Asa Space

Far off the beaten track of the American west, a limestone uplift soars far above the plains. Like a sentinel, it guards the entrance to a mysterious canyon that cuts deep into Wyoming’s Beartooth mountains. 150 years ago, Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce led his people away from the US Cavalry up this passage as part of a sixteen hundred mile retreat away from impossible conflict.

The terrain here is rugged and beautiful. The landscape can be seen shifting: rocks are heard falling down the corroding riverbank at night and turbid spring runoff creates a treacherous but exhilarating stretch of unpredictable rapids. The mountain air is fresh and sweet.

Up the canyon, unthinkably difficult trad climbing routes were set years ago. There is no road access, and a lone 4×4 trail was washed away when an entire section of river bank fell into the water. Lack of access, ruggedness, and remoteness combine to make it so that one only comes here with intention. My intention was to abandon my comfort zone on the ground at the base of the limestone sentinel and to quest up the formation, following a recently-established twenty-two pitch sport route, “M11”—one of the longer bolted routes in North America. During separate attempts on the summit, I would be accompanied by one of two stalwart adventure companions: Allex McDaniel and Mike Thorpe.

The lead-up to M11 was a quickly escalating series of climbs. To date, I had only experienced a handful of multipitch routes, all with soft grades. My best friend, Allex, maybe even fewer. But he’s a notorious instigator, and during the fall of 2023, when we found ourselves briefly living only half a state away from each other (I was in Bozeman and he was camping out near the Big Horns for work), we unintentionally dedicated the rest of the season to getting adventurous with our climbing.

The start was painfully bad. On our first weekend out, Allex and I failed to find the route we wanted to get on, so we settled for a cold beer. That was great but not really what we were after. Then, we started making up for lost time. The following weekend, we climbed a 3-pitch 5.10 and an 8-pitch 5.7. With those routes under our belt, progression seemed natural. Allex texted me about this route called M11 somewhere north of Cody and south of Red Lodge. M11 is 22 pitches long with a 5.11c crux.

At first, I thought Allex was crazy and I laughed off his proposition. 5.11c is as hard a grade as I’d ever sent (although I’d onsighted it) and 22 pitches was mind boggling at the time. Over the next few hours, I let the idea bounce around my mind and a seedling of desire sprung in my consciousness. I had to know if we could do it, I had to experience this new adventure.

Allex and I approached M11 from opposite directions. A winter storm preceded our weekend trip and we were gripped by uncertainty. Would the early snow gracing the high country make for wet, impassable rock? Was this too much much to bite off, too soon as new multi-pitch climbers? But when I captured my first glimpse of the formation, I was overcome with stoke. I texted Allex full of anticipation, something like, “it looks good man!” but probably more, “f*** yah dude!!!” my messages were sent alongside a picture of the monolithic uplift that sent chills down my spine.

Camping near by, we racked up: quickdraws, slings, extra belay devices…gummy bears and sandwiches. Then I crawled into the back of my truck to sleep–well to try to, anyhow. I felt the cold steel of the truck bed through insufficient padding. A chilly current of night time air rustled down the canyon.

Dawn came too early like usual. Since I’m a reluctant morning eater, I choked down the instant oatmeal Allex had brought, trying to hide my ambivalence and show some gratitude. The hot coffee he offered, on the other had, was cherished like an elixir of life. Finishing breakfast, we knocked out the short approach, found the bottom of the route and got on the rock. It was an instant sand bag.

We executed the 5.10 labeled 5.9 and reached the first belay stance. At this point, Allex climbed off route and up a chossy face high above his protection. That’s when we agreed to spot the next bolt line before making moves. He hung a sling on a questionable block for protection and carefully picked his way back down this sketchy bit. I watched his moves in silent concern–don’t fall, Allex.

It was getting clear that we wouldn’t be able to summit but we gave it our all to find our high point. The route oscillated between excellent climbing up vertical faces with pinches, crimps, ledges, and slots, and then it would follow low-angle laybacks along seams running hundreds of feet. You could flow up these stretches and then suddenly be halted by a cryptic section of slab. The belay stances were comfortable, the mixture of grades made for fast travel, and it was magical linking pitches together: nearly 350′ could be climbed almost continuously. A flow state was achieved. We turned around above the crux and twelve rappels ate through the rest of the day. We regained the ground under darkening skies–we’d need to be more efficient if we tried this route again.

That evening, I reflected on my experience. It was a privilege to be out in this beautiful spot with my adventure pal. Opportunities to hang out over the last few years were few and far between. After college, Allex and I had always lived a long ways away from each other, and recently, following a divorce, Allex had embarked on a long stint of globetrotting. I witnessed his travels through photos posted from far corners of the world–Greece? Brazil? Being able to make weekend plans close to home was unanticipated luxury.

The outdoors always puts things into perspective for me: my daily stressors melt away. The feeling of touching cold stone comforts me. My mind ponders the incomprehensible lineage of the landscape, with the timeline of visible geology dwarfing the entirety of human existence. For a moment, my worldly concerns are put in their place: a flash in the pan.

Take 2

Allex and I didn’t want to be shut down by M11. By climbing the crux we proved to ourselves that we just needed to be faster to make it to the top. Over the next week we plotted together on how could we climb more swiftly, rappel more swiftly, and ultimately bag the summit. I hunch over my phone at night, slogging through debates on mountaineering forums about whether simul-repelling was a good idea or bat-shit crazy. We explored the idea of using a tag line and repelling two pitches at once. I bought a whole spool of static 6 mm to use as a tag line but then my imagination ran wild with nightmare scenarios of the rope getting caught on a jagged feature way above us. This route didn’t seem like a good place for a tag line. Simul-rappelling it was. We agreed to tie ourselves together for safety and make sure to use our third hands (this is very uncomfortable, there is no perfect answer to safety for inherently unsafe endeavors).

I stepped back onto the first pitch of M11 the following Saturday as the morning sun broke the horizon. Looking back down at the maws of the canyon, the braided river trailing into the plains was decorated with golden cottonwoods that would soon catch the pink rays of the rising sun. The scene burned into my mind. For a fleeting moment, I held onto that ephemeral feeling of experiencing something truly special out here.

We swiftly yo-yo’d up the pitches and raced passed our original high point. Low-angle stretches made our toes scream inside our downturned sport climbing shoes as we ran up the formation. when we reached the route-setters bivy, we wandered around for a few minutes before finding the route again only to be rewarded with some seriously sandbagged slab climbing, “5.9 my ass!!” We were making great time and we had to because this late in the year, darkness comes quickly.

On pitch twenty, the giant limestone flake we scaled had pulled away from the greater mass of the uplift, and it narrowed into a spire above our heads: Chief Joseph’s Horn. I surfed along the arete defining the rightmost edge of the flake. To my side, I felt the void of a great emptiness. The route setters had taken 5.4 climbing as an excuse for massive runouts, and this fact coupled to the exposure made for a delicious and airy experience. With the far bolt spacing, it took extra time to find the next bolt hidden against the fractured rock face. The 5.4 pitch led us to a 5.11- headwall that blocked the summit.

We had made good time, but not good enough–it was 2:30 pm, and we’d agreed to turn around at this point. The top was so close that I could taste it but we had 20 rappels left before our feet were on solid ground. That would take a lot of time, and oh yah, Allex was expecting a baby in just a few weeks. Being safe seemed pretty important right then.

Heading down was a total slog. I’d leave it out of this story if it weren’t such an important part of the journey (you ever notice that in mountaineering films they never show the decent even though it’s one of the most dangerous parts?). The raps were so boring but we tried our best to stay on guard. During this time, a good partner has your back: “you want to clip in to the anchor, Asa?” Allex queried as I started to escape the rappel. I guess I was feeling a bit too comfy on this lofty belay ledge. “Oh jeez, yah of course.”

We dialed in our system–we didn’t need to trade words as we threaded the rope through chains, coiled sides, and tossed them down below us. But once we weighted the rope to rappel together, communication became essential. It was kind of hilarious being tied into each other simul repeling, both of us grumpy with exhaustion but unable to get more than a few feet apart for hours and hours. There’s few people I can tolerate in this sort of proximity; fortunately, Allex is one of them.

Finally, there was dirt under our shoes. Fist bumps and a cold beer were in order. Darkness fell as we left the base of cliff and looked back on the crag. We watched a party on a nearby route searching out anchors with headlamps and we didn’t envy them.

Climbing twenty pitches of M11 was a fulfilling way to wrap up the climbing season. I felt accomplished, but I lacked closure. I knew I could finish the route but I didn’t know if I ever would. Would this be the one that got away? Allex had to leave the States. He returned to Germany for the birth of his son and just like that, my climbing partner had come and gone.

Take 3

If I ever got back to M11, I had to climb 20 pitches all over again just to get to my previous high point. But this barrier was less than the challenge of finding a good climbing parter. That was the true missing link. I needed someone that I could trust with my life 1,000 off the deck and someone that had grit, skill, and motivation.

My friend, Mike Thorpe, fits the profile of just such a climbing parter, so you could say I was pretty stoked the following June when he asked me to go back out to M11 and climb it with him. Maybe my tales of the route and the mystical canyon behind it had their desired effect. We agreed to make time in our busy schedules for this to happen. Two weeks later, we drove back down to Wyoming.

We reached camp as the sun was receding behind the canyon walls. I stepped out of the truck into the tall grass on the river bank and a thick cloud of mosquitos set upon me. I wasn’t upset, I like how wild this place is. Then, scanning our majestic surroundings, I spotted a group of large, fury brown animals headed down the canyon towards us before disappearing behind a hill. In the failing light, I couldn’t see if they were cows….or grizzly bears. I wished for binocs badly. Before I lost sight of them, their gait had seemed to me both powerful and casual, like an apex predator. Mike and I made contingency plans and resigned ourselves to our fates whatever they may be. Thank god we had Mike’s truck bed camper for shelter, from the mosquitos anyways. For the suspect griz, the shelter felt more like a pantry ladened with morsels–us.

But the night passed uneventfully, we awoke to good weather and had a relatively casual morning. The long days of summer meant more time to climb. Leaving the ground at the base of M11 for the third time elicited a sweet sigh of relief from me as we left the mosquitos far below. We moved efficiently but we didn’t rush, we had to pace ourselves. As I inspected my bright green rope that I had bought last fall, I observed thousands of fuzzy green hairs sticking randomly out of the casing, caused by abrasion from the sharp textured surface of this limestone behemoth whose embrace I welcomed once more. The rope still had a lot of life but it was sure showing wear from this route. I felt the same way–strong but worn. This would be my last burn on M11 for the foreseeable future.

Mike and I climbed valiantly. I thoroughly enjoyed the same pitches from before that had excellent movement. I wanted badly to climb the pitches clean, but I blew a foot on sandbagged slab climbing (and later on I would ask for a take). Fortunately, perfection wasn’t the plan, just a preference. Mike got to experience the unexpected characteristics of this route, like holds that had gone missing making for harder grades. He led the thin, pumpy, and enjoyable crux. His feet screamed in agony on the abundant low-angle friction fests. His climbing shoes were almost new and hardly broken in–I bet that sucked.

At the bivy ledge, some 14 pitches off the deck, things were catching up to us. Im not sure what made us more weary: the long work week we came off of, or the climbing. Either way, we took a long rest on this ledge; and after, reveled in the crisp juicy sweetness of apples. I was learning that the body wants sugar in a scenario like this. My other provisions sat heavy and undigested in my stomach, but this fruit just felt right to eat. When it was time, we pushed on, at least partially recovered.

As we tackled the final pitches, for a brief time, Mike’s eyes had a far away look caused by exhaustion. For that time, I doubted our objective. If we had to turn around it would be disappointing but it would be OK, we do this for fun. But Mike has more grit than anyone I know. He shook himself off and I watched him roll his shoulders back and fully embrace the present moment. As he inhabited this new space, his stoke now buoyed me up the wall.

We reached the headwall guarding Chief Joseph’s Horn and I led the last 5.11- pitch. It was an exhilarating sequence this far up in free space. I doubted myself not for my physical ability, but out of fear of making a mistake this far from safety. The climbing was excellent, just thin enough to be spicy, but it was all there. Behind me, Mike tapped into some hidden reservoir of athleticism, no doubt provided by his vast experience in the mountains, and then climbed the headwall with great style. And then, we battled up some chossy low angle blocks and gained the summit. Finally, we had made it. Us two human specs celebrating on this lofty perch, a place thoroughly steeped in geology and history, much of it long forgotten. Behind us, the Beartooths and Central Absarokas erupted into the sky, in front of us stretched the vast expanse of Wyoming. I couldn’t resist sending Allex a picture of us up there.