Lake Effect

On the sharp end and otherwise at the Midwest's most storied climbing area

"If you can lead at Devil's Lake, you can lead anywhere."

I’ve heard this mantra many times at Devil’s Lake, Wisconsin. A frazzled leader repeats it under his breath. Two beginning climbers look up at a 5.10 finger crack, and one says it to the other. When you are on lead at the Lake, the ground never seems that far away. While there are some straight-in cracks, most climbs follow discontinuous seams. Runouts are common, and those cracks you see from the ground often hold nothing more than empty hope. By local consensus, it’s a no-bolt area. Toproping is a way of life at the short crags here.

Now, I am halfway up Son of Great Chimney, and these famous words are running through my head. Trying to lead this route onsight seemed like a good idea—before I started.

Named for its proximity to a 5.3 access gully, Son of Great Chimney doesn’t have a particularly catchy name, but this son has definitely eclipsed his parent. The route is steep by Devil’s Lake standards, climbing the gently overhanging face of a buttress that forms a striking promontory on the West Rampart. Pete Cleveland made the first ascent in 1968, and at 5.11c, it was one of the hardest routes in the country at the time. With no prior knowledge of the moves, Cleveland just walked up to it and sent it, pounding pins as protection—the same pins that I am having a hard time clipping.

While Son of Great Chimney is less than 50 feet tall, about average for Devil’s Lake, it sits atop a 400-foot-tall talus field, lending a sense of exposure. I can hear the muffled shouts of swimmers and kayakers on the lake far below. After an unprotected mantel, I arrive at a ledge below the crux. I place a brass offset that’s less than perfect and a small TCU with only two lobes engaged. I fiddle in another small nut a bit lower. This nest will have to protect me through the crux and beyond, until I reach a crack 20 feet higher that looks like it will accept good gear.

The quartzite feels even slicker than usual as I paste my left foot on the flat wall. I contort into an insecure stem and reach blindly for a hold. I feel my foot slipping as my hand searches, and I think about my gear, now a body length below. Finally, my fingers find a tiny crimp. I lock it off, stand up on the smear, and yell as I reach a crisp edge. The crux is over, but I still have 10 feet of unprotected climbing until I reach the upper crack. Then, with better gear, I negotiate the upper crux and deposit myself at the top of the cliff. Completely knackered, I sit down and stare out toward the lake.