early 1970s; and one of the few battle- grounds for speed records in the United States. In 1962, Kor and Bob Culp were diverted attempting to aid the steep final edge, and today, climbers have speed climbed the route, bridge to bridge, in a little over 22 minutes. What is it about this climb that has allowed it to be the sketchbook for climbing legends to draw out the evolution of our sport? Anecdotes and artifacts from the American Alpine Club Library and archives provided the answer.

Perhaps it was all aesthetics—the compelling imagery of a climb that could divide dark- ness and light. Or maybe it was the fact that The Edge tends to rebuff many of its suitors. But whether The Naked Edge was dishing out a good humbling, or whether, as Jim Erickson famously argued, his free ascent style “humbled the climb” instead, The Naked Edge might live so prominently in our collective climbing memory because it encapsulates one of the great questions of each climbing endeavor. Who holds the power here? The climb or the climber?

At first, the route held all the cards. Layton Kor, known for his hulking height and wild, almost demonic, drive, could usually weaponize his determination and fearlessness to get through any hard climbing he might envision for himself. Yet when Layton Kor and Bob Culp attempted to aid the route in 1962, having each been turned away in 1961 on separate occasions, they still had to deviate from the original vision and finished the climb via a dihedral slightly to the left of the stunning final overhang. It wasn’t until Kor came back with Rick Horn in 1964 that The Edge, as we climb it today, was first done in its entirety.

Jim Erickson, a young gun with a knowing grin, hadn’t always been a hotshot. However, by the early 1970s, he had gotten into the habit of proving a point—freeing the old obscure aid lines in Eldo put up by Robbins, Kor, Dalke, and Ament the decade before. After several failed attempts to free The Naked Edge, repeatedly retreating from the first pitch finger crack due to a strict avoidance of hangdog- ging and rehearsing, freeing The Naked Edge was his foremost ambition.

By 1971, The Naked Edge had been ascended 30 or so times using direct aid. Erickson was envisioning a new phase of the route’s life. Yet his first moderately successful attempt, with prolific free climber Steve Wunsch, was yet another humbling. As he wrote for Climb!: The History of Rock Climbing in Colorado, the fourth pitch was daunting to the point of existential: “Steve dubs it impossible. I give it a disheartened try, but it is late so down we come, pondering the ultimate metaphysical questions: ‘Is there life after birth? Sex after death?’”

When Erickson and Duncan Ferguson returned a week later, things went a little more smoothly. Though The Naked Edge was the last major climb that the two would ascend using pitons, it wasn’t the use of pitons that haunted Erickson and sent him off on his staunch commitment to only onsight free -climbing. Rather, when Erickson reflects on the effort and technique of pitoncraft, and the incredible added effort of free climbing on pitons, he seems almost to be creating something, tinkering. Describing nailing the crux of the first thin pitch in an interview for the Legacy Series, a project of the AAC to preserve the history of climbing, Erickson painted a picture of immense toil: “You’re in this strenuous fingertip layback, with shoes that didn’t smear very well...You had to first of all figure out which piton you were going to place, you had to set it in the crack, you were doing all of this with one hand while you were hanging on. Then you had to tap the piton once to make sure you didn’t lose it... because if you missed it and dropped it you’re back to square one, so you had to tap the pin, finally hit it in, test it to see if it was good, then you’d clip a single free carabiner, and a second free carabiner into it, and then you would clip your rope in, all while you were hanging on with one hand in a bad finger lock.”

In the 1960s and 1970s, once a route was freed, it was not to be aided again. The rock had been sufficiently humbled, and all climbers seeking to prove their worth on that rock must level up their skills to prove themselves worthy.

Lynn Hill and Beth Bennett set out to capture an ascent of The Edge with filmmaker Bob Carmichael in 1981, who may have let the reputation of the climb leak into the produc- tion notes, asking the climbers to fall repeatedly on the first pitch and editing in a training mon- tage. Though the film claims to document the struggle of the first all-female ascent, Bennett reports: “the film with Lynn was a fictionalized account.” Bennett had already clinched the FFFA in 1977, and reports doing the first all-fe- male ascent with Louise Shepherd and Jean Dempsey (née Ruwitch) a year later. Similarly, Hill had become the first woman to climb 7c (5.12d) two years before, and was clearly stronger than the film suggests. Their humbling was played up for the sake of drama, and Hill wishes she could have properly attempted an onsight. In the case of this ascent, the humbling reputation of the climb dominated the narra- tive, obscuring the power the climbers’ held in that fight.

These days, news about The Naked Edge revolves around the potentially most hubristic

part of modern rock climbing: soloing and speed ascents. Speed ascents of this iconic route began in the early 1990s with Micheal Gilbert and Rob Slater. As the record dwin- dled, a friendly rivalry emerged between two teams consisting of Stefan Griebel and Jason Wells, and Brad Gobright and Scott Bennett. Before Gobright and Wells died in respective climbing accidents in Mexico and California, this friendly rivalry had pushed the record to 24 minutes and 29 seconds. New kids Ben Wilbur and John Ebers arrived on the scene in 2020 and, with just a few practice runs, cut down the record to 24 minutes and 14 sec- onds. In 2022, Griebel put on his racing shoes again and paired up with local Joe Kennedy, climbing The Naked Edge in 22 minutes and 44 seconds, bridge to bridge.

Griebel has climbed the route over 350 times. Sometimes pitched out and casual, some- times as reconnaissance missions, sometimes as three laps in three hours as he and Joe got closer to going for the Fastest Known Time. For these speed climbers, the route has become a “third place,” even more so than the climbing gym. Besides work and home, it has become the other, alternative place where one is social, makes connections, and refines one’s identity. Kennedy writes: “You could argue it’s a waste of time to climb it over and over, but doing so has led to some of the most meaningful friendships and climbing experiences I’ve had in my life. It has turned the route into a meeting place, a fitness test, a playground, and something so much more significant than just a rock climb.”

But even these modern masters of this stone can be humbled by the climb in their own way. Kennedy reflects: “I was totally humbled by the route when I first climbed it. It was much more difficult than I expected–thin, techy, pumpy, and slick. And when I don’t climb it for a while, I never fail to get more pumped than I thought, no matter how dialed my beta is.” Griebel is adamant the rock always does the humbling: “Sometimes it feels like the easiest one-pitch 5.9 warm-up in the canyon, and other days I mess up a crux sequence in the smallest way and suddenly get pumped and scared! The rock always does the humbling, not the other way around. I’ve seen 5.13 sport climbers fall out of the Bombay Chimney onto that 50-year-old pin!”

Reflecting today, Jim Erickson says his famous quote is often misunderstood. Indeed, he believes the style in which he and Furguson freed The Edge wasn’t the ethics he truly believed in—despite yo-yoing being an accepted practice at the time, he only ever truly felt satisfied by onsight climbing. But he also insists that he and his partners were hum- bled by the climb, too. In contrast to Griebel, Kennedy, and others, Erickson has never gotten back on The Naked Edge after his his- tory-making ascent. It was such a special experience that he worried that climbing it again would destroy the myth of it. Still, he can remember nearly every piece of beta, each pound of the hammer required to secure each piton.

Climbing it only once, Erickson is still torn by the question of humility. Climbing it hundreds of times, Griebel has yet to come any closer to finding the answer. So, who is doing the humbling? Perhaps, the fact that the answer is so elusive is why the pursuit of the question remains so satisfying.

EDUCATE: The Forgotten Stonemaster

We are so excited to have longtime AAC member Rick Accomazzo on the podcast to chat about his new book “Tobin, the Stonemasters, and Me, 1970-1980.” This book is part memoir of Rick’s own early climbing career, part revealing biography of Tobin Sorenson, the forgotten Stonemaster who was an incredible all-arounder; and part a distillation of a decade of climbing culture. With these three threads, the book weaves together many untold climbing stories from an iconic, pivotal decade, from “before climbing lost its innocence,” as John Long says in his forward to the book. Listen to the episode to hear some key stories from the book and learn about the ten-year process of putting it together.

We’d also like to congratulate Rick for his book being longlisted for the Banff Mountain Literature Award! Dive into the episode to get your dose of forgotten climbing history. You can grab your own copy at stonemasterbooks.com

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Episode Resources:

Buy the Book

Banff Mountain Literature Awards

The Climb that Inspired the Novel that Inspired the Climbs: The Many Stories of the Brenva Face of Mont Blanc

From the AAC Library Collection.

By: Katie Ives 

Each book in the American Alpine Club Library is a portal to another world—of golden spires feathered with rime, fluted snow beneath indigo skies, or red-granite aiguilles above a sea of ice. Beyond these worlds, there are countless layers of other worlds encountered by readers inspired to seek their own adventures and return with their own tales. For climbing is an act of storytelling: we trace the arc of a narrative with our bodies and our minds, rising from the base of a mountain toward a climactic point and descending to a resolution. And the history of mountaineering is also the history of reading and imagination, of old dreams endlessly transforming into new ones.   

The Climb 

On July 15, 1865, English alpinist Adolphus Warburton Moore found himself on the edge of a ridge that looked like something from a fantasy novel. The slender crest of blue ice seemed to rise for an eternity. Sheer voids dropped off on either side. Neither the iron tips of their alpenstocks nor the hobnails of their boots stuck to its flawless surface.  

It was inconceivable to climb. No one had yet established a route on this aspect of Mont Blanc, where the Brenva Face rose for 1,400 meters in a chaos of cliffs, towers, and buttresses, fringed by unstable seracs and swept by avalanches and rockfall. 

From the AAC Library collection.

Still, the Swiss guide Jakob Anderegg kept going, and the rest of the team, including Moore, cautiously followed. As the crest narrowed, they shuffled along à cheval, one leg on either side, aware that any fall might be catastrophic [1].

Long after they finished the first ascent of the Brenva Spur and descended by a safer route, the ice crest lingered in the imaginations of those who read Moore’s memoir, The Alps in 1864. In 1906, British author A.E.W. Mason located the climactic scene of his crime novel Running Water on the Brenva Spur—a point of no return that appeared perfect for an attempted murder of one climber by another, “a line without breadth of cold blue ice” [2].

The Novel

Mason’s Running Water, like its author’s inspiration, begins with reading. Riding the train to Chamonix, his young protagonist Sylvia Thesiger becomes immersed in an old copy of the British Alpine Journal, published more than two decades prior to the novel. All night, she couldn’t sleep, remembering her first glimpse of the Mont Blanc massif beyond the curtain of a train window, recalling her sense of inchoate longing for its moonlit towers of ice and snow. 

Although women climbers had taken part in numerous firsts by the time of the novel’s plot, they weren’t permitted to publish in the Alpine Journal under their own bylines until 1889, when Margaret Jackson recounted her epic first winter traverse of the Jungfrau. And there’s no female author or character in the story Thesiger reads about the first ascent of an aiguille near Mont Blanc. Yet she longs to enter its world, and when she arrives in Chamonix, she hires guides to take her on her own first climb, up the Aiguille d’Argentière. As an ice slope tilts upward, sheer and smooth as a pane of glass, she rejoices, feeling as if she’s finally dreamed her way into a scene from mountain literature, “the place where no slip must be made.” Astounded at her fearlessness and intuitive skill, a guide tells her she bears an uncanny resemblance to a famous climber from the Alpine Journal story she’d just admired. 

“I felt something had happened to me which I had to recognize—a new thing,” she recalls. “Climbing that mountain...was just like hearing very beautiful music. All the vague longings which had ever stirred within me, longings for something beyond, and beyond.” Later, after she falls in love with a climber, the memory of that day suffuses their bond with a steadfast alpine glow—“ice-slope and rock-spire and the bright sun over all.”   

By the end, however, the novel shifts from her journey of self-discovery toward an outcome more conventional for its era. Newly wed, Thesiger is relegated to waiting below the Brenva Spur while the male hero and villain confront each other above that narrow blue crest. Readers don’t find out, for certain, whether she’ll climb any mountains again. A sense of incompleteness remains: the mysterious promise of her alpine epiphanies and of her suppressed and inmost self seem to flow beyond the narrative’s abrupt conclusion, like the recurring dreams she has of running water. 

The Next Climbs

After the publication of Running Water, the ice crest reemerged in a real climber’s recurring dreams. During World War I, Scottish physiologist Thomas Graham Brown took refuge in fantasies inspired by the novel. Night after night, in his sleep, he left behind the horrors of grim battles and shell-shocked men [3] for his own imagined version of the Brenva Face amid a wonderland of shining mountains. The geography seemed so “vivid,” he wrote in his memoir, Brenva, “that a map might be made of the country” [4].

After he recovered from the war, Brown sought the Brenva Face again and again, though its actual topography proved different from what he’d seen in his dreams. Between 1927 and 1933, he established three new routes there, some of the hardest of his day: the Sentinelle and the Major with fellow British climber Frank Smythe; and the Pear with Swiss guides Alexander Graven and Alfred Aufdenblatten. During the last climb, under the shadow of the full moon, Brown felt as if the Brenva had become, once more, “an unknown land,” a flood of dreams subsuming all the real lines he’d climbed. 

As they descended from the summit, light flashed along the running water of a stream, and like Thesiger, he heard an unearthly music cascade through his mind. In his sleep, long afterward, Brown continued to explore the dream version of the Brenva Face, its enigmas unresolved. And for the rest of his life, he kept Mason’s Running Water close by [5].

A Real-Life Sequel to the Novel

Meanwhile, currents of Sylvia Thesiger’s story flowed on through another real alpinist’s life. In 1920 a budding English climbing writer, Dorothey Pilley, strained to see the Alps through the window of a crowded train. She was so overwhelmed with long-held imaginings that her own first glimpse of the range seemed like a chaos of snow-reflected light. 

Since reading Running Water, Pilley had felt spellbound by the unearthly ice arête of the Brenva Spur, but also by the ice slope of the Aiguille d’Argentière, where Thesiger steps into the world of her dreams. The scenes blended in Pilley’s mind with those of other, mythic peaks into “a strange, now unrecapturable farrago of fantasies…perhaps a vague haunting background to all my mountain experiences” [6].        

Like Thesiger, Pilley felt a new self emerge when she climbed, free of the constraints of her society. As if echoing the novel, when she attempted her own early mountain writing, she found herself trying to capture images of running water over stone. Pilley, too, fell in love in the hills, and the awe and light of the mountains remained at the heart of her subsequent marriage [7].

From the AAC Library Collection.

Beyond that point, Pilley’s life story continued along one of many paths that Thesiger might have taken after the novel’s ending—if Thesiger’s author proved bold enough and feminist enough to compose such a sequel. Following a similar yearning for the mysterious, Pilley completed first ascents around the world, often with her husband, Ivor (I.A) Richards. On their most famous new route, the North Ridge of the Dent Blanche, with French guide Joseph Georges, the couple encountered a surreal crest of their own, “as though a dream had got out of place.” Its smooth and at times overhanging rock required “a leap into the void,” they recalled in the Alpine Journal [8].

Pilley also joined the early movement of women taking part in manless, guideless ascents, demonstrating they could be fully independent leaders. And she wrote down her adventures in a book of her own, Climbing Days, which became one of the great classics of literary alpine memoirs. In one of his poems, her husband I.A. Richards quoted her words, “Leaping crevasses in the dark, / That’s how to live!” [9].

The Next Novel?

Mason’s novel haunts me, too. I also fantasize of the imaginary and the real, at times obscuring each other like shadows and moonlight, cascading in unending, luminous streams from ascent to tale to ascent and tale again. Thesiger’s longings appear so vivid they seem to transcend fiction or illusion like the topography of Brown’s recurring dreams. And I wonder what she might accomplish if she were released from the pages of Running Water: Could she return to climb the Brenva Spur herself? Could her life unfold with the same wild audacity that Pilley’s had, taking leap after leap over the voids? Given the intensity of Thesiger’s love of the Alps and her inherent talent, could she, too, write down her own adventures instead of merely reading stories by men? Most of all, could she venture even deeper into the ecstatic communion with the mountains that she’d encountered on her first climb, amid the light, the stillness, and the ice? 

We live in a new era now, when alpine literature is expanding and diversifying, with the influence of new voices and new ideas. It seems past time for someone to write a new novel that could be a sequel to Running Water or else a complete reenvisioning—to find new possibilities within that “line without breadth of cold blue ice.” 

Perhaps one of the readers of my story, now, will write the next book, one that might inspire as yet unimaginable climbs and dreams. 

[I have also explored the story of the Brenva Face in a Sharp End column for Alpinist 75.—Author.] 

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More From Katie Ives

Imaginary Peaks: The Riesenstein Hoax and Other Mountain Dreams

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This article was made possible with research assistance from AAC Library Director Katie Sauter.

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Endnotes

[1] Adolphus Warburton Moore, The Alps in 1864: A Private Journal (Edinburgh: David Douglas, 1902). Although the book states “1864” in its title, the 1865 climb is included. 

[2]  A.E.W. Mason, Running Water and The Guide, with introduction and notes by Roberta Grandi (London Academic Publishing, 2021). 

[3] For a biography of Thomas Graham Brown, short-listed for the Boardman-Tasker Award, see Peter Foster’s The Uncrowned King of Mont Blanc (Langley, UK: Baton Wicks Publications, 2019). 

[4] Thomas Graham Brown, Brenva (London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd., 1944).

[5]  See Robin N. Campbell’s “Graham Brown’s Eulogy,” in the Edinburgh University Mountaineering Club Online Archives, eumarchives.files.wordpress.com, 1965. 

[6]  Climbing Days, Dorothy Pilley (London: Secker & Warburg, 1935). 

[7] As Pilley’s nephew, Dan Richards, wrote in his biography of her, also called Climbing Days (London: Faber & Faber Ltd., 2016), “Ivor and Dorothea were both, first and foremost, mountaineers. They met in the mountains on an equal footing and returned there whenever they could for the rest of their lives…. United climbing companions on a rope, their apparently eccentric union founded in the wild landscape of the mountains.”

[8] Dorothy Pilley and I.A. Richards, “The North Ridge of the Dent Blanche,” Alpine Journal 35 (1923). 

[9] As cited in Dan Richard’s biography of Pilley.

Rewind the Climb: The North Face of North Twin

Photos Courtesy of the George Lowe Collection

First Ascent by George Lowe and Chris Jones

By Grey Satterfield

Fifty years ago, George Lowe and Chris Jones plunged deep into the Canadian Rockies in search of an adventure. They had read in the 1966 American Alpine Journal of a “mountain wall which acts like a strong drug on the mind.” This wall was the north face of Twin Tower (more often referred to as the north face of North Twin), and Lowe and Jones’ adventure turned into one of the proudest ascents in the history of alpinism…

To this day, their route has yet to see a full second ascent. The north face was finally climbed again by a different route 11 years later. In 50 years, only five teams have started at the bottom of the north face and made the summit. Every climber returned with a story more harrowing than the next.

Dive in as Grey Satterfield revisits this historic ascent, and uncovers truths that helps us reflect on modern climbing:

Cathedrals of Wilderness

Three First Ascents from the Historic Roots of Wilderness Climbing

By Hannah Provost

Photo by Sterling Boin.

“ Wilderness areas shall be devoted to the public purposes of recreational, scenic, scientific, educational, conservation, and historical use.”

— 4.3(b) of the Wilderness Act, 1964

With much ado about whether the NPS and USFS will prohibit fixed anchors in Wilderness areas, the AAC thought we’d lean into one of our strengths—the immense amount of climbing history at our fingertips, thanks to nearly 100 years of documenting climbing through the American Alpine Journal and the AAC Library. Climbers have been utilizing and advocating for the responsible and thoughtful use of fixed anchors (including pitons, slings, and bolts) in what are now designated Wilderness areas since before the passing of the Wilderness Act in 1964. These stories from before Wilderness as we know it shows that climbers were thinking with careful judgment about the wilderness experience, and sparingly using fixed gear—if it was in fact crucial for the ascent or descent at all. Since then, recreation, including climbing, has been a major tenet of what the Wilderness Act aims to protect. The question is: how do fixed anchors fit into that commitment moving forward? And how do Wilderness climbing’s roots inform that future?

Check out the climbs below to get a sense of the roots of Wilderness climbing.

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Check out this map, powered by onX, which features Mountain Project data in conjunction with Wilderness Area boundaries, to help visualize how climbing across the country is impacted by this discussion.

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Take Action: Share Your Voice on the Proposed Wilderness Fixed Anchor Guidelines

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From the 1963 American Alpine Journal. Photos by Tom Frost, courtesy of North American Climbing History Archive.

The Salathé Wall, Yosemite Valley

Designated Wilderness in 1984

3500 ft (1061 m), 35 pitches, VI 5.9 C2, Robbins-Pratt-Frost, 1961

One of  the longest routes on El Cap—and full of infamous wide cracks and ledges to bivvy on, The Salathé Wall is one of the iconic climbs in the world. The route has you balancing up the Free Blast, and shimmying up chimneys until you’re climbing the impressively steep headwall that makes everyone gape at El Cap. If you’re a badass, you can free it at .13b. But in 1961 Royal Robbins, Chuck Pratt, and Tom Frost were just excited to get up the thing, placing minimal fixed gear. 

From the 1963 American Alpine Journal. Photo by Tom Frost, courtesy of North American Climbing History Archive.

In Royal Robbins’ 1963 report for the American Alpine Journal (AAJ), in which he recounts the first ascent done in 1961 and the first continuous ascent done in 1962, Robbins grapples explicitly with the bolting choices he and his team made as first ascensionists. Reflecting on the first continuous ascent, Robbins writes: “Tom [Frost] skillfully led the difficult section of the blank area where we had placed thirteen bolts the previous year. The use of more bolts in this area had been originally avoided by some enterprising free climbing on two blank sections and some delicate and nerve-wracking piton work. It would take only a few bolts to turn this pitch, one of the most interesting on the route, into a ‘boring’ walk-up.” Robbins and his peers were invested in finding those moments of “enterprising free climbing,” where they had to get creative and grit their teeth. Throughout his career, Robbins would have a lot of ambivalence about bolts—Salathé is a perfect example of that careful balance.

Though not directly or explicitly linked with his stance on fixed gear, it’s notable that Royal’s account of the continuous ascent of Salathé is intertwined with soulful reminiscing about nature. Robbins and his team considered Yosemite a special kind of remote nature, well before El Cap got a Wilderness designation with a capital W. Robbins ended his Salathé report: ”We finished the climb in magnificent weather, surely the finest and most exhilaratingly beautiful Sierra day we had ever seen…All the high country was white with new snow and two or three inches had fallen along the rim of the Valley, on Half Dome, and on Clouds Rest. One could see for great distances and each peak was sharply etched against a dark blue sky. We were feeling spiritually very rich indeed as we hiked down through the grand Sierra forests to the Valley.” This experience of vastness—of feeling the smallness of humanity within the quietude of nature, and that such experiences are enriching to the soul—is at the heart of what the NPS and USFS are trying to preserve, and which climbers like Robbins and all those who have followed him up El Cap have deeply loved about these places. 

Layton Kor on the first ascent of The Diagonal, 1963. Photo from Kor’s book, Beyond the Vertical, photographer unknown.

The Diagonal, Black Canyon of the Gunnison 

Designated Wilderness in 1976

2000’ (606m), 8 pitches, V 5.9 A5, Kor-McCarthy-Bossier, 1963

The Diagonal is in some ways an odd route to include here, because although it was important at the time, and excellent tales have been told about this first ascent, this route is rarely climbed today. It has the distinction of half a star on Mountain Project, and is known for the boldness required—which is particularly important to note in an area that already favors the bold. But we’re including it here precisely because of the climb’s historic nature, and how the first ascensionists—the magic team of Layton Kor, Jim McCarthy, and Tex Bossier—have articulated their thoughts on fixed anchors. 

As a historic climb, The Diagonal contains multitudes. Layton Kor, who was the driving force behind the first ascent, was certainly known to be a singular kind of person. There was no one quite like him. In Climb!, his contemporaries describe this towering figure in awed terms: “Of his more forceful characteristics, those who knew Kor well during his climbing years say that he frequently exhibited the qualities of a man possessed. A driving inner tension gnawed at him. His way of escaping from this sensation was to be active in a way which totally occupied his mind and body. His climbs, pushed to the limit of the possible, served this function well.” When Kor legendarily quipped, staring up at the crux pitch on The Diagonal, that he wasn’t a married man, and perhaps he should take Jim McCarthy’s lead for that reason, behind the glint in his eye was that tension and drive. Kor did take the lead on the “horror pitch,” taking six and a half hours to complete it—and it’s still noted as one of Kor’s hardest leads in his career. After all, the team was trying for glory—attempting to find Colorado’s first grade VI, though it would turn out to be another grade V. It remains an iconic moment in climbing’s rich history of contemplating and pushing past our agreed upon limits. 

Bossier indicated, in Kor’s book Beyond the Vertical, that the boldness that would come to characterize the climb was due in part to an intentional philosophical stance that the team made about the restrained use of fixed gear. Bossier writes: “The two major ethical dilemmas of the day were expansion bolts, and siege vs. alpine style ascents. We had taken oaths that the first grade six in Colorado deserved our commitment to a classic ascent. Despite knowing that we would pass through bands of rotten rock, we planned not to degrade our attempt with unnecessary bolting or extensive bolting.”

This sense of committing to good ethics and terms of engagement with the landscape is the backbone of the American idea of Wilderness, and embedded in the Wilderness Act, which defines Wilderness as “untrammeled,” “primeval,” and “undeveloped” landscapes, in which humanity is just a visitor. Though Kor, McCarthy, and Bossier weren’t meditating on nature in those explicit terms, their ascent too is wrapped in high-minded reflection on immersion in natural landscapes. After their wet bivvy, nature brought about a brush with awe that is so often what we seek in great, vast, wild adventures: “Next morning, as light became perceptible, we were engulfed in a dramatic whirlwind of dancing clouds. Shafts of light shone vertically upwards from the depths of the Canyon, while other masses swirled and skipped in wave patterns. We sat on our perches awed as light beams and rainbows mingled with mist. They were below us. They were with us—we could reach out and touch them. The clouds died as the power of the sun burned through and we began to take stock.”

No doubt waking up to this kind of light show—their position in the midst of it only possible because of this unique terrain—was part of the transformative experience of this climb. Bossier’s reflections demonstrate again that just as climbers of this time period were grappling with the appropriate boundary for the responsible use of fixed anchors, they were likewise attuned to how the landscapes they were climbing in shaped their experience. 

Topo of D1, the first ascent of The Diamond, featured in the September 1960 issue of Trail and Timberline. AAC Library Collection.

D1, The Diamond, Rocky Mountain National Park

Designated Wilderness in 2009

1,010 ft (308 m), 8 pitches, V 5.7 A4, Kamps-Rearick, 1960

Though climbing lore often focuses on tales of breaking the rules and going against the grain, there has been a long history of climbers working within land agency regulations in order to gain sustainable access. The story of The Diamond of Longs Peak, one of the most sought-after walls in the country, is one such example. According to the recounting of the first ascent, published in the 1961 AAJ: “In 1953 a party organized by Dale Johnson of Boulder announced its intention of attempting an ascent of this wall, but was refused permission by the National Park. Since then the Diamond has been ‘off limits’ to climbers. Being thus restricted from the climbing activity going on elsewhere in the country, it gradually assumed the distinction of being the most famous unclimbed wall in the United States.” So when Robert Kamps and David Rearick received permission from RMNP to attempt to climb The Diamond in August of 1960, all eyes were on them. 

September 1960 issue of Trail and Timberline, featuring an image from the first ascent of The Diamond. Cover photo by Al Moldvay of The Denver Post. From the AAC Library Collection.

The draw of the Diamond was certainly a sense of ultimate challenge. The altitude and remoteness of this striking wall was a key part of the adventure. Today, D1 is often overlooked, with more accessible lines like The Casual Route and Pervertical Sanctuary getting the most mileage, and lines like Ariana getting the most attention at the 5.12 grade. However, Mountain Project whispers suggest that well-rounded Diamond climbers consider it the best route on the Diamond. So unlike Kor’s The Diagonal, it’s historic and good climbing. 

Rearick and Kamp’s three day ascent “was one more dent in the concept of the impossible.” Like many Diamond climbers even today, they battled the weather and a waterfall dripping on their belays and bivvy. But this encroachment of water seemed to be a reminder that though they may be conquering the wall, they were but a small creature in a wilderness that was ultimately untamable. Like so many other climbers recreating in such extreme natural environments, the ascent was inextricably linked to moments of sublime quiet. “The night was clear and we watched the shadows from the moon creep stealthily along the slope of Lady Washington below us and across the shimmering blackness of Chasm Lake. We both managed to doze for a few hours. Since the temperature stayed above freezing, the waterfall continued all night, occasionally splashing us. The altitude at this point was about 13,700 feet.”

 Rearick and Kamps placed 4 expansion bolts in total—by hand, of course, which continues to be a requirement for new or replaced bolts in Wilderness—when all other ways of securing a belay were exhausted. This method and their tools had been explicitly reviewed and approved by the National Park beforehand, as a condition of their permission to attempt this famous feature. This incredibly important ascent was just the beginning of a revolution in climbing, as Godfrey and Chelton recount: “the concept of the impossible was seized roughly by the scruff of the neck and shaken up so as to be unrecognizable.”

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As these three first ascents demonstrate, the roots of Wilderness climbing is often tied up with philosophies of restraint in use of fixed gear, spiritual connection with nature, pushing the limits of the sport, and prioritizing boldness without being unsafe.

That was Then…This is Now…

Much of the discussion around fixed anchors in Wilderness within the climbing community has simplified and erroneously associated the concept of fixed anchors with grid bolting or sport climbing. Some people are kicking around the idea that the only climbing that should happen in Wilderness is the purest kind, like “back in the day”—suggesting that absolutely no fixed gear was used “back in the day.” The history of these iconic Wilderness climbs shows that this narrative is full of misunderstandings. Even when the best climbers of the day refused to “degrade” their ascents with unnecessary bolting or fixed gear, they did apply these tools when necessary for safety. Evidently, Wilderness climbing’s roots lie in a philosophy of responsible and restrained use of fixed anchors to facilitate meaningful experiences and inspire advocates of Wilderness. Now the question is, what is Wilderness climbing’s future? 

You can help decide. Share your thoughts on the proposed fixed anchor guidance from the NPS and USFS before January 30, 2024. 

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Resources:

This article was only possible thanks to the depth of resources from the American Alpine Club Library and historic records from the American Alpine Journal. Want to delve into our extensive historic climbing archives and guidebook library? Check it out. 

“The Salathé Wall.” American Alpine Journal. 1963.

“Salathe Wall.” Mountain Project.

Beyond the Vertical by Layton Kor

“The Diagonal.” Mountain Project.

Climb! Rock Climbing in Colorado by Bob Godrey and Dudley Chelton

Royal Robbins: The American Climber by David Smart

The Black: A Comprehensive Climbing Guide to Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park by Vic Zeilman

“The First Ascent of the Diamond, the East Face of Longs Peak.” American Alpine Journal. 1961.

“D1” Mountain Project.

Eleanor Davis, Humble Mountaineer

Eleanor Davis (sitting) and Eleanor Bartlett atop Sentinel Peak (part of Pikes Peak). Photo courtesy of the Bartlett Collection, AAC Library.

The First Female Ascent of the Grand Teton, and What It Means to Discover a Ghost in the Archives

By Hannah Provost

More than teaching me something revolutionary about climbing history, the archives that hide Eleanor Davis taught me about myself. 

Without knowing it, I went into this project wanting a particular story to unfold. I wanted Eleanor Davis, an objectively important woman to climbing history, to reveal her secrets, and for those secrets to justify the philosophical importance of climbing. I wanted to hear an echo of myself from a century ago—to confirm that there is some deeply meaningful reason to climb—and to hear it from a woman, a legacy I could make meaningful and specific to me. But not all climbing conversations are revolutionary. Similar to the mundane spray of beta and grade debate that we often come across today, Eleanor Davis recollections focused on memorable moments of snarkiness, on minor crises, on the character of her climbing partners—not a revolutionary narrative of what climbing means. 

Instead, they are simply memories of a personal relationship to climbing and the mountains. 

Eleanor Davis is largely a ghost in the archives. But we do know a few key things. August 27th, 2023, was the centennial of her ascent of the Grand Teton, the first female ascent of this iconic mountain. Davis was also the second half of the ascent team for the FA of the 50 Classic Climb Ellingwood Ledges—though you wouldn’t know it by the name. Other than these two proud ascents, and seemingly only one photo of her atop a summit sitting beside Albert Ellingwood, her story is largely unwritten and undocumented. As the centennial approached, and I heard about upcoming celebrations of this historic moment, I wanted to contribute to changing that. I wanted to uncover her story—and have it transform our understanding of female mountaineering, of course. 

From left to right: Albert Ellingwood, Barton Hoag, and Eleanor Davis on the summit of Pyramid Peak,1919, Courtesy of Hoag Family, Bueler Collection, AAC Library.

Through the American Alpine Club’s Library, I got access to two interviews with Eleanor Davis that rarely see the light of day. Researcher Jan Robertson had conducted a series of interviews with important female mountaineers for her book project, The Magnificent Mountain Women. When Robertson interviewed Eleanor, she was 99, and would live for 8 more years. I combined this interview with an oral history with Eleanor Davis, taken in 1983 for History Colorado. Though the audio for the interview was incomprehensible, the notes taken of the interview were very illuminating. 

The Dulfersitz method of rappelling. Photo Courtesy of the CMC Collection.

Weaving in and out of threads of conversation, the audio of the interview from 1985 is cluttered with historic nuggets. Davis was one of Albert Ellingwood’s main climbing partners for years, and her casual references to him belie the massive impact his climbing would have. Ellingwood is credited for being the first person to substantially utilize rope systems and other “proper rock climbing technique” in Colorado, and many times, Davis was in the rope party or repeated the difficult new routes that Ellingwood was putting up. Davis meandered through details of biking to the mountains when there was gas-rations during the Depression, and recounted that when Ellingwood first taught them how to rappel with the Dulfersitz method, that “we thought it was fun but sort of silly too,” what with how slow you had to go to avoid rope burns. I reveled in the details that put our modern world into perspective: apparently Davis didn’t enjoy climbing in a skirt, like most women of the day, and instead had her dressmaker turn her climbing skirt into knickerbockers, or baggy pants gathered at the knee. She didn’t use a sleeping bag but instead surplus army blankets and a tarp. She mentioned jello as a key food for such outings—I think we should bring this trend back. But it wasn’t all grit and toughness—Eleanor and Albert hated alpine starts and often got back in the dark, or slept on a rock ledge when they got benighted. 

Davis swore she never took a fall when climbing, and that the only climbing accident she ever witnessed was rockfall hitting her friend Jo Deutschbein in the head when a party climbing above dislodged some choss. Yet she was less interested in analyzing accidents that really did happen, and instead was more intrigued by the drama of a potentially tall tale. Her friend Eleanor Bartlett always insisted that Albert Ellingwood and Bee Rogers were struck by lightning when the group was climbing Blanca Peak, resulting in a fall—though the effects of the strike must have been temporary, because Davis, being the last member of the party, never was sure if Bartlett’s tale was true. 

Eleanor Davis climbed with Agnes Vaille and Betsy Cowles, two mountaineers who are hidden in the archives nearly as much as Davis. But rather than list their accomplishments together, what Davis remembered were their personalities—they were intellectual, wise, and Betsy threw great parties. Before Cowles got married, Davis remembers her saying “Oh Eleanor, I’m marrying a wonderful man. And he likes the mountains too, and that’s just frosting on the cake.” 

Despite her extensive experience, and her preference for Ellingwood as a partner, Davis occasionally had to fight to be taken seriously as a mountaineer. On a trip to the Arapaho Peaks, she was told that only a “very select group could go on the North Peak.” She responded, “Well I’m very select.” Her confidence must have won her some points, or perhaps our gear really does tell much about our experience or gumbiness—they looked at her shoes and her camping equipment, and determined that perhaps she was right. She summited Arapaho without a hitch. 

Photo Credit: Ben Farrar

Even when it came to reflecting on her ascent of the Grand Teton, in 1923, all she had for me was a minor crisis. She and Ellingwood had climbed out on a ridge on their stomachs, and Ellingwood needed a leg up. So Davis leaned over to give him a shoulder to stand up on, knocking her glasses off in the process, sending them skittering down clear to the glacier below. Thankfully, Davis mainly needed the glasses for reading, and could get along fine without them, as evidently they made the summit—and made history. 

When I first listened to these scattered stories, I was a little disappointed. But as I sifted through her stories, and read and listened to them again and again, I started to recognize a certain gleam to them. Eleanor Davis was a woman who did extraordinary things for her time, and yet she valued the ordinary—the humble minutia of what makes climbing so rich as a life experience. 

I am not a climber who does extraordinary things for my time. Most of us aren’t. Most of us think our climbing partners are funny, and have to stand up for ourselves occasionally to get taken seriously, and have minor-crises, not epics—just like Davis. Yet often, I am dissatisfied with that. 

Getting to know Eleanor Davis, from the few archives I could find, made me really like her—her spunk, her genuine glee when she mentioned the mountains, her care for her climbing partners. Getting to know Eleanor Davis also made me learn a lesson I’ve been needing to learn again and again from climbing: What gets us to the top of the pitch, or the mountain, is incomparable to someone else’s reasons. Perhaps that's why Davis was so humble about her accomplishments. She herself didn’t need anything grand to come from the Grand—because it was already there, in the minutia.

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Rewind the Climb

The First Ascent of Mt. Vinson

A Story from the AAC Archives

by Grey Satterfield

When inspiration for our next climbing trip strikes, we’re flooded with options to seek out every last possible detail. We pour over guidebooks with full-page spreads of color topos. We log on to Mountain Project and read about every route on the cliff. We find YouTube videos with move-by-move beta of the routes and boulders we want to try. Then we hop on Google Maps and get to-the-minute estimates of how long it will take to get there. We whip out our phone and get a hyper-detailed forecast with temps, wind speed, humidity, and anything else we’d ever care to know about the weather.

By the time we arrive, there’s no mystery. We’ve discovered everything there is to know.

That wasn’t always the case. In 1966 the American Alpine Club sent ten American climbers into the heart of the unknown: Antarctica. Read the full story here and explore photos and artifacts from the expedition.

Summit Magazine

Provided by Michael Levy

A story from the AAC Library

By: Sierra McGivney

Jean Crenshaw and Helen Kilness rode their motorcycle away from the US Coast Guard base in Georgia in 1946. They had just taught themselves how to ride the motorcycle in the bike dealership's parking lot. The two had become fast friends working as Radio Operators in the Coast Guard. With the war over, they were untethered, the future and road ahead of them. Both grew up out west, so they headed that way, the wind roaring around them.

Once in California, they worked in the publishing and editing industry, and on the weekends, they went out on trips with the Sierra Club. The two fell in love with rock climbing and playing outside. They were completely inseparable. With time they moved to Big Bear, CA, to an old Forest Service cabin. They wove their two favorite things together and started a climbing magazine, the first of its kind, in 1955.

Summit Magazine was edited, published, and produced in Crenshaw and Kilness's house. The basement contained a dark room for photo and print development.

The two were some of the original dirtbags. They would make enough money and write enough content for the magazine and then run away into the mountains and play. Their first magazine cost 25 cents.

In the post-WWII climate of the United States, they went against the grain. Though not against marriage or children, Kilness and Crenshaw were committed to expanding and redefining the purview of women. Alongside the complexities of their religious commitments and their vision for climbing journalism, they were also two women who wanted to throw out the kitchen sink and replace it with summits.

Provided by Michael Levy

Kilness and Crenshaw avoided letting it be known that they were women on the masthead of Summit Magazine. Jean became Jene, and Helen became H.V.J Kilness. Because of this, some men felt free to write letters to the editor, denigrating women. In response, Kilness and Crenshaw would publish these letters and those that would follow, opposing these sexist views. The comments section of Summit Magazine was like the Mountain Project forum of the 1950-70s.

Kurt Reynolds from Denver, Colorado, wrote, "A women's very presence can mean discord and defeat, for rare indeed is the climber who can forget ingrained patterns of chivalry and demand the same grueling performance from feminine teammates that he would from another man. In their mad rush to ape men, women have invaded every field of our endeavor. Let them return to their proper realm of kitchen, children, and church–and be there when we return from the mountains."

The comments section regulated itself, and both men and women expressed their views against this comment.

Elizabeth Knowlton, a famous mountaineer, countered, "But the fact is that to some individuals, of both sexes, mountains, and mountaineering have really important meanings and values—though to many individuals they do not … People vary enormously. If Mr. Reynolds expects half the human race to conform to one single type, strictly determined by their sex, I fear he will meet with disappointment. I speak as a woman who has always been interested in climbing."

Others said in defense of women, "Mr. Kurt Reynolds rather sickened my stomach with his opinions on the female of the human species. I'm sure that no registered nurse would appreciate his statement on women being 'emotionally unstable and notably unreliable in an emergency,'" responded Dick Skultin.

Kilness and Crenshaw probably laughed whenever they received letters addressed "Dear Sir" containing sexist views of the day. Little did the men writing in know that two mountain climbing women ran Summit Magazine.

Instead of outright confronting these individuals, they proved them wrong through every magazine they produced that empowered women.

Provided by Michael Levy

The letters to the editor weren't the only place these nuanced subjects were brought up. In the fictional story "The Lassie and the Gillikin" from the June 1956 edition of the magazine, the author writes about the undertones of sexism in climbing at the time and the expectation for a woman to make herself smaller. In the story, a male climber takes Jenny climbing for the first time. She starts with beginner climbs and every weekend works to climb harder. She persists and becomes better. At one point, when Jenny succeeds on a climb, the male climber does not, and he is suddenly cold towards Jenny. This male climber has lunch with another woman when he usually eats with Jenny. He weaponizes this woman to show Jenny further how much he distastes her success.

Provided by Michael Levy

The Gilikin, a little creature that climbers blame for tangled ropes or slick holds, suggests to Jenny that he push her off a climb to make the male climber interested in her again. Jenny agrees, and after she falls off a climb, his interest in her returns, underscoring the writer's point.

Jane Collard said it best in the July 1956 comments section of Summit: "Men need to feel superior to women, especially in outdoor, rugged, manly-type activities, and a woman mountain climber is liable to give 98% of the male population an inferiority complex because there are so few men who are mountain climbers and also society says mountain climbing isn't feminine."

The richness of Summit was that it was a proving ground for these kinds of hard conversations about equity, but the editors also insisted on doing so playfully.

Flipping through old Summit Magazines, you'll find various cartoons and articles. A person skiing off El Capitan is on the cover of their March 1972 issue. The cover was made to look real with a photo of El Cap and a drawing of a small person with a red parachute skiing off of it. On the inside of the magazine, a complete description: "In a well planned and skillful maneuver, Rick Sylvester skied off the top of El Capitan in Yosemite National Park at approximately 50 mph, then parachuted to the valley floor." You can tell that Kilness and Crenshaw were having fun. They didn't take themselves too seriously.

Oddly enough, an ad for Vasque boots is placed on the outside cover. The ad says, "Vasque…tough books built by men who've been there…Vasque the mountain man boot."

Provided by Michael Levy

The articles in Summit had an extensive range of topics, from challenging technical climbs to backpacking and ecology. The magazine had a news section called "Scree and Talus" which always included a poem. One addition of "Scree" includes a granola recipe next to the information about an unclimbed mountain in Nepal called Gauri Shankar.

The swirly fonts, playful cartoons, and various article topics blended feminine elements into an otherwise 'masculine' sport for its time. Kilness and Crenshaw were redefining climbing to include their vision—broadening and deepening what climbing could mean and who climbing was for.

Summit was about all aspects of climbing, not just climbing difficult grades and training, which are worthwhile stories to tell but do not encompass the soul of climbing, the why of climbing. Summit Magazine was about pursuing the outdoors and having fun while doing it. Summit's depth and earnest silliness came from Kilness and Crenshaw's ability to take a step back from climbing, see their complex role in it, and in turn, climbing's role in life. That philosophical distance certainly takes the edge off the grade-chasing.

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When magazines like Rock and Ice (1986) and Climbing (1970) came onto the scene, Summit fell off. Kilness and Crenshaw themselves ascribed this to their competitors' editorial focus on sending hard and putting up new technical routes. But whether cutting-edge climbing simply sells better or it was the usual story of big media winning by sheer resources, the project was no longer sustainable. Killness and Crenshaw sold the company in 1989, the same year the American Alpine Club recognized their contribution and lifetime service to the climbing community. Under new owners, Summit continued until 1996, after which it was discontinued.

You can still be transported to 1974 and look at old photos of beautiful landscapes worldwide. The AAC library holds all issues of Summit Magazine from 1955-1996. These magazines can be an excellent resource for planning trips or a looking glass into a past era of climbing.

Provided by Michael Levy

And Summit's journey continues. Through long-form print media, Summit Journal will be produced twice a year in large format to preserve the richness of climbing storytelling. In a world of clickbait articles, Summit is daring to produce quality climbing journalism and once again encompass the soul of climbing. Hopefully, they can capture Kilness and Crenshaw's playful essence even if someone isn't skiing off El Capitan on the cover. Returning to climbing journalism's roots just might take us to new places.

Carl Blaurock, A Voice from the AAC Archives

By Walter R. Borneman

Carl Blaurock performing a headstand with (left to right) unknown woman, Sally Rogers, and Agnes Vaille. Photo by Bill Ervin. Agnes Vaille Collection, American Alpine Club Library.

Reading the photo captions Carl Blaurock wrote in white ink on black album pages while in his 20s, one hears the same voice that in his 90s chortled about his long-ago exploits. Such antics included standing on his head atop mountains so that, in Carl’s words, “I would have my feet higher on that mountain than anybody else.” Archives are more than stacks of paper or piles of black and white photos. Look closer. Archives convey a sense of time but are also a reflection of individual personality.

Hermann & Elmina Buhl with Carl Blaurock (standing) and Albert Ellingwood at the Summit on Gannett—11 Aug 1924—Ellingwood Collection, American Alpine Club Library.

Carl Blaurock was born in Denver in 1894, attended Colorado School of Mines, and became a goldsmith like his father. Having climbed Pikes Peak as his first big mountain, Carl became an early member of the Colorado Mountain Club (CMC). A story circulates that Carl was a founding member of the club, but consult the archives. The signature page of the CMC charter from April 1912—a history of Denver society in and of itself—does not include Blaurock’s name among the twenty-five signers. Nonetheless, Carl and his climbing buddy, Bill Ervin, became Colorado Mountain Club mainstays and the first to climb all of Colorado’s fourteeners, the peaks above 14,000 feet, of which 46 were recognized in 1923. 

Carl’s exploits with pioneering woman mountaineer Agnes Vaille, college professor and roped climbing aficionado Albert Ellingwood, attorney and historian Stephen H. Hart and others were difficult for the time and sometimes challenged by mishaps just getting to the trailhead. On a 1924 trek into the Wind Rivers, Blaurock and Ellingwood were slowed by three tire blowouts in the first few miles between Denver and Longmont. Years later, the Wyoming State Geological Survey would find Carl’s photos from the trip a valuable record in studying glacial retreat.

A young Carl on the summit of Mount Evans. Blaurock Collection, AAC Library.

Carl on Grizzly Peak. Blaurock Collection, AAC Library.

“Every year I’d break a ski jumping off cornices or some darn thing.” - Quote from A Climber’s Climber: On the Trail with Carl Blaurock.

Photo from Blaurock Collection, AAC Library.

98-year old Carl heading to a family reunion with his 1912 bedroll (sleeping bag). Photo from the Trail & Timberline, November 1992.

This bedroll and a full set of Trail & Timberlines can be found in the AAC Library.

I first met Carl in 1983, when he was an energetic 89 years young. Thanks to the efforts of climber and attorney Barbara J. Euser, Cordillera Press was publishing “his” book, A Climber’s Climber, under Barbara’s steady hand. Carl and I sipped his homemade chokecherry brandy—he was quite proud of it—as we looked through his photo albums. It was like opening a time capsule. Not just decades but three-quarters of a century fell away as I read his impish photo captions and listened to his stories. 

Albert Ellingwood and Carl Blaurock on the Summit of Mt Harding on 10 Aug 1924—Ellingwood Collection.

Carl’s admiration for Albert Ellingwood as an early technical climber was rock solid and long-held. So, too, was Carl’s continuing disdain over many decades for Walter Kiener, Agnes Vaille’s “smart aleck” companion on her fatal Longs Peak climb. Agnes had wanted to be the first to climb its east face in winter. The three of them tried several times late in the fall of 1924, but when Agnes and Kiener set off without Carl on a January attempt, Carl warned her, “Don’t go, Agnes.” He called retrieving her body “one of the saddest events in my life.”

The Blaurock Collection in the AAC Library includes the photos from A Climber’s Climber, digital copies of 8mm films from climbs in the 1930s and 1940s, and Carl’s bedroll and tripod. You will also find the articles he wrote for Trail and Timberline. Many of the photographs Carl took—he was a talented and relentless photographer—are scattered throughout fifty years of the publication. Carl’s last major climb and photography quest was up Notch Mountain in 1973 to replicate William Henry Jackson’s famous photo of Mount of the Holy Cross on its 100th anniversary.

Carl’s favorite photo—labeled as such in one of his albums—was one he took of 14,197-foot Crestone Needle in 1920 from the northern slopes of Marble Mountain. The clouds are surreal, and plenty of late spring snow adorns the peaks. It should come as no surprise that a large print of this photograph, a gift from Carl, hangs in my home. I never look at it without hearing his voice.

Carl’s Favorite: Crestone Needle, 1920. CMC Collection, AAC Library.

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Walter R. Borneman co-authored A Climbing Guide to Colorado’s Fourteeners in 1978. His other books include Alaska, Iron Horses, The Admirals, and Brothers Down. He has spent a lot of time on mountains and in archives.

10th Mountain Division to Memorialize AAC Member John McCown II

John McCown rappelling for a August 1942 photo shoot for Life Magazine. This image appeared in the Nov. 9, 1942 issue. Photos courtesy Private Collection of McCown Family.

On June 21st, 2023, the history of the US Army’s 10th Mountain Division and the legacy of the American Alpine Club will collide when the Division renames its Light Fighter School in honor of AAC member First Lieutenant John Andrew McCown II. 

The memorialization will recognize McCown’s service to his country in WWII. Not only did McCown instruct 10th Mountain Division troops in mountaineering and climbing tactics. He played a pivotal role in the unit’s signature action: a nighttime assault of Italy’s Riva Ridge that helped break Hitler’s Gothic Line and end the war in Europe.  

In honor of his impact, the 10th Mountain Division’s Light Fighter School will now be known as the 1LT John Andrew McCown II Light Fighter School building. 

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Climber, former American Alpine Journal editor, and Alpinist co-founder Christian Beckwith was writing a history of Teton mountaineering when he discovered that Teton climbers of the 1930s played an integral role in the development of the 10th Mountain Division. As he continued his research in the AAC Library and Denver Public Library archives, he found that the unit known widely as “America’s ski troops” owe much of their inception and development to American climbers in general and the AAC in particular.

As he dug deeper, Beckwith discovered an incontrovertible link between the modern era of recreation in America—particularly the modern era of climbing—and the skills, equipment, and tactics that some of the best and the brightest mountaineers brought to the 10th Mountain Division. He also uncovered a deep connection between the AAC and the 10th Mountain Division—especially how the AAC helped develop the gear, tactics, and clothing the 10th Mountain Division would use in action—and that, as Army surplus after the war, would help fuel the birth of the outdoor recreation industry.

John Andrew McCown II in the Tetons in 1939. Photos courtesy Private Collection of McCown Family.

Recently, Beckwith began a book and podcast called Ninety-Pound Rucksack that tells the true story of John McCown, the 10th Mountain Division and the dawn of outdoor recreation in America, all from the perspective of climbers. He also began serving as an advisor to the current 10th Mountain Division, helping them reconnect with their historic mission. 

Following a keynote presentation on the Division’s base in February, he proposed recognizing the service of John McCown with a memorialization. Next month, the 10th Mountain Division will proceed by renaming its Light Fighter School in McCown’s honor.

At the same time, the Division will recognize Beckwith’s contributions by inducting him into its Mountain Warrior Legends Hall of Fame.

Below, you can read a bit about McCown’s story and the impact he had on the 10th’s actions in Italy. 

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Christian Beckwith summarizes McCown’s story as follows:

“A Wharton School graduate who dropped out of the University of Virginia School of Law after Pearl Harbor to enlist in the Division, McCown’s mountaineering skills, devilish sense of humor and contempt for Army red tape endeared him to officers and soldiers alike as he rose through the ranks. At both Camp Hale and as lead instructor at West Virginia’s Seneca Assault Climbing School, he trained thousands of soldiers in the dark art of alpine warfare—skills he put to use in breaking the Gothic Line, a series of German-held ridges and summits in Italy’s Apennine Mountains.

John Andrew McCown II, in the Tetons in 1939. Photos courtesy Private Collection of McCown Family.

Key to doing so was Riva Ridge, an escarpment so precipitous the Germans barely defended it—they considered it impossible for a company of soldiers to climb. They hadn’t bargained for the profanity-laced tenacity of the bow-legged McCown, who reconnoitered the hardest route to its summit, then led his C Company up the route under cover of darkness in the dead of winter to take the ridge without a casualty. It was a magnificent action, one that marked the beginning of the end of Germany’s occupation of Italy—but McCown never got to enjoy the victory. He was riddled by machine gun fire while foiling a counter attack the next day.

“It is a profound honor to illuminate McCown’s sacrifice and service,” says Beckwith, “and to contribute, in however small a way, to the country he died to defend.”

McCown’s obituary in the 1946 AAJ highlights the climbing background  that contributed to the 10th Mountain Division success:

“John McCown was elected to the American Alpine Club in 1940, on the basis of four seasons of climbing, much of it in the Teton area, including four ascents of Grand Teton by various routes. In 1941 he visited the Coast Range of B. C., back-packing through the Homathko Valley to Scimitar Glacier. Had he emerged from the war, his qualities of leadership would undoubtedly have secured him a notable position in expeditionary mountaineering.”

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McCown is the central protagonist of “Ninety-Pound Rucksack.” Dive into all the details of the 10th Mountain Division—and their untold climbing history—with Beckwith’s podcast.

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Looking for a brief overview of the historic connection between the 10th Mountain Division and climbing? Check out this interview with Christian Beckwith on the AAC Podcast!

We would like to extend a special thank you to Christian Beckwith and the AAC Library for their extensive research and resources that led to this historic memorialization.

The Denali Damsels

Photo courtesy of Arlene Blum.

In 1970, Grace Hoeman, Margaret Young, Dana Isherwood, Arlene Blum, Margaret Clark, and Faye Kerr, set out on a journey to be the first-all female team to ascend and summit Denali. Although the sport had seen its small share of women climbers, climbing was traditionally a man’s sport, and many men of the time were content to keep it that way. Although the intention of the expedition was not to create a women’s liberation, their journey would push the door open for future female climber’s everywhere.

Explore this exhibit to learn about the expedition, the women who shaped it, and experience artifacts from the expedition, thanks to the AAC Library.

*This story is best told with the help of vibrant and dynamic photography. Dive into this Spark Exhibit to see these photos come alive alongside this story.

Rewind the Climb: Pete Schoening’s Miracle Belay on K2

by Grey Satterfield

artwork by James Adams

photos from the Dee Molenaar Collection

It happens every day, in every climbing gym across the country: the belay check. It can swell up a wave of anxiety for new climbers or a wave of frustration for more experienced ones, but no matter where you are in your climbing journey, you’ve done it. Everyone has demonstrated their ability to stop a falling climber. But what about stopping two climbers? What about stopping five? And what about stopping five without the convenience of a Gri-Gri, in a raging storm at 8,000 meters, hanging off the side of the second highest mountain in the world?

Pete Schoening checks all those boxes, and his miracle belay during an early attempt of K2 is one of the most famous in all of climbing history. It’s an awesome reminder that in climbing, much like in life, a lot of things change, but a lot of things don’t.

In 1953, during the third American expedition to K2, eight climbers funded by the American Alpine Club built their high camp at nearly 7,700m. The team consisted of Pete Schoening, Charles Houston, Robert Bates, George Bell, Robert Craig, Art Gilkey, Dee Molenaar, and Tony Streather.

On the seventh day of the ascent, climbing without oxygen, Schoening and his partners were within reach of the summit. With the first ascent of the long-sought peak tantalizingly close, the weather turned, trapping the climbers for10 days at nearly 8,000m. The storm raged on, destroying tents and dwindling supplies. Then Gilkey developed thrombophlebitis—a life-threatening condition of blood clots brought on by high altitude. If these clots made it into his lungs, he’d die. The team had no choice but to descend. Without hesitation, they abandoned the summit attempt and put themselves to work getting Gilkey to safety. With an 80mph blizzard compounding their effort, the climbing team bundled their injured comrade in a sleeping bag and a tent and, belayed by Schoening, began to lower him down the perilous walls of rock and ice.

After an exhausting day of descending, they had made it only 300m but were in sight of Camp VII, which was perched on a ledge another 180m further across the icy slope. Craig was the first to reach the site and began building camp. Then the real disaster struck.

As Bell was working his way across the steep face, he slipped and began to rocket down the side of the mountain. Bell was tied to Streather, who was also pulled off his feet and down the slope. The rope between the two climbers then became entangled with those connecting the team of Bates, Houston, and Molenaar, pulling them off in turn. The five climbers, along with the tethered Gilkey, began careening down the near vertical face, rag-dolling down the mountain over 100m and speeding towards the edge: a 2,000m fall to the glacier below.

At the last second—as the weight of six climbers slammed into him— Schoening thrust his ice axe into the snow behind a boulder and, with a hip belay, brought the climbers to a stop. The nylon rope (a relatively new piece of climbing gear at the time) went taught and shrank to half its diameter, but it did not snap. The hickory axe held the strain. Schoening, rope wrapped tightly around his shoulders, had performed what is considered one of the greatest saves in mountaineering history—known now and forever known as “The Belay.”

“When you get into something like mountain climbing,” Schoening said afterwards, “I’m sure you do things automatically. It’s a mechanical func- tion. You do it when necessary without giving it a thought of how or why.”

However, the incident was not without tragedy. As the team recovered from the fall and established a forced bivy, they discovered that Gilkey, bundled in sleeping bag and tent, had vanished. There is speculation that he cut himself free in order to save the lives of his friends above.

Schoening, always humble about the feat, was later awarded the David A. Sowles Memorial Award for his heroics by the American Alpine Club in 1981 as a “mountaineer who has distinguished himself, with unselfish devotion at personal risk or sacrifice of a major objective, in going to the assistance of fellow climbers imperiled in the mountains.”

Fifty-three years later, in 2006, 28 descendants of the surviving team gathered, calling themselves “The Children of ‘The Belay.’” All owed their lives to Schoening—and his ice axe—high on K2. The axe, which some have called the holy grail of mountaineering artifacts, is on permanent display at the American Mountaineering Museum in Golden, Colorado.

Much has changed in the world of climbing over the past 70 years. When Schoening headed up K2 in 1953, assisted-braking belay devices were yet to be invented. The AAC provided no rescue services as a benefit of membership. Nobody owned an InReach or a satellite phone. To survive in the mountains in that era was to rely solely on your team—on the trust that comes with tying in together and the knowledge that a friend is watching your back.

So we would do well to remember Pete Schoening and his belay—to hold the other end of the rope is a serious affair. The next time you go out climbing, don’t forget to give your belayer a high-five and a hug.

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Grey Satterfield is the digital marketing manager for the AAC. He has a decade of experience managing climbing gyms and loves to share his passion for climbing with anyone who will listen, be it through writing, photography, or swapping stories around the campfire.

In Search of Yosemite's Heart: One Writer's Journey Into the Valley of Giants

by Lauren DeLaunay Miller

photos by the Ellie Hawkins and Molly Higgins collections

Ellie Hawkins during an early ascent of the North America Wall, 1973, Yosemite National Park, CA. Land of the Central Sierra Miwok people. Keith Nannery.

To steal from author John Green, I fell in love with rock climbing the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once. I was an indoorsy undergraduate at the University of North Carolina when I fell face-first into the world of climbing, thanks in large part to a picture in a magazine. My love for climbing has always been attached to an obsession with Yosemite, that ultimate proving ground of American rock climbers, but before I could make my way out there myself, I tried as hard as I could to connect with that world while still confined to the walls of libraries in Chapel Hill. Climbing literature was my portal, but it didn’t take long to exhaust my options. I don’t know if I could have articulated to you then why—or even that I was—searching for books written by women, but what I did know was that I was going to learn as much as I could about my heroes and try as best as I could to follow in their footsteps.

Five years after graduating, I moved into my new home in the back of Camp 4. The Yosemite Search & Rescue site has a mystical, magical air. To walk into the site is to, quite literally, walk in the footsteps of giants. I’ve climbed at a lot of American climbing destinations, from the New and Red River Gorges in the East, to Indian Creek, Joshua Tree, Red Rock Canyon, and Rocky Mountain National Park, but nowhere have I found the lore as strong as in Yosemite.

At my now-local crag, we often refer to routes as “that 10b arete” or “the 5.11 crack to the left of the 12a.” But in Yosemite, routes have names. Astroman, the Central Pillar of Frenzy, Steck-Salathé, The Nose! We know their first ascensionists, and we know their stories. And these stories get passed down, sometimes in writing but often at campfires and dinner parties, fueled by whiskey or coffee or both. So while it didn’t take long for me to realize that there was a gap between the women’s stories I was hearing and those I was reading, it did take me a few years to muster up the courage to try to close that gap myself.

The idea for the book lived quietly in my head, but as it became louder and louder, I started to shyly share it with my climbing partners. “Don’t you think it would be cool,” I’d mutter, “if there were a whole book about women climbing in Yosemite?” The more I shared my vision, the more it grew. I started scanning old climbing magazines, making lists of the women I’d need to include. Friends started sending me articles they came across, screenshots of Supertopo forums and Mountain Project threads. I spent days at the new Yosemite Climbing Association museum in Mariposa going through thousands of pages of old magazines. At first, everything was centered on building “the list,” my dream list of contributors, and eventually I thought it might just be enough to submit as a book proposal.

Ellie Hawkins gets prepped for the void on the first ascent of Dyslexia (VI 5.10d A4), completed solo, 1985. Bruce Hawkins

I’ve always been the type of person who gets stuck on an idea and can’t shake it until I’ve seen it through. When I started climbing, I gave myself five years to climb El Cap, even though at the time I barely knew how to belay. Nearly every decision I made from that moment propelled me toward my goal, and I recognized the same level of obsession once I became hooked on the idea for this book. I made my proposal and sent it off to three publishing companies. I was living in a tent cabin in Camp 4 by then, and while my own world was consumed by Yosemite, I didn’t know if my idea would resonate outside of my community. But my first conversation with Emily White at Mountaineers Books soothed my concerns, and I knew my project would be safe under her supervision. I signed on the dotted line; I had just over a year to make this thing happen.

I started with the people I knew or could get personal introductions to. I met with Babsi Zangerl in her campervan in the Valley, and she was eager to be a part of the book. That was the moment I thought that I might actually be able to pull this off. Soon, Liz Robbins called, thanks to some coaxing by Ken Yager at the Yosemite Climbing Association. I drew on all the connections I’d made through my climbing career, and every response gave me a jolt of electricity. Fourteen months later, I turned in everything I had: 38 stories, totaling over 76,000 words.

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Molly Higgins and Barb Eastman atop El Cap after the first all-female ascent of The Nose, 1977. Larry Bruce

Molly Higgins leading to The Nose’s famous feature, the Great Roof. AAC member Barb Eastman

When Molly Higgins mentioned to Lauren that she had some old boxes of slides from her time in Yosemite, Lauren knew she had to see them. Prepared to see some faded, blurry images at best, she unearthed dozens of boxes—slide after slide of perfectly preserved photographs documenting some of the most courageous ascents of a generation, including images from the first all-female ascent of The Nose on El Cap in 1977. With the tremendous help of the AAC Library, Lauren organized Molly’s collection into an online exhibit which can be viewed at here.

Ellie Hawkins—the other photo contributer for this piece—might not be a household name in the world of Yosemite climbing, but she certainly should be. She’s the only woman to ever establish a Yosemite big wall first ascent completely solo, with Dyslexia (VI 5.10d A4) in the Ribbon Falls Amphitheater. The route was aptly named. Ellie battled a terrible case of dyslexia that often complicated her climbing. Despite these challenges, an early ascent of El Cap’s North America Wall (5.8 C3) and a solo of Never Never Land (5.10a) earned Ellie’s place among the Valley’s legends. Lauren was able to digitize and preserve Ellie’s collection of slides and prints as well, a few of which are featured here.

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One of the greatest gifts of working on this book came in the form of a few phone conversations with Liz Robbins. Liz is the author of one of my favorite pieces in the book, a story written years ago for Alpinist magazine that tells of her experience establishing the first ascent of The Nutcracker Suite (5.8), the first route in Yosemite to be climbed entirely on clean protection. The Nutcracker, as it is commonly known today, was the first route I ever climbed in Yosemite, years before I ended up working on the Search & Rescue team. Having driven all through the night from the mountain West, across the wide open sagebrush of Nevada, up through the winding granite slabs of Tuolumne, and down, at long last, to Yosemite Valley, I woke up at dawn, claimed my spot in Camp 4, and went straight to the Manure Pile Buttress. I once read that a “classic” climb must be at least one, if not all, of these three things: aesthetically pleasing, historically significant, and full of spectacular climbing. The Nutcracker Suite has it all, and it made for an unforgettable first Yosemite experience.

Ellie Hawkins on a solo ascent of Never Never Land (5.10a), Yosemite Valley National Park, CA. Land of the Central Sierra Miwok people. Bruce Hawkins

It’s been more than five years since that first Valley climb, and when I told Liz about my experience climbing it, we realized that because of her and Royal’s decision not to place pitons, the route climbs just about the same way today as it did during her first ascent. Of course, it is greasy with chalk and rubber from thousands of ascents, but it is not scarred the way other Yosemite routes are. Where I smeared, Liz had smeared, and where I stuffed my fingers in the crack, so had she.

Barb Eastman walking out the infamous Thank God Ledge during the first all-female ascent of Half Dome’s Regular Northwest Face(5.9C1),1976. AAC member Molly Higgins

At the end of the story, Liz expresses the mental tug-of-war she often engaged in when climbing. Her doubts about her abilities echoed my own insecurities about the making of this book. Who was I to engage in such an important project? But, as did Liz, I found time and time again that I’d yet to come across the problem that demanded more of me than I could give. Of course, this book is not perfect. There are holes—gaping ones—ones that jump out at me baring teeth and ones that, surely, I will see more clearly with time. But soon we will have in our hands the stories of 38 women who have, at one time or another, found themselves at the center of Yosemite climbing. We start in 1938 and run smack into the present, and it would horrify my editor if she knew that I were still adding stories the day before my first draft was due. But just as Steck & Roper implored us to think of their 50 Classic Climbs as some classic climbs and not the classic climbs, so too do these stories tell of the experiences of some women, not the women. Because there are so many more stories, so many more voices, so many more experiences worth telling and retelling. And as Liz so eloquently writes: I’ve only just begun the excavation.

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Lauren DeLaunay Miller served on the Yosemite Search & Rescue team while completing her book, Valley of Giants: Stories from Women at the Heart of Yosemite Climbing (Mountaineers Books, Spring 2022), an anthology of stories that document the history of women’s climbing in Yosemite National Park. Lauren lives in Bishop, CA where she is a founding board member of the Bishop Climbers Coalition and Coordinator for the AAC’s Bishop Highball Craggin’ Classic. She is currently pursuing her master’s degree in Journalism at the University of California in Berkeley.

Myths of the Alpine: An Interview with Author Katie Ives

Katie Ives, Editor in Chief at Alpinist, just published her first book, Imaginary Peaks: The Riesenstein Hoax and Other Mountain Dreams. The AAC sat down with Katie Ives to explore her journey as a writer, her connection to climbing, and the inspiration for her book.

Explore the exhibit below that includes highlights from our interview and assets from the AAC Library that supplement Ives’ book.

*This story is best told with the help of vibrant and dynamic photography. Dive into this Spark Exhibit to see these photos come alive alongside this story.

New in the Library! Must-Adds to Your Reading List

Looking for a good book to read this season? Settling in for another round of Quarantine?

We have you covered. Here are some new titles that just arrived in the Library!

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“A family of climbers…”

“The Bark of the Cony is the story of one man's journey to overcome physical hardship and its resulting challenges. Before the age of four, George Nash Smith had a freak accident which impaired use of his right arm and hand. With the support of his parents and siblings he adapted to his circumstances and learned to approach life in a positive way.”

This is a delightful story of the life of a climbing father and his sons. Known as the “Climbing Smiths,” George & his four sons climbed 68 peaks over 14,000-ft in the United States in 48 days. They completed this feat in 1974.

The Bark of the Cony is an enjoyable read for all outdoor enthusiasts and has local history nuggets for Colorado history buffs like myself. You can checkout our circulating copy or grab your own by clicking this link here (all proceeds go to charity).

““The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
― St. Augustine”

“…a true foray into the unknown”

An avid reader, writer, and dedicated AAC Library advocate, here is what Pete Takeda has to say about Labyrinth of Ice:

“Labyrinth of Ice is a tale that rivals Endurance as a classic of polar exploration.

Adventures like this are hard to come by these days. The expedition, led by a man of unimpeachable character named Lieutenant Adolphus W. Greely, was purely scientific and exploratory. It was not adventure for its own sake. Second, it was a true foray into the unknown.

What started as a research expedition ended in a classic struggle for survival. In a traditionally male drama of Arctic exploration, a lady plays the key role in the ultimate outcome. Levy leaves no doubt that without the stalwart persistence and in-depth knowledge of Henrietta Greely (Adolphus’ wife), the expedition was doomed to perish.

Labyrinth is also a case study in leadership. This book would be a fine candidate for a film and a wonderful addition to high school curriculums.”

Click here to see a list of NEW books in the Library!

And if you are looking to own some climbing classics, take a gander at our selection in our online store linked here.