The view into Oak Creek Canyon and Zion’s vast backcountry. At left is West Temple — at 7,810 feet, the highest point in Zion — then the Altar of Sacrifice (red stains) at center, and the infamous Streaked Wall on the right.
Ridge Climbing in the heart of Zion
Zion has always been a land of tight spots. The main canyon constricts until it becomes a deep wound in the earth. Hand cracks have a way of widening into 5.9+ squeezes, which have a way of opening into 5.10 chimneys. And when you’re jammed onto a shuttle bus, sandwiched between a 300-pound tourist and the window, it can feel downright claustrophobic. Zion is defined by close calls and even closer quarters. However, there is more than one perspective.
Away from tourists’ repetitive questions and the murmur of shuttle buses, Zion National Park is a place of peaks, ranges, and knee-knocking open space. It grows from the stubble of juniper desert into a swell of red and white sandstone. Here, arcing arêtes form the skeletal structures of blunt mountains shaped like slouching giants, and twisting ridges, jagged gendarmes, and teetering blocks lead into the heights. Rock quality varies from good to nightmarish. Feet skate across stone bleached the color of exposed bone. Sand-choked cracks gnaw at your untaped hands, and belay ledges are studded with cacti. Even on the cleanest spines, such as the North Guardian Angel’s East Ridge, you will encounter loose rock. Beneath your weight, monstrous blocks creak like ancient floorboards. You learn to interpret the perverse language of shattered sandstone and read the subtle gestures of sweeping ridges.
This is desert alpinism, where sand replaces snow, and you are more concerned about your rope running through cacti than over jagged ice. These are journeys cloaked in mystery, the passage of earlier visitors marked only by petroglyphs and aging summit registers. This is desert ridge climbing.
The sunlit East Ridge (II 5.6) of North Guardian Angel.
North Guardian Angel ~ We move through the pre-dawn gloom in a quick, steady rhythm, hoofing it toward the North Guardian Angel, a cream-colored, triangular peak with sheer flanks. Marie Taylor, who grew up in nearby Rockville, has joined photographer James Q. Martin and me in Zion, where we’ve come for a week
of ridge-a-neering. James and I first met three years ago at Paradise Forks, and he’s since been a perpetual source of much-appreciated bad ideas. He’s lured me from my desk job to hump 60 pounds of rope up El Cap’s East Ledges, and lulled my ego into believing I can climb 5.12 offwidth (I can’t). He has yet to come up with a plan that involves bouldering, turquoise water, and sleeping in, but I’m hopeful.
After a couple days of research and talking with locals, we whittled our list of dozens of desert alpine climbs down to four potential routes, none harder than 5.8. But ratings in Zion’s backcountry are very much relative — the technical climbing on Zion’s sandstone crests won’t challenge a competent 5.9 leader, but the commitment factor is enough to make a 5.11 climber squirm. In the main canyon, rappel anchors are never more than 100 feet away. Out of the canyon’s confines, however, bailing does not mean catching the next shuttle bus back to the car. A maze of twisting slot canyons and sharp shrubbery, Zion’s backcountry lies hours from the nearest road. This is not the Zion of multiple, stacked parties sieging Moonlight Buttress or the Touchstone Wall. This is a Zion of wind, sand, starlight, choss ... and isolation.
We’d picked the West Temple for its position, Mount Kinesava for its prominence, and Mountain of the Sun for its grandeur, but the North Guardian Angel we chose for its high reward-to-pain ratio. With straightforward climbing, brainless route-finding, a spectacular summit, and superb rock, the Grade II 5.6 East Ridge is a perfect introduction to Zion ridge climbing. A rope, rack, and the-shirt-on-your-back mentality will suffice on this half-day jaunt with its three-mile approach on mostly good, flat trails. Above this, two hundred feet of checkerboard slabs lead to a saddle, where the climbing begins in earnest.
We weave up the ridge, connecting intermittent cracks and frictioning across featured slabs. Extremely exposed third- and fourth-class climbing on a gradually narrowing fin is interrupted by 30 feet of 5.6 — a short, vertical rock step typical of Zion’s less-traveled alpine realm. I fiddle in gear and rock onto a clean, slabby arête. A soft canyon breeze slides up the Guardian Angel’s flank.
Twenty minutes later we’re sitting on the summit, taking in the view of dozens of peaks — most unnamed, some unclimbed. The Southern Guardian Angel, an almost perfect mirror image of its northern twin, casts a dark shadow across the network of deep canyons beneath us. This fall there’s been an almost incessant drone of jackhammers, as workers carve out a new bus stop beneath Cerberus. Out here, you hear nothing but wind scraping against weathered stone.
I fish a small glass jar — the register — from beneath the summit cairn. I leaf through its yellowing pages, counting 11 ascents in the last year, with the most recent one coming a month ago. Moonlight Buttress sees that many in a week. Still, though esoteric, peak bagging is not new to Zion. Springdale locals picked off many of the prominent summits via sheep trails and low-fifth-class climbing in the 1950s and ‘60s, and Glen Dawson and Bob Brinto’s 1938 ascent via game trails and fourth-class scrambling of the Sentinel’s east face may be Zion’s first modern ascent.
Through the years, the list of desert alpine routes has grown, but the number of climbers in search of the rubble, exposure, and summits has remained relatively low. There are third-class scrambles and modern, bolted slab routes. There are nice, friendly-length moderate ridges, such as the ones we’re gunning for. And there are multi-day pursuits, like the link-up of the West Temple and Towers of the Virgin. First completed by Dan Stih and Ron Raimonde in 1998, the epic project took two seasons to scout, demanded dozens of 5.10 pitches, and featured a gully they dubbed the “Couloir of Death”. The route, fittingly for Zion alpine choss, has been repeated just once.
The jagged Cowboy Ridge (III 5.7) of Mount Kinesava looms on the right, while West Temple’s West Ridge (III 5.8) takes the smoother, light-pink skyline on the left.
West Temple ~
We’ve arrived later than we’d like. While James lightens his pack and gathers gear I pause, looking at my note card of hand-scrawled Beta. I spent yesterday at the visitor center poring through the three-ring binders that serve as Zion’s unofficial guidebook. One ancient, laminated entry displayed the sparse prose typical of an alpinist: “West Ridge, Grade III, 5.8. An enjoyable tour if you start early enough,” I read aloud. James chuckles; it’s 1:30 p.m. After summiting, we will have to retrace our steps down the boulder-choked approach gully. Doing this in the dark would be a mistake.
“You ready?” James asks. I shrug, not so sure about a mile-long traverse of rotting sandstone. Ahead, there are no laser-cut hand cracks or flinty-hard knife edges — just a faint trail through stacked blocks of purplish-brown rock as delicate as grandmother’s china.
We begin climbing. In some places the ridge resembles a poorly maintained hiking trail. At others, it’s fourth-class terrain punctuated by the occasional low-fifth-class move. We pick our way across sections of brittle, iron-coated rock, and after 30 minutes, the ridge deposits us on the edge of a chossy cliff band. I backtrack, certain we’ve missed something, and then turn to see James bear-hugging a pine tree and slowly shimmying from branch to branch.
In front of us, a quarter-mile-long sidewalk of bone-white sandstone stretches to the summit. The narrow, flat ridge — a perfect, but precarious third-class pathway — undulates from 10 to two feet wide. To the right, the West Temple’s dramatic face drops away for 2,000 feet. To the left, the high country’s twisting canyons, sandstone peaks, and unclimbed walls beckon. With less than two hours of daylight left, we motor, slowing only when the rock dictates caution. A quarter-mile later, we rest, slumping onto a white boulder peppered with brown iron deposits the size and shape of ball bearings.
“This is a familiar situation,” say James. He studies his watch, as if it might provide an easy, obvious answer.
“The classic dilemma — retreat or continue. Bold or smart?” I ask. I have a hunch as to what James’ pick will be. We both share a stubborn streak that borders on idiocy.
“A little farther,” he offers. It’s all the convincing I need.
We pull the rack from the pack, expecting to rope up at any moment. Instead, we work our way up a 300-foot natural stone staircase that delivers us 50 feet beneath the broad summit plateau and, at last, to some fifth-class climbing. James protects a bizarre finger-crack corner (5.8) with an orange TCU and clips four shiny bolts, a rare sight in the Zion backcountry. The sun is lurking somewhere near the western horizon. The summit — a broad, red capstone punctuated by a radio tower — is 20 minutes distant. Deep inside my pack, the hands on my watch spin toward a near surety — we’re going to find out just how dark the desert can get. I can already feel the night settling thick and cold.
At some point, James will mention mountain lions, and I’ll spend the rest of the hike scanning the brush for the eerie glow of yellow eyes. In the morning, I’ll spend an hour picking cactus spines, earned via hours of sliding down scree and trundling along sandy ridges studded with sharp plants, from my palms. For now, though, an hour of daylight remains. We start running.
Fitz Cahall chasing daylight on the Mountain of the Sun’s Northwest Ridge (IV 5.8).
Fitz Cahall chasing daylight on the Mountain of the Sun’s Northwest Ridge (IV 5.8).
Mountain of the Sun~ “This is a bad idea,” I want to tell James. We’d both managed to convince our friend Scott Morely that this soaring 2,500-foot ridge presented a much better option than an afternoon of climbing splitter hand cracks. Morely, who has been making the spring and fall migration from Jackson Hole to Zion for years, isn’t buying our “back home for dinner” timeline.
“It’s going to be a long, cold night, definitely below freezing,” Morely says with resignation. He stuffs a bivy parka into his pack, and we take off.
By the time we’ve stumbled up the trail, bushwhacked through a piñon stand, and scrambled to the route’s base, we have five hours of daylight. We slump on the ground and refuse to make eye contact. Glowing with orange afternoon light, the Mountain of the Sun looks like a golden tombstone. From below, we pick apart the the North Ridge’s complex topography — a series of ledges, a deep gash, and a broad ridge capped by a cockscomb of iron-tinged rock dubbed the “Golden Spur”.
Like an interlocking puzzle yielding to patient hands, the route unfolds before us. Shuffle along deteriorating ledge. Friction-climb for 10 feet. Follow a broad, sandy ledge. Wrestle through a yucca webbed with spikes of various lengths. Swear. Hurl softball-sized rock in frustration over route-finding mistakes and pace across a small ledge. We smile after discovering a 50-foot 5.6 hand crack, and slide hands into the snug fissure, moving up rapidly.
Twenty minutes later, I grovel up the last stretch of 5.7 chimney. “We’re here,” says James. “Hopefully this will put us on the summit.”
Ahead of us sits the 500-foot Golden Spur, its teetering, golden rock seracs stacked haphazardly, like a distracted child’s building blocks. We bounce from one side of the thin ridge to the next, lightly pulling on rock fins and stacked rubble. I pound a block with an open palm and cringe at the resulting dull, hollow ring, then mantel onto it before I have time to think. After two weeks of ridge running, I’ve grown oddly comfortable with the loose rock and constant exposure — two elements I typically prefer to deal with one at a time. And while we’ve been almost religious about roping up for fifth-class terrain, today we free solo. I relish the occasional, hearty hand jam or finger lock. To the right, there is nothing but yawning canyon and thick fall sunlight. My stomach tightens with each dose of exposure. Few 5.7s award a climber with 3,000 feet of air. We summit soon, and then begin the mad race to the car. Darkness hits just as we reach the mouth of Employee Canyon. Our headlamps’ blue, tepid beams do little to push back the night as we prepare the first of many rappels. We slide silently down the ropes into a slot canyon and Zion’s embrace.
Cahall finding a slice of splitter heaven amongst the choss of the Cowboy Ridge.
Cahall finding a slice of splitter heaven amongst the choss of the Cowboy Ridge.
Mount Kinesava ~ The Cowboy Ridge (III 5.7), which follows the western spine of Mount Kinesava, is the most improbable, beautiful, and prominent of Zion’s ridges. From 30 miles away, the ridge looks like a simple connection, an obvious path from a beginning to an end, but this view is deceptive. On closer inspection, the ridge is a twisted, gnarled saw blade of ledges and notches, its sandstone fins and towers aligned like notched vertebrae.
Surprisingly, the intimidating 2,000-foot route only has four or five roped pitches. Stick to the very ridge crest and you get about a dozen fifth-class pitches. When the climbing grows difficult, a little investigation reveals a small ledge system 10 feet below. When an almost-blank face confronts you, a chimney appears.
We move slowly, gingerly weighting each undercut ledge, and jam the cracks rather than pull on the flexing flakes that punctuate the ridge. Anxiety fades with upward progress. We’re aiming for the massive red tower split by an ugly-looking offwidth clearly visible from the valley floor. Here, two-thirds of the way up the ridge, we pause, taking a 5.7 chimney in a cleft to the right, and then wiggling to the top of the tower. The wall in front of us is featureless; our options seem spent … until James downclimbs 10 feet and peeks around a corner. The Cowboy Ridge responds with its best pitch yet — a splitter 5.7 hand crack above Kinesava’s 1,500-foot western amphitheater. We move past the false summit, where the word “free” is spelled out in three-foot letters made from oddly uniform bricks of dark-brown rock.
Higher, I explore a large, carved-out channel in which, each spring, snowmelt cascades 1,500 feet down the amphitheatre. I study the rock. I wander toward James, hunched over a long panel of petroglyphs, following each symbol in the hopes of deciphering a story. The carvings, etched in a chocolate-colored varnish, show antlered creatures and men armed with bows and arrows. After a few minutes, James drops into a bed of soft grass, while I lean against a large pine. We work through two tuna fish sandwiches garnished with wayward granules of sand.
The trip’s final summit is only a 20-minute scramble up a white dome, but I don’t want to move. I want savor it like the final chapter of a great book.
I twist my fingers into a seam in a small boulder. The skin around my knuckles is red and tender, the crack painfully sandy. I keep twisting, though, imagining my fingers turning to roots that burrow deep in the broken sandstone until I become a semi-permanent fixture, like the petroglyphs and piñons. I remove my fingers and see that my knuckle is bleeding. I’ve reopened a week-old wound; it’s caked in fine, yellow sand and will surely become a scar. Aside from a few wayward cactus needles, it’s the only memento I plan to take. ~
After his second story on Southwest rubble wrangling, Oregon-based Fitz Cahall is patiently waiting for Climbing to send him to cover bouldering on a lush tropical island.
Zion Logistics
Season Spring through fall. Wth summers brutally hot (100-plus degrees F) on the canyon floor, Zion's high country can be pleasant -- with an early morning start. Winter is too cold.
Gear
One 60m rope, a small assortment of large nuts and medium cams, runners, extra webbing, and a headlamp, space blanket, and safety matches for every climber. Ultimately, however, a topo map and sense of adventure are the two most important tools.
Routes
Success depends on moving quickly through third- and fourth-class terrain, and making quick transitions to short stretches of fifth-class climbing. Aside from the Mountain of the Sun, these ridge routes are outside the main canyon, so you won't have to contend with the shuttle bus.
Beta
At the park's visitor center, the backcountry desk has four binders of route information, with brief but helpful descriptions. Check here for bird closures -- in recent years, Kinesava and Mountain of the Sun have been subject to seasonal restrictions. Zion Rock and Mountain Guides (435-772-3303) is the best resource for gear and up-to-date information. In Springdale, the Mean Bean Coffeehouse is the climbers' hang.
Camping
The park's Watchman Campgrounds ($16 a night) are ideally located, and reservations can be made at nps.gov/archive/zion/pphtml/camping.html. Most climbers opt for Mosquito Cove, a free, undeveloped BLM campground sandwiched between the highway and the Virgin River. To get there, drive south from Springdale on Highway 9, through the sleepy town of Rockville until you reach mile marker 23.5. Look for a dirt road leading down and right.
Supplies
While Springdale has two small markets, your best bet is to stock up in St. George, 45 minutes away.
Enlarge
