Post #4 South of the Arkansas

Old Colorado 

Noah (left) and Millz putting in work

History is heavy. It permeates the places we live. You can feel that weight driving up the Oak Creek Grade before the gnarled oaks give way to pine. Looking out your window over the high plains, you can imagine the scene where 200 years ago, 800 Spanish troops trapped the fearless Comanche chief Cuerno Verde and his eldest son in an arroyo and cut them down. Cuerno Verde’s father had suffered the same fate a decade before, making for three generations slain in the war. Juan Batista, the governor of New Mexico, victoriously presented the chief’s headdress to the Pope to hang in the Vatican as an example to natives who dared question the authority of Christendom. Despite these attempts to snuff out the rebellious tribes, the highest peak of the Wet Mountains, Mount Greenhorn, was later named in honor of the chieftain’s fighting spirit. 

Few people know that story. Even fewer seem to know the storied climbing history of that low-lying range you spy in the distance as you turn into the Coyote Den for a breakfast burrito on the way to Shelf Road. Cattle and cowboys were the most common travelers through the scrappy, steep canyons until the mid-twentieth century, when hikers and climbers began peeking around. Exploration of trad and mountaineering routes picked up in the post-war era, with locals, as well as non-locals like Harvey Carter and Layton Kor establishing lines in the Wets and Royal Gorge. The wavy faces of the textured granite domes enticed sport climbers to link features with bolts by the 1980s. But sport climbing really took off in the 90s and reached a fever pitch in the early 2000s, led by experienced pioneers like Bill Schmausser, Nelson Lunsford, and Bob Robertson, among others. Robertson put in a ton of work bolting routes and published most of them in his pamphlet guidebooks, much to the chagrin of many of his fellow developers at the time who feared attention from the Forest Service. And, those fears were founded in reality. Several climbers, including the local climbers’ group, have received strongly worded letters over the years (some would call them threatening) from federal and state officials. In fact, one of the best crags of the area was closed by a state biologist soon after the release of Ben Bruestle’s The Ripper. (Note that I refrain from mentioning specific crags and routes in this article to avoid repercussions from the powers that be.)

You might guess that Pueblo and its environs, marooned so far out in the high desert, aren’t climbing towns, but that’s not entirely accurate. The most obvious living example to refute that is the legendary John Gill, a Pueblo local and one of the strongest rock climbers in North American history. But yes, the density of climbers is much lower than in many other towns known specifically for climbing. In Bravura, Ben Bruestle paints a picture of the evolution of climbing in the triangle of mountains surrounding Westcliffe, to the west of the “Steel Town”. This includes the Wet Mountains, the Royal Gorge, and the high, dry peaks of the Sangre de Cristos. His book is full of stories like that of Tim Murphy, who, as a kid in the 1970s, had his father drop him and a friend off at the Quiet Towers on his way to work at the mill, since he was too young to drive. They would climb and explore in the wilderness all day, then wait beside the dirt road for Tim's dad to return. It’s hard to imagine a father agreeing to a plan like that these days.

Pueblo climbers, as well as their geographical cousins in Canon City, grew up in a different environment than their northerly counterparts in C Springs, Denver, or Boulder. Teenagers braved rattlesnakes to wrestle boulders in 100-degree heat and ditch class to pioneer unrepeated horror shows in the Royal Gorge. Trails through the rugged scrub oak, when they do exist, grow back in days without pruning. One gets the idea that the harsh physical landscape and economic realities helped form something lacking in many folks these days: grit. 

THE OG’s

Nelson Lunsford forever exploring

Nelson Lunsford was climbed out and ready to give up the sport in 2000. “I was a desert climber and put up all kinds of climbs in Hart’s Draw. I put up some routes on Pikes Peak, but I can’t even remember where they are.” But a friend’s invitation to The Wets reignited his passion. For more than two and a half decades, he’s driven south from his home in Colorado Springs to brave the cactus, thick scrub oak, and hungry mountain lions to explore crags with approaches well beyond what the average climber finds acceptable. “Someone asked why I went to so many places that were so hard to get to, but I didn’t mind it.”

Many aspects drew Nelson to the range, but mostly it was the solitude in nature. “We take care of the environment and care for the wildlife.” He said. “I don’t know how many bags of trash I’ve hauled out of there from illegal dumps.” Nelson seems to have a good grasp of the relationship between the freedom he feels in The Wets and the responsibility to care for it rather than rely on government organizations like the National Forest. “I have a feeling they don’t have enough money and resources to do what they want, but they’re probably doing the best they can do.”

Nelson, now in his late 60’s, enjoys seeing the younger generations enjoy his routes. “I’m an artist, and my medium is the rock. And now I’m really happy to be sharing it with some younger friends who respect it and keep it off MountainProject. 

THE PROTEGE

Mike Millz landed on the scene a decade after Nelson made his first trip south. He didn’t grow up in Canon City, but seemed destined to land there. He’s a product of the Southern California punk scene, where he grew up around plenty of shady characters and found himself drawn to the dangers of skate parks and graffiti art. He’s the kind of guy who has lived authentically, in the Kerouac-beatnik sense. He hitched around the west, riding the rails and living the hobo life for several years until the tracks ended in Canon City, Colorado. He looked around at all the rock and thought back to the time in middle school when his PE teacher took him rock climbing. He remembered how much he enjoyed the climbs, and realized it might be the rush he’d been looking for all along.  “In 2011, some friends took me to Shelf Road, and I realized this is what I should have been doing.”

Mike Millz piecing it together

But it was the solitude and adventure that drew him to the hidden gems to the south more than the tamed limestone of Shelf Road. “We saw so much opportunity for climbing that we could author if you’re willing to take the hikes and bushwack and take the chance of coming up with nothing.” That ability to gamble with one’s time is a defining characteristic that separates developers and explorers from the average climber. It was that intense curiosity about what was around the corner that led to a bit of an apprenticeship with the likes of Nelson and other “old heads” of the area who were willing to share their philosophy and wisdom. Folks like Johnny Musso, Jason Gould, and the late Wes Ford, to name a few.

YOUNG GUNS

I’ve noticed over the years that some climbing areas seem to attract a certain “type” of climber, if you know what I mean. And if The Wets are a wild, unruly area resisting authority, then it’s no wonder Noah McKelvin has found himself at home there. You’d be hard-pressed to find a climber in their early thirties with a more diverse portfolio than Noah. From 5.13 r/x Eldo death routes, to nightmare aid lines on desert towers in the middle of summer, to some of the biggest alpine mixed climbs in North America… well, you get it. The kid gets around. “It’s a lot different than the rest of Colorado,” he says. “Slower pace and fewer people. Tons of rock that would have all been developed already if it were closer to a bigger city.” 

Noah sending a steep new first ascent

The quiet seems to suit him; in fact, that’s something new-routers in The Wets have in common. The ability to spend an entire day in precarious situations, miles away from the nearest human. One of Noah’s big projects— a four-pitch, overhanging beast of a route above the Arkansas River— requires several hours of hiking plus a dangerous swim with a dry bag. But, for a climber with his skills, there’s a lot left to do there. “Most of the routes top out in the 11+ range, so there’s a lot left to do above that.”

Last July, I accepted an invitation to join Noah and Milz while they filmed a new route for their upcoming film Dragon’s Teeth: Mission Optimistic. Once again, I fell for the Noah sandbag. “Dude, it’s a short approach, and all you have to do is belay and jug the line.” Of course, I spent a week pulling cactus out of my ass after falling three times on the steep approach in the dark. He also forgot to tell me that the 5.12+ traverse pitch would be a challenge to jug, especially given Noah’s conservative use of gear. But all told, it was a fun adventure from the back seat. 

One of the youngest additions to the crew has been Charlie Dunn, son of legendary Colorado climber Jimmy Dunn. Charlie spent his early years in the Springs before his family relocated to Pueblo West in his early teens. “I got introduced to trad in the Wet Mountains, and that’s where I got really excited for climbing. It’s really cool that fewer people are there, and I’m grateful I’m part of that.”

Charlie and Wesley tackling the first ascent of a wide monster

Where Noah is more of a jack of all trades, nineteen-year-old Charlie has been laser-focused on crack climbing and has made notable ascents, including a clean send of For Turkeys Only, the notoriously sandbagged wide crack at Turkey Rocks. He’s also stayed busy new-routing with his strong partner and long-time best friend, Wesley Reeves. Together, they’ve put down some of the more difficult cracks overlooked by sport climbing enthusiasts.” Crack climbing has been my main excitement,” he said. “I don’t know why it’s gotten my attention like that, but now I realize that with tough cracks, you have to be strong at face climbing too, so I’ve been training that.” The pair is planning a run at the Salathe Wall in Yosemite this Spring, before Charlie moves to Boulder to finish his undergrad degree.

VIBE CHECK

If I had to summarize the ethos of the range, I would say that locals feel a sense of ownership of the area because of the time and energy they’ve put into exploring and cleaning up after themselves— as well as others. They just want to know that newcomers feel the same. Unlike other areas, they aren’t likely to destroy your route or cut your tires in retaliation, that would mean sacrificing their strong libertarian code. But they’ll be hesitant to share beta with someone they don’t trust has their crag’s best interest at heart. When I asked each what they’d tell a visitor, they gave similar answers, all revolving around respect for nature and personal responsibility. I like to think that if we all did that, then climbing would continue to flourish and expand without sacrificing what makes these places special. Perhaps the real lesson of Cuerno Verde’s demise is humility. That by respecting each other and the land, we can avoid war in the first place.

Dragon's Teeth: Mission Optimistic will be showing at the Mountain Chalet in Colorado Springs, Thursday, February 12th from 630-730.