The Art of Sierra Climbing

My first look at rock climbing in the mainstream media was a 1974 National Geographic feature that Galen Rowell photographed. It was a classic article on the first clean-aid ascent of Half Dome, written by Doug Robinson and electrified by Galen’s images, in particular the color-charged cover. It was a story that many remember as their first glimpse into climbing, Yosemite, and the world of radness.

For decades Galen was the media’s mountain guy in the field: the clean-cut, square-jawed photojournalist who could get it done. Over the years, he coupled his pictures with well-articulated writing that documented his adventures and often urged us to take note of threatened parts of our planet. Along the way, his photographic skill evolved into true art, particularly when he moved to the eastern Sierra full-time.

Galen was just about the most knuckleheaded genius I’ve met, and certainly the most bull-ina- china-shop renowned alpinist I’ve ever seen. He could communicate like an elder statesman if his blood was up, and then immediately revert to prepubescence. The swimming pool at his house was never for swimming laps; it was for Galen to sprint toward and then cannonball into, sending tsunamis of chlorinated water over our barbequed burgers and into our cocktail glasses. But when he took a cause to heart, he could marshal his journalistic skills to speak with passion and logic.

Non-comprehension from an audience was never a reason to give up on a subject. If you ever witnessed his monologue on there being no such thing as color, that it’s simply a matter of how reflected light is interpreted by our brains (or something like that), you were likely as flummoxed as I was. Now imagine listening to that while traversing technical ground, unroped, and 1,000 feet above a glacier. His train of thought coupled with his freighttrain momentum was, at times, hilarious. Nothing in half-measures and never lukewarm, he decided on a course and simply didn’t know how to deviate.

Galen was never a fluid technician; rather, he was a student of the Conan the Barbarian School of Mountain Brawling. On easy approaches, he would shinny up and skitter down boulders while his companions would stroll around them, hands in pockets. On the wall, he would clumsily stuff gear into a crack until it stuck, and then trust it with his (and your) life. That he used to be a mechanic was odd when you witnessed his ineptitude with basic climbing anchors. But in the time it took to laugh at his belay and take a swig of water, he would turn around and blind you with a casual segue from “What’s for lunch?” to an in-depth discussion of quantum physics.

His major physical assets were his considerable endurance and uncanny durability. Around his 60th year he ran 26 miles from Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows, joined by a couple of 20-something mountain runners. Upon arrival, he spent a good part of the afternoon pacing the parking lot and downing a box of popsicles while he waited for the youngsters to limp in, their knees jacked from trying to keep up with this freak.

Galen’s High Sierra first-ascent count through the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s is probably unmatched. That he lived down in the Bay Area for most of this time makes it especially impressive—these FAs were usually sandwiched in on weekends. What makes it even more staggering is that his accomplishments were never due to a high skill level, but through sheer force of will. A good example was his ski mountaineering. In 1980, with Dan Asay, Kim Schmitz, and Ned Gillette, Galen did the first ski traverse of the Karakoram—300 miles of assorted gnarliness through some of the most outrageous mountain terrain on the planet. Surely, I thought, he must have had exemplary skiing technique to perform something this cuttingedge. But then I skied with Galen. On a spring descent of a local peak, on what could generously be called intermediate terrain, I wobbled down a half-dozen turns before stopping to rest. I waited for Galen, behind me, to show me how it was done. When he glided into view, he promptly exploded into a car wreck of a wipeout. Just as I was contemplating advanced first aid, he jumped up, pointed his skis in the desired direction, and took off again. The next turn resulted in the same sort of rag-dolling snow explosion, and the next, and the next. Galen arrived by my side maybe 15 minutes later, still covered in snow, saying, “This is great, isn’t it?”

Coming up with a short list of Galen’s classic first ascents in the Sierra is tricky, and perhaps the only democratic way is to focus on those that have seen the most attention. Many others have missed the spotlight for various reasons, especially the ungodly death march of the lengthier approaches. Indeed, for most of us, the length of the approach is a big chunk of how we gauge bang-for-buck—because we are only willing to go until we get tired. Galen, on the other hand, just kept going until he got there.

Chris Vandiver leads near the top of Keeler Needle during the 1976 first free ascent.

Keeler Needle (14,240ˈ)
East Face (aka Harding Route; V 5.10c, 22 pitches)

FA: Warren Harding, Glen Denny, Rob McKnight, and Desert Frank, 1960
FFA: Galen Rowell, Chris Vandiver, and Gordon Wiltsie, 1976

The sight of Keeler in alpenglow produces a vision of the ideal alpine rock climb: an 1,800-foot orange torpedo aimed at a cobalt sky. Closer inspection, however, reveals rock that is sometimes good but more often scabby. There are some offwidth sections (including the crux pitch), but these are either short or, in the case of the crux ninth pitch, manageable with hand jams in the back and a number of fixed pieces. High on the route is a steep headwall split by burly finger to hand cracks. Climb them if you have the juice, but if all of your aggro has leaked out, you can do the standard 5.8 weaseling around to the right.

Before Galen freed this plum line, he got the first winter ascent with Harding and Tim Auger in 1972. The east face is a powerful and classic climb, and it’s tough to strike a Sierra hard-man pose without this one on your résumé.

Approach: 5 miles, 4,800 feet of gain; 4 hours
Guidebook: The Good, the Great, and the Awesome, by Peter Croft; maximuspress.com, $30

Charlotte Dome (10,690ˈ)
South Face (5.8, 9-12 pitches)

FA: Galen Rowell, Fred Beckey, Chris Jones

Charlotte Dome is like the love child of Mr. Tuolumne and Ms. Backcountry. Guarded by a 12-mile approach, the South Face route is beautifully featured with orange-granite bumps and grooves, and it reaches a cool summit in a high-country setting.

The original line (probably) starts just left of the lowest part of the face, by a big pine, and ascends up and right, then straight up the center of the face; although the nature of the rock allows for many variations, this is the most popular line. For the first few hundred feet, the climbing is somewhat slabby, but then rears up into an intimidating headwall. At this point, the original grade of 5.7 sounds completely unhinged, like looking up at El Cap and calling it 5.10c. As you start up the headwall, though, you realize the face is covered with holds, from cookie-sized finger grips to elephant ear–sized steering wheels. This, far more than the summit, is why the route is famous.

Approach: 12 miles, 2,600 feet of gain; 5–6 hours. The approach and exit hike both entail crossing the Sierra Crest at Kearsarge Pass.
Guidebook: The Good, the Great, and the Awesome, by Peter Croft

Rabbit Ears (8,400ˈ)
The Smokestack (5.10, 9 pitches)

FA: Galen Rowell and Doug Robinson, 1970

This route climbs a prominent buttress on the Wheeler Crest, high above Bishop. Although it reaches a pinnacle top, it could hardly be called a mountain—it’s a bit of a cross between high desert and alpine rock climbing. What makes it special is that, because of the practically galactic-sized rain shadow of the Sierra crest, this 1,000-foot route is often climbable in the winter months.

After an hour-long steep and scrubby approach, the route opens up with a mixture of crack and face climbing. Flaring cracks connect with tricky face sections. It’s possible to avoid a cruxy and poorly protected section down low by coming in on crystalline dikes from the left. All pitches are fun, and the position is right on, with panoramic views of the Owens Valley across to the White Mountains.

Approach: 2 miles, 1,800 feet of gain; 1–1.5 hours
Guidebook: rockclimbing.com; summitpost.org

Rowell shoots next to Yosemite Falls in 1992. Photo by Ron Kauk

Mt. Conness (12,590ˈ)
Southwest Face (aka The Harding Route; 5.10c, 9-10 pitches)

FA: Warren Harding, Glen Denny, Herb Swedlund, 1959
FFA (5.10c): Galen Rowell, Chris Vandiver, 1976

The mid-’70s were especially bright years in a brilliant decade of Sierra exploration. It was during 1975 and ’76 that the free-climbing quartet of Keeler Needle, Mt. Conness, Dark Star, and the Hulk were done by various parties. That Galen and Chris Vandiver snagged Keeler and Conness in the same summer speaks to their understanding that the dead horse of aid climbing had more or less been flogged and buried, and that the future lay in treating the big walls and buttresses as free routes.

The Southwest Face is a classic, sustained crack route that overlooks the peaked, domed, and meadowed stretch of Tuolumne high country. One should note that Galen and Chris followed the aid line more closely on their ascent and encountered harder (5.11) climbing. Either way, it’s a climb best savored late in the season, as the route is a bit of a drainage for the west side of the mountain.

It’s important not to be put off by the first pitch. It’s often wet and always grungy, and it’s tricky to figure out exactly where to go. Once you’re past that, the climbing improves and provides plenty of good jamming up the center of the face, including a bolt-protected wide crack on the fifth pitch. Take care on the following pitch to avoid going too high before traversing right on face holds into a left-facing corner. From there, cruise steep hand cracks up to the summit area.

Approach: 4 miles, 2,600 feet of gain; 2–2.5 hours
Guidebook: The High Sierra: Peaks, Passes, and Trails, third edition, by R.J. Secor; mountaineersbooks.org, $33. The Good, the Great, and the Awesome, by Peter Croft

Bear Creek Spire (13,720ˈ)
North Arête (5.8, 6-9 pitches)

FA: Galen Rowell and Jeane Neale, 1971

This high summit in the Rock Creek drainage is one of the classic peaks in the range, and the combo of a high trailhead, alpine scenery, and fine granite makes this a dreamy climb. Between the jagged skyline above and the meadow- and lake-lined terrain under your feet, the area is head-spinningly beautiful. Set up an awesome camp at Gem Lakes, three and a half miles in; good camping can also be found another mile and a half in, but it’s more exposed to the elements and would entail gnarly talus-groveling with a big pack.

The route takes the rib coming directly at you on the approach; it’s not the classic lower-angled Northeast Ridge on the left skyline. Follow the crest up moderate cracks for seven or eight pitches (when in doubt stay closer to the arête) to the gendarmed final ridge and the bouldery summit block. This climb is best from early summer through August; it faces north, so fall ascents are hand-numbing. If conditions seem too chilly, opt for the Northeast Ridge (5.5). It catches a lot more sun and allows faster climbing.

Approach: 6 miles, 2,100 feet of gain; 3 hours
Guidebook: The Good, the Great, and the Awesome, by Peter Croft

Mt. Russell (14,086ˈ)

Warren Harding takes in the landscape during the first ascent of Half Dome's South Face in 1970.

Western Front (West Face to New Era; 5.10c, 6 pitches)

FA (West Face): Galen Rowell and Chris Jones, 1971

The approach past the south side of Mt. Russell reveals a convoluted and very broad facet of the mountain, but as one rounds the corner to the west side, the wall grows taller and morphs into a Fitz Roy–esque tower. It’s an incredible sight from camp at tiny Arctic Lake just below. These days, much of Russell’s traffic occurs on south-side routes like Fish Hook Arête and Mithral, and around the corner to the west it feels like you’re on a different peak. This route combo follows the best-looking line in the center of the wall.

Although the West Face is a fine route by itself, the best way to climb this side of Russell is to ascend half of the West Face and then sweep up and left to join New Era. I first climbed this link-up with Galen when, despite his having done the West Face route twice before, he got completely lost about halfway up. Lucky for me, the climb ended up being brilliant.

The first pitch is the crux: pumpy finger jams on flaky rock. But the difficulty then eases and the climbing improves. Higher up, where you merge the West Face into New Era, the route encounters an amazing 60-meter corner— the best pitch I’ve climbed on the peak.

Approach: 6 miles, 5,200 feet of gain; 4–5 hours
Guidebook: The Good, the Great, and the Awesome, by Peter Croft

Mt. LeConte (13,930ˈ)/Mt. Corcoran Pinnacles
South Ridge (5.7)

FA: Galen Rowell, 1970

Galen did this one as a solo trip from the east, gaining the crest at the Sharktooth, an easily distinguishable sharp pinnacle. From there, he headed north over a half-dozen pinnacles separated by notches, eventually finishing on the high point of Mt. LeConte. These peaks, although only separated from the Mt. Whitney zone by a few miles, see next to no attention despite airy summits and good rock.

As with a lot of traverses, one could start at either end. I began at the north end by starting on the north ridge of Lone Pine Peak, which leads into the north side of LeConte. The advantage is that it allows one to add another Sierra classic into the mix. The cruxy section will still be in the Corcoran pinnacles away to the south. Although Galen self-belayed and rappelled some sections, the climbing (up or down) never needs to exceed 5.7. If daylight, desire, or wimpiness dictate an escape, there are numerous places to drop off the crest to the west. Whereas nearby Mt. Whitney sits surrounded and half-blocked by neighboring peaks, the view from the LeConte ridge is one big gulp of exposure—a 10,000-foot swoop to the dry desert lakebed just south of Lone Pine.

Approach: 6.5 miles; 4,800 feet of gain; 4 hours
Guidebook: Limited info at summitpost.org

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