By alpha climber Quinn Harper. Quinn has been with Alpha since the beginning. This story recounts his travel to Mexico this past January with me. The areas that Quinn describes will serve as the starting point for our Spring 2019 Gap Semester in North America. -Aaron

A crust of leaves ranging in colors from moldy brown to golden yellow cover the ground. The air is brisk and holds a fragrance of decaying plants and rotting leaves. Snow has appeared in the high country; it will be in the canyons and valleys soon. It is late fall in Montana. Locals tend to dusty skis and think about the upcoming winter. Their desire for snow can be heard and felt throughout most towns with a mountain nearby. The wind usually listens and white blankets eventually unfold.

This past autumn my desires were against the inevitable seasonal change. I coveted dry rock. New snow only meant fewer days on my project in Kootenai Canyon. At the time, I was attending the University of Montana in Missoula, living in the dorms. I was a student. I was supposed to be focused on studies, reading assigned literature. More often than not, I was reading route descriptions and researching climbing areas. My routine usually consisted of an early morning run to the gym, followed by a hangboard workout. Then I was off to classes for the day. Come evening I could be found on the third floor of the Knowles Hall patio practicing yoga. I tried to maintain adequate climbing fitness because I was afraid of being caught off guard if a rare opportunity came up to go climb. Eventually, winter took its initiative, snow fell, and instead of hanging draws, icicles hung. I was back in the gym full time.

There are certain times when the universe listens and daydreams come to fruition. Around mid November I received a message from Aaron Hjelt, founder of Alpha Climbing. “Mexico?” was all it said. Along with it came a few images of some raw golden-orange cliffs. I would later learn that Aaron’s friends in Monterrey had sent the images and were requesting some help with route development. Without hesitation I inquired on details and accepted the offer. This was the junction I had been blindly training for.

I finished the semester with good grades but declared I would not attend school the following semester. I needed to focus on my passion. I maintained a training regime. I was feeling strong. For the first time in my life I found my own motivation, without someone else’s encouragement.

On the first of January I boarded a plane, and a few numbing layovers later, I arrived on a cold damp day in Monterrey. Aaron’s flight was delayed and would not be arriving until the following day. Fortunately, Aaron had a contact. His name was Joel (pronounced Ho-El). Joel is a local, with thick brows, dark hair and brown eyes. He put a smile on my face as soon as I met him. His bright zeal really got me psyched. Joel was staying in Hidalgo, which is the nearest town to El Potrero Chico, a world famous limestone multi-pitch climbing area.

Joel and the best breakfast tacos in Hidalgo

Joel took me to a taqueria for breakfast the following morning. “Cheap tacos, and the best salsa in town,” was his review. The salsa was hot, causing me to choke on my words and fail at any conversation. “Come on son, try some more salsa… This stuff will make you into a real man.” He said this with a strong Mexican accent. After eating we walked back to the white house with a blue door where we were staying to wait for the day to warm up and allow the rock to dry.

Come afternoon, we drove into el Potrero for some single pitch sport climbing. We talked from the moment we got in the car all the way to the crag. I was testing my Spanish, and Joel was a very talkative person regardless. I asked him what climbing meant to local Mexicans, and he explained that they did not understand it, as in the procedure of it. From then on I thought about other explanations for why I was getting peculiar looks from locals, but then realized that tall goofy Americans are inevitably the black sheep of a heightless crowd.

Joel does not have the body of a dainty sport climber: he is stocky with broad shoulders and thick arms. I was curious to see his climbing style. We warmed up on what Joel called “New York 5.7.” Soon we found ourselves hangdogging on difficult vertical limestone. Normally I would have been frustrated hanging bolt to bolt, however, Joel’s constant humor had me laughing practically the whole time. It became obvious that Joel’s style was to simply have fun.

From the crag you could see the parking lot. In it appeared a small white clown car. Aaron had arrived. A friendship reunion of sorts commenced below the wall. Aaron and Joel caught up with each other through updates on varied topics such as new routes, new places and the future - not to mention a heavy dose of joking around. Shade eventually swallowed us and we left for tacos and sleep.

Aaron and I decided to climb in Potrero for one more day to see if we wanted to stick around and try some multipitch. On our approach to the crag we heard a crashing noise, almost explosion like. The sound revealed itself to be a rockfall and moments later the whole canyon echoed with the word “ROCK!” The location of the rockfall was self-evident despite the yells coming from practically every climber in the area. On the climb where the rocks came down there was a party on every pitch. “I am surprised no one is hurt… or even dead.” Aaron remarked grimly.

We kept walking. A few minutes passed, another noise, this time a buzzing. Then buzzing stopped. Nearby a man cussed aloud. “HEY!” Someone yelled from about three pitches up. “Your drone is up here!” The worried drone pilot took off sprinting through the bushes.

Aaron sits under the "tree of life" in the depths of el potrero chico.

Without any dispute Aaron I agreed that this was not what we came to Mexico for. We did not come to climb in lines. Our visit had been motivated by performance based climbing, a crave for new experience and possibly a few new routes. The abundance of other climbers created a unique synergy separate from the rest of the culture that surrounded. From my perspective this union was a trap: a self-isolating comfort bubble. Not to mention that climbing with so many other people is dangerous.We were not going to compromise safety. Recognizing this, we packed up the small white clown car and drove south.

Experiencing such a crowded climbing area showed me a new angle on the sport. I was forced to think about my impact as a climber and the cumulative impact that all climbers have on an area. Due to increased popularity, issues are inevitable. Whether it be overcrowding, cultural imperialism or even pollution, I started to realize that if I were going to further pursue climbing as a passion, these were things I needed to acknowledge.

From Hidalgo, 3 hours south by car, through urban Monterrey and eventually up a steep winding road amid jungle like mountainscape is the small town of Ciénega De González. Commonly known as El Salto, after a well known local waterfall, this is where we would spend the remainder of the trip.

We arrived in the afternoon with little time to hike anywhere, so we explored a few routes at a roadside crag Joel referred us to, La Palma cave. “You can drive up the routes they are so close”, he assured us. From a distance both Aaron and I questioned the rock quality, but upon closer inspection the climbs revealed great rock. The routes were steep and powerful and swinging on jugs was a blast. Adding to the fun was our lack of crag info. We didn’t know what any of the routes were, so naturally we just got on whatever looked good. I loved this - there were no expectations, no distractions, and trying hard was the only thing necessary.

The La Palma cave faces a valley of chiseled hillsides littered with limestone on either side. We watched the sun drop at the end of the valley and made the short drive back to our new home; a seasonal horse pen rented out to climbers as a camp. A stout elderly woman owns the land. Doña Kíka is her name. Kíka’s family helped keep up the property, which included a small market, a few homes, and of course the camp. Living among Kíka and her family presented valuable exposure to how people live in Mexico. The contrast between their daily life at home and mine is completely adverse.

Aaron and I left the camp kitchen at home, besides two knives, because we packed so much weight in bolting gear and hardwear. Luckily we had permission to use Kíka’s outdoor kitchen, which was complete with three propane burners and a hot plate for heating tortillas. We made veggie tacos that night.

Going to sleep is hard when so much of a trip remains. The first night in El Salto I laid awake listening to Mexican Ranchera music played from a car speaker out front of Doña Kika’s storefront. Chit chat in spanish became audible during song intervals, and I presumed that each person had a Tecaté in hand. I was kept up by this for awhile but eventually fell asleep to fervent thoughts of where I was. It always interests me to gage the pace of the place. Driving through the city things speed up, people have places to be, speed limits are higher and there is a evident need to be in a rush. In El Salto people follow the measure of a slow accordion. Joel says that is what “mexican time” is, (among other excuses that give a reason to be late).

HAnging out in the Tecolote cave on Nosferatu, 5.12c. -photo by aaron

At around 4 in the morning I awoke to the local roosters crowing. I had never heard this before. It startled me at first, and in my half asleep stupor I dreamed they were jaguar calls. By the end of the trip I had gotten so used to the rooster’s timing that I would wake up before sunrise anticipating a cock-a-doodle-doo.

Aaron and I explored the area and climbed at La Palma sporadically over the next days. I found a project at La Palma that really motivated me. Consequently, I didn’t give myself the chance to explore other classic El Salto crags like the famous Las Animas. One rest day we drove to the nearby village of Laguna de Sanchez. On our drive we snaked through a deep canyon with limestone walls upwards of a thousand feet, some taller. The majority of the rock was untouched to our knowledge.

A few days later we met up with another one of Aaron’s friends, Mark Grundon (owner of El Potrero Chico Guides). A seasonal rock guide in Yosemite, Mark spends his winters in Mexico with his wife and daughter. Mark is not just a climber but also a hard working developer as well as a caretaker for existing areas. He had bolted a few lines in San Isidro the previous season and was stoked to continue route development there. The morning was spent weighing options of where to start. Some of the cliffs hang above the road, which had risky rock fall potential.

When entering the canyon two obvious towers greet you. The formation is call Mano de Dios, “the hand of God” One look at your right hand and the name makes sense. Mark put up a reportedly chossy route on the taller of the two towers but had yet to check out the smaller tower. The approach was a short distance but a lack of path made for a nice bushwhack. The wall was slabby and clean enough to notice and held an aspect that held shade all day. We harnessed up and the two mentors tossed a conversation back and forth about mixed metals. It is a conversation very few can listen to and even fewer understand. I kept my excitement in. I couldn’t help but feel nervous. After only climbing other people’s routes and a lot of plastic I was finally broadening my knowledge on climbing area development. Aaron and I made a summit bid via a moderate ridge and declared a first ascent of the Thumb, a.k.a. “Dedo Gordo”. Aaron then set me up on a fixed line and gave me a wire brush and a nut tool, “Make it safe and clean.”

Aaron cleaned his own line and Mark went ground up on two routes close by. In total, two days were spent cleaning and bolting the two lines Aaron and I were on. Pulling off loose blocks, choking on limestone grit and caking a mix of sweat and dust on my face taught me humility and respect for members in the climbing community who pursue new routes. Appreciation is demanded for all the hard work put into areas. Until Dedo Gordo I even took the trail for granted.

Quinn on route in the Cumbia cave -photo by aaron

Though I thought we had left the cold behind in Montana, the weather did not hold out in El Salto. When not on the wall or on an approach, thick puffies were worn without contemplation. Frost coated Kika’s every morning and the outdoor kitchen sink would freeze on the especially cold occasions. One day we awoke to a dusting of snow. At first we were discouraged, but an opportunity to visit a reportedly steep cave littered with tufa and stalactites motivated us enough to pack ropes and jump in Mark’s truck. I bounced around the back seat and thought about all the damage our clown car would have received had we tried to come here ourselves. The Cueva de Cumbia involves a typical approach of Mexico, which means a mandatory machete. The cave itself has alien-like three dimensional rock. Huge stalactites hang and silhouette against the sky at the top of the cave. Mark was an integral part of developing the area to what it is now. He talks about it as if it were his child, and for good reason, as the place is stacked with one-of-a-kind routes.

Quinn in the Tecolote cave, El Salto. photo by Aaron

The first route had icicles hanging from the stalactites. My hands numbed out as soon as they met the rock. Due to chill factor, the improbable chance to return to such special area, and =with the approval of Mark, we justified a small fire. Coin sized rocks were placed in the fire, and when it came time to tie in, the rocks were nestled into our chalk bags. I climbed with Mark and he showed me one of his favorite lines. A pattern emerged of long reaches on big holds, with abundant knee bars. This type of climbing taught me how to rest. Some of the stalactites were larger than me which introduced me to a new type of resting position: the tufa hug. Spending time with Mark was smile inducing. Like Joel, he had plenty of funny stories and mannerisms that always left me with a sore core. Otherwise meaningless feedback loop phrases were repeated throughout the trip, such as “style matters”, all seemed to be sourced from Joel or Mark.

At the end of the day I hopped on Mark’s route, Celso Peña, for the redpoint. The line starts dead horizontal but eases angle when it reaches an enormous tufa. From there you swing on jugs and stem tufas. The fire smoldered below, producing smoke that billowed out of the cave. I sat, with legs wrapped around a tufa half way up the route, choking on smoke, trying to harness the power to make a few more moves, but I tossed and lowered off into the jungle below. I walked out smelling like smoke, frustrated, and humbled. I repeated in my head a new phrase I had been given: “If it doesn’t go to the tick list, at least it will go to the forearms.”

I continued to wake up with the roosters, yet days began to feel fast. I found myself trying to reach out to more people, linger in conversations a bit longer, and try a little harder on the rock. I wanted to get as much out of the what little time remained. I must admit when I first arrived, I was scared of Mexico. The US had undoubtedly painted a dark picture over a radiant country. Mexico has rough edges: it has grime,it is well used, but this only lends character. For climbing, Mexico holds new opportunities. Much of the rock is still unpolished and sharp. For myself, Mexico allowed me to discover new strengths and weaknesses in my character and climbing. I also deepened my passion as well as knowledge of climbing. Although the focus of a trip like this revolves around climbing, the things that compose a more enriching experience are the people you meet, the food you eat, the sounds that you hear and the places you see. On the last day climbing of the trip I returned to my project at the La Palma Cave and clipped the chains on my hardest redpoint to date. I still don’t know the name of the route or it’s given grade, nevertheless, its anonymity only accentuates the value of the experience.

-All photos by Quinn unless noted.

Mexico Reflections