The Next Level: The Future of Climbing and Mountaineering

Chris Sharma on La Dura Dura (5.15c).
Screenshot from BigUp's Reel Rock 7.

When Adam Ondra sent Change at Flatanger, Norway, the 20-year-old Czech climber had just pushed the of world climbing to a whole new level... or so it seemed. It was the first climb rated 5.15c (9b+), a grade that had once seemed impossible. Just a few months later, he and climbing legend Chris Sharma were sparring to redpoint something even harder: La Dura Dura. It was a climb that even Sharma, who at 20 years of age established the world's first 5.15a (9a+) when he sent Realization, had once called impossible. Though it was Ondra who first sent this futuristic climb, Sharma soon followed with a send of his own. The climbers set the rating at 5.15c (9b+). Both Ondra and Sharma agreed that La Dura Dura was probably the hardest rock climb in the world. Some have speculated that La Dura Dura may actually prove to be the world's first 5.15d.

There are only a handful of climbers in the world who can climb 5.15. The list is limited to names like Alex Megos, Ramon Julian, Dave Graham, Adam Ondra and, of course, Chris Sharma. Undoubtedly there are a few others, but this very small list shows just how hard the grade is. If these climbers, people like Sharma and Ondra, find these climbs to be at the very limits of their abilities, taking months of rehearsal and many many attempts to complete, just how much more difficult can climbing get? Have humans now reached the limits of physical capacity where, short of developing sticky pads on our fingers or some improbable gear innovation, we simply are not able to climb anything harder? Will we ever see a 5.15d or even a 5.16? How about bouldering? V16? V17? The alpine realm seems more open, with many peaks out there that still have yet to be climbed. But eventually, it seems, humans will soon have stood on every high point in this wide world. What then? Are the sports of climbing and mountaineering destined to fall in decrepit mediocrity without the excitement of progress? Already here in Colorado there are no exciting peaks still awaiting a first ascent. Even finding a new line on any of the major peaks is going to be hard to impossible (though Tommy Caldwell and Joe Mills did establish the first 5.14 line on the Diamond one month ago). Or will someone in the next generation prove that what is considered possible is never capped?

Cerro Torre, where Hayden Kennedy and 
Jason Kruk made the first "fair means"
ascent of the in famous Compressor Route.
Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

Despite that the sports of climbing and mountaineering seem limited by the capacity of human physiology, new levels of achievement have been reached in recent years. Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk made the first "fair means" ascent of the legendary Compressor Route on Cerro Torre in the Torres Del Paine region of Patagonia in January of 2012. The Compressor Route is infamous in the history of mountaineering and considered by some the biggest atrocity in alpinism due to its excessive bolts and the abandonment of a heavy air-compressor on top of the mountain used to create the bolt ladder on the 1970 first ascent. Kennedy and Kruk decided, however, to chop the bolts off as they descended from the mountain after their ascent. A few days later, David Llama climbed the route completely free calling it 8a (5.13b). Though the chopping of the bolts was controversial, these two ascents show that what people believe to be possible in alpine climbing world has changed over the decades.

Another young climber who is proving that there are other ways than just pure difficulty which the sports of climbing and mountaineering can expand is Alex Honnold. In 2008 Honnold made the first free solo ascent of the Regular Northwest Face of Half Dome (VI 5.12b), climbing the 23-pitch route without a rope. Honnold's achievements have proven that newer generations of climbers are still willing to push the sport in "bold" directions. In 2012 Honnold managed to achieve a solo link-up Half Dome, the Nose and Mt. Watkins in a single day.

Modern Yosemite pioneer Tommy Caldwell also continues to push the sport of climbing. At 35 years of age, Caldwell has done more to push the sport of rock climbing to new levels than almost any one. In 2003 he put several months of hard work into a massive, overhanging cave on a remote wall in western Colorado, establishing Kryptonite, the country's first 5.14d (9a), and Flex Luthor, quite likely the first 5.15 in North America though it remains unrepeated and unconfirmed to this day. In recent years, Caldwell has been back where he feels most comfortable, on big walls, freeing old aid lines on Colorado's Diamond and Yosemite's Half Dome and El Capitan. Caldwell's free version of Mescalito on El Capitan, if completed, could be the hardest big-wall free climb in the world.

And what about the next generation? Young climbers today are better than ever. A crop of super-young, highly talented climbers are already scaling the best rock in the world, threatening to push the boundaries of a sport that has been accused of stagnation. 12-year-olds Mirko Caballero and Ashima Shiraishia have both climbed V13. Ashima, in fact, became the youngest person to climb that grade when she sent Crown of Aragorn at Hueco Tanks State Park, Texas at the age of 11. Other young climbers like Brooke Raboutou and Kai Lightner and others are all also climbing 5.14 and are all under 14 years of age.

The Ruth Glacier in Alaska. Photo courtesy
Wikimedia Commons.

And in the mountains, the great peaks of Karakoram and Chamonix continue to prove to be the forefront in the world of mountaineering, as new lines are found and ascended. Hard mixed routes and ice climbs are established each season. The popularity of the Ouray Ice Climbing Festival grows every year. Way up north, along the Great Gorge of the Ruth Glacier in Denali National Park, climbers have been climbing new faces and establishing brutal link-ups and traverses that nobody before had ever imagined. There are still many pitches of rock, ice and snow in this world that have yet to be climbed. These hotspots continue to produce neo-classic alpine routes that will entice and challenge mountaineers for generations to come. And there is more to be found. After all, 24,836-foot Gangkhar Puensum is generally considered the highest unclimbed mountain remaining in the world, and it is likely to stay that way for the time being, as climbing it is against the rules of the local governments. There are several other 7000m peaks that have yet to see a first ascent.

With all the growth in the sports of climbing and mountaineering, it is easy to think that we are reaching the limits of what is possible for a human. There are only so many mountains to explore. Someday soon we will have climbed them all. On the other hand, progressing into harder and harder difficulty too seems capped by simple human physiology. We can only hold onto to holds so small. Yet, despite these constraints, it seems that a new generation continues to surprise, finding and sending harder and harder climbs, or re-hashing old climbs in new style. Though maybe someday we will find that limit, for now the world of climbing and mountaineering continues to thrive.

Check out this video of Adam Ondra and Chris Sharma battling for the first ascent of La Dura Dura (5.15c):

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5.9 Ain't What it Once Was: An Exploration of Grade Inflation in the Yosemite Decimal System

The Yosemite Decimal System is a complicated entity fully worthy of dissertation-like exploration. But the YDS is an empirical system not a intellectual one, and any attempt to reduce it to research and discussion is bound to be flawed. If you are new to the Yosemite Decimal System, a good place to start is our article from January 2012 that provides a basic understanding of its history and of its general grade ratings.

A 5.10a sport climb in Colorado

There is much discussion, particularly between the older and younger generations, about a particular YDS phenomenon in the climbing and alpine world often called grade inflation. I work occasionally as a route setter at a local climbing wall. After designing and executing a project I was sure (and was confirmed by three other climbing friends, all of which can onsight 5.10 and one of which who can onsight 5.12) was 5.10b/c, a climber that was 48 years old and has several decades of climbing experience suggested 5.9+ as the rating. Surprised by this, I voiced my doubt and had him try another climb nearby which I originally rated 5.11a but after a few ascents downgraded to 5.10d. Again, this was confirmed by the same three friends. After struggling a bit but finishing the climb, this 48 year old climber suggested once again that this climb was 5.9+, only adding this time that it was "maybe" 5.10a. I was shocked, and this time I protested saying that this rating was simply impossible. After a lengthy discussion, at best I could convince him that it was at least 5.10b but he would concede no higher. While I was thinking "sandbagger," he suggested perhaps the difference was due to "a different generation" in a smug tone I interpreted as elitist.

While this encounter is not proof of anything other than the subjective nature of any grading scale in general and the Yosemite Decimal System here in particular, it got me wondering about the familiar theory of grade inflation all over again. Does it exist and why? Visit beta websites that allow users to vote for "consensus" ratings on routes such as Kor-Ingalls on Castleton Tower or The Mace near Sedona, Arizona that were established several decades ago or more and you often find that the new consensus is higher, sometimes considerably, than the original suggested rating. Is it that modern climbers, influenced by the safety of clip and go sport climbing, have been softened by the loss of "boldness" from the mainstream climbing realm? Or that many climbers climb for years and never learn to place a cam or a piton?

While considering this question, my research took me to a broad spectrum of places. In order to understand the issue of grade inflation, it seemed vital to understand its history. As noted in our history article, the YDS scale was invented at Tahquitz Rock as an extension of the Sierra Club's terrain rating scale that was used to grade alpine routes of all levels (class 1 being trail walking and class 5 being technical climbing). Ratings were established from 5.0 (easiest technical climb) to 5.9 (hardest technical climb at the time). The climbs at Tahquitz Rock, therefore, became the baseline routes by which all others would be compared. However, when you review the history of the rating at Tahquitz, you find a peculiar thing: the original ratings, the ones that were supposedly designed to anchor the entire system, have migrated slowly and steadily upward.

White Maiden's Walkaway on Tahquitz Rock's Maiden Buttress is an 800 foot multipitch trad route that was established in 1937 as one of the baseline routes at the 5.1 rating. Subsequent guidebooks over the years show that the rating has slowly risen to 5.3 then 5.4 and now some guidebooks list it 5.5. A survey of the consensus votes on one popular beta website reveals that one quarter of the climbers suggesting 5.6. Has the scale really bumped five number grades? Would that mean that modern 5.15 is simply what 5.10 was in 1937? The short answer is yes... and no.

The truth is the scale has inflated. As it has been refined, the higher grades have become more important and useful by modern standards. After all, many climbers today will lead their first climb at 5.6 or 5.7. The difference between 5.0 and 5.2 is almost indistinguishable. In truth, everything from 5.0 to 5.4 is a vague blur and often seems to overlap with class 4. In the days before the scale was opened to the mathematically illogical 5.10 rating (subverting the notion that class 6 climbing was aid climbing) in the early 1960's, when a climber encountered a climb that was at the very limit of the time it had to be rated 5.9. Sometimes the most devious of these would get a feeble 5.9+ modifier. That's not to say all 5.9's were the same, they just had no other rating to apply to these cutting edge climbs. When the scale finally opened, it was ultimately refined and slowly expanded as the sport advanced.

Today, the YDS and other scales are continuing to expand together. The YDS and the French scale, for example, have locked in step progressing at identical increments as a small group of international climbers establishes and confirms new futuristic climbs. As the grades expand slowly, one letter increment at a time, and benchmark routes are established at the new grades, the scale(s) have become more refined than in the older days. The aforementioned grade inflation does not seem to occur at these higher grades, and certain routes that have been held up as examples of certain grades have rarely changed over the years. If anything they tend to get downgraded as the beta develops and more ascents are made.

The author on a 5.12 (or is it 5.9+?)
sport climb in western Colorado

What all of this seems to mean is that modern climbers are not soft compared to their predecessors, despite the explosion of popularity in the safer mode of sport climbing. What the sport climbing explosion has allowed for is climbers to focus on pure difficulty, and people are sending routes that those who established the YDS scale could never have imagined 80 years ago. While the lower end of the scale might be softer than it was decades ago, the upper end of the scale has now been pushed higher than ever in all aspects of the sport, not just in bolt protected sport climbing. The so-called world's hardest off-width, The Century Crack (5.14b), was free climbed in Canyonlands National Park in Utah in 2011, as well as the hardest trad line in famed Indian Creek: Carbondale Short Bus (5.14- PG-13). Bold alpine first ascents have occurred in the Ruth Gorge in Alaska and elsewhere across the world. Alex Honnold soloed Half Dome, El Cap, and Mt. Watkins in a single day. While the sport has gone mainstream and become safer in many ways, boldness is still very much alive and rewarded. Though grade inflation has occurred notably over the decades in the lower grades, the higher grades have remained relatively stable, only expanding as new generations are able to push the sport further and further into the future.

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Ticklists, Fourteeners, and the Knife Edge: The Personal Challenge of Mountaineering

Capitol Peak: whether you agree or not, it’s hard to deny its reputation as one of Colorado’s most infamous, if not most difficult, fourteener.

Most of the fame comes from its notorious Northeast Ridge and its crux feature; the Knife Edge, a 100-foot-long exposed traverse with 2,000 feet of air on either side. Most people choose to straddle the pointed top and scoot awkwardly to less exposed ground on the other side. Some eschew danger and tightrope walk across it. Others call it a day and turn back to camp.

Capitol was significant to my girlfriend and I not just for its notorious difficulty, but because it was our 27th fourteener, pushing us past the halfway mark in climbing all 53 of Colorado’s 14,000-foot mountains.

We camped at Capitol Lake the night before our ascent. It was a hard-luck-approach day complete with a twenty minute tree-hug (clinging to the only shelter we could find in a driving hail storm), a slow-motion tumble of our camp stove down a steep embankment to a sorrowful splash and Titanic-like descent to the bottom of Capitol Lake, and a half-hour of begging and bartering from our fellow Capitol Lake dwellers for a water filter after discovering ours non-functional.

At 4 a.m. the following morning we awoke in dire need of a change in fortune. With at least five headlamps already snaking tortuously up the slopes above us, we summoned whatever appetite such an early hour would allow, and began our own journey up the 1,000-foot slope to the saddle between Capitol Peak and neighboring Mt. Daly.

Soon, we found ourselves with an unlikely escort – a fox. The curious creature trotted ahead of us, pausing occasionally to turn and re-evaluate his bipedal mountain companions. We took our new friend as an omen of good fortune and a sign that our luck was about to change. But as soon as he appeared, he was gone, and we were forced to continue to the saddle alone, only now with renewed confidence and vigor.

We reached the 13,600-foot false summit known in mountaineering circles as K2 and stared for the first time down the infamous Knife Edge ridge. A queue of mountaineers was already forming. We stood in awe of Capitol’s imposing escarpments and the sheer volume of climbers already present at 6 a.m. on Colorado’s “hardest” fourteener.

Excited but not debilitated by the exposure, we traversed carefully towards the Knife Edge.

*          *          *

Less than a month earlier, on a picnic table at Colter Bay in Grand Teton National Park, we sat in the shadow of Grand Teton, one of North America’s most inspiring mountains, and concocted a very personal “ticklist” of peaks we wanted to climb.

Climbing all of Colorado’s “official” fourteeners had been a goal of ours for several years, but recent encounters on the slopes of these great peaks with vast numbers of over-excited and under-prepared humanoids yielded a distaste in us for the practice of peak bagging. The hardened, John Muir-reading environmentalist in me felt conflicted and even somewhat guilty for what I viewed as my complicity in the growing problem of overuse on Colorado’s fourteeners. These mountains, and the great wildernesses in which they reside, have simply become overrun by the thousands of climbers intent on completing the most cherished of Colorado mountaineering lists.

Weary of the crowds we had encountered on virtually every fourteener we’d attempted, we decided to abandon our goal of summiting all of Colorado’s 53 highest peaks in the shortest duration possible and decided instead to create a list of mountains we wanted to climb. There is something exciting about a goal-oriented “ticklist” and something very gratifying about its completion.

We discussed, added, crossed off, and eventually finalized our new ticklist of mountains. It included plenty of Colorado thirteeners such as Vestal Peak, Jagged Mountain, and Mt. Meeker, as well as other Western classics like Wyoming’s Gannet Peak, Pingora, and of course Grand Teton. It also included a small selection of international peaks: Aconcagua, Kilimanjaro and Mount Blanc. And of course it even included some of Colorado’s best fourteeners like Longs Peak, Pyramid Peak, Crestone Peak, and Capitol. Once the list was complete we inscribed the date on the top and admired our new goal.

It was a proud list, running the spectrum of time-honored classic climbs to little-known hidden gems. Although leaning towards the technical, remote, or difficult, our list included everything from easy walk-ups to full-on multi-pitch mountaineering adventures. It suited us and encompassed the best of the mountains we wanted to climb. We debated for a minute what we would do once we’d filled in all the tick boxes on our scrap of paper. We settled on a bottle of wine and the creation of a new list.

*          *          *

At the Knife Edge we found ourselves alone. Several climbers had decided the ridge was too much for their sensibilities and turned back, smartly staying within their skills and allowing prudence to trump pride. Such decisions are to be applauded, not ridiculed.

Standing at the beginning of the Knife Edge, I convinced myself it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, that the hype was the creation of the un-seasoned peak-bagging crowd. Nonetheless I resorted to the oft-scorned technique of straddling and scooting along the edge, one leg pointed towards Capitol Lake, to the north and 2,000 feet below me, and the other pointed toward Pierre Lakes, also 2,000 feet down but to the mountain’s south. I scooted slowly along, each move made with the utmost care and deliberation.

Gradually, the ridge widened, becoming less knife-like. My girlfriend and I shared a hug and a high-five on the other side. Though the remaining route, notoriously loose and dangerous, was still ahead, we were past one of the most infamous spots in Colorado fourteener lore. We were that much closer to climbing the first mountain on our personal list, not to mention our 27th fourteener.

But the lists didn’t matter any more. We gazed south toward Snowmass Mountain and gazed over the crystalline waters of the Pierre Lakes. Other great peaks swelled like waves in the sea of the Elk Mountains. We weren’t here to check mountains off some arbitrary list. It was for the sheer joy of the experience. Everything from the hailstorm, to the fox, the Knife Edge, and even the drowned camp stove had formed this experience.

Mountaineering is a ready metaphor for life. Challenges ahead eventually met. The joy not in the blackened tick box or the bragging rights for barroom banter, but in the experience. The ecstasy of mountaineering comes from challenges set and the personal growth that comes in that magical moment on top, and all the other great moments that got you there.

NOTE: This article was originally published August 1, 2012 in print and on the web in Our Backyard.

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Finding Colorado's True Backcountry in the Gore Range

The sun rises over the Gore Range

A single bear print, perfectly defined in the mud. The shape of each pad and the circular pokes of claws rendered like a signature. Considering the frequency of the monsoon rains this season, not the least of which the one we had just hiked though, this print was fresh...very fresh. Like probably within the last hour or less. It was the Gore Range at last, the final frontier of Colorado's backcountry. A place so remote that the grand peaks and spires that define its great shape don't even have names despite the fact they are some of Colorado's most impressive and rugged mountains. These peaks are known instead to the few rugged mountaineers and travelers that venture among them by the letters of the alphabet. Some of the more foreboding of Gore Range summits have been dubbed with informal and sometimes menacing monikers like "Prisoner Peak" and "Hail Peak".

The three of us, me, my girlfriend Ella and our friend Miriam continued along a grassed-over trail, hoping but not entirely convinced we were still on our pre-chosen route. The jagged Gores stood in the distance like cold, merciless sentinels. Despite hours of hiking through a cool July thunderstorm they had grown no closer. Dark clouds, pregnant with the next round of monsoonal torrent, swirled above them, cracking and growling like some angry predator. Though we had not progressed as far as we had hoped, it was clear that campsite selection was an immediate and pressing need or we would risk being caught without shelter in what, ostensibly, would be a fierce and unforgiving storm. We found the first semi-level site we could find: a marshy, jumbled clearing beneath a canopy aspen and pine trees. It was semi-sheltered from rain and lightning but wet enough to prove a fruitful breeding ground for perhaps my least favorite of earth's creatures: the mosquito. We donated a quart of blood a piece to the dispassionate proboscises of these miserable creatures while erecting our tents.

We barely had time to boil water for a quick mac and cheese and refill our water bottles before the first alarmingly close streaks of lightning illuminated the sky. We retreated to our tents in defeat. Past experience (as well as apocalyptic predictions by the National Weather Service) had prepared us for this, so we gathered together and initiated a game of Travel Scrabble. We sorted the letters out and configured ourselves cross-legged as the splattering of rain intensified on our tent. With few options, I started the game with a particularly apt word: B-O-L-T. As if summoned by this particular lexical choice, a terrifying zap of lightning erected the hair on my neck. The game had begun.
* * * There are several reasons for the elusive character of the Gores. Despite their proximity to I-70 and relative accessibility from the outdoors hubs of Summit County, the Gores are deceptively difficult to penetrate. The range is entirely encompassed within the Eagle's Nest Wilderness Area and shrouded by a buffer of private property with few legal easements for access. Any approach to the Gores, the northern and western segments in particular, is long, tortuous and frustrating. Add to this the absence of fourteeners (the highest peak in the range, Mount Powell, tops out at a paltry 13,580') or any other trademark features, and this quiet range has escaped most of the attention that plagues other Colorado backcountry hotspots. The range's unique geology also contributes to its impenetrability. Jagged, foreboding ridges lacking negotiable saddles make traveling from one basin to the other nigh impossible. The peaks themselves are steep and dangerous. Even experienced mountaineers often find themselves turned back by the particular challenges offered by the most dramatic of Gore Range peaks.

The Gores are a hardman's (or hardwoman's) range. The addicts of comfort camping and casual backpacking need not apply. The reward, however, is quiet trails unlike the crowded paths of the Elks or the Sawatches and a sense of wild that evokes the quieter corners of, say, Wyoming's Wind River Range or Montana's Absarokas, though far less expansive. But perhaps, like all great American frontiers, Manifest Destiny has at least reared its destructive head and the slow conquering of this elusive wilderness has begun. Forum posts and trip reports on popular mountaineering websites have become more and more tuned to the Gores. Peak L (a.k.a "Necklace Peak) with its dramatic knife edge as well as several challenge cirque traverses have gathered momentum as coveted mountaineering goals. As aging climbers move on from the 14ers, "Centennial" and "Bi-centennial" peaks and younger climbers search for quieter and more difficult mountains, the pass-less-traveled has becomes less mysterious. Private property is disappearing and parking lots are filling: The Gore's secret has been exposed.
* * * S-I-Z-Z-L-E. A high scoring word. The Scrabble game ensued after over an hour of driving rain and lightning. Hardly ten seconds had passed between bolts for the entire duration of the storm. "Haha!" exclaimed Miriam, adding up her latest score. Her voice was cut off by a fresh zap of cloud-to-cloud lightning. "Good word," Ella replied. A shockingly close ground strike brought silence to the tent, all of us afraid to articulate the fear we all clearly felt. A few more rounds and all of the tiles were spent. Selective memory has conveniently blocked who emerged the victor that night, but I clearly recall lying down afterwards to an uneasy sleep as the storm continued around us.

Sometime very late the storm tapered off and the booms of thunder migrated slowly east. All night I dreamed of malicious bears and mountain lions stalking our tent. We awoke the following morning to soggy trails and saturated hiking garments. To further complicate matters, Miriam had succumbed overnight to the beginnings of the flu. The future of our trip looked grim: the Gores as elusive as ever. Rapidly building storm clouds forced to a difficult but obvious decision to turn back. In a state of tremendous and world-renowned yet over-exploited beauty like Colorado, the Gore Range stands as a silent partner. An anomaly among famous siblings. For those who seek, as Robert Frost wrote, "the one less traveled," the Gores wait, quiet and largely empty...for now.

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Why Mt. Sopris Should Remain Mt. Sopris

Recently, there has been a highly publicized and controversial push to re-name the east summit of Mt. Sopris to John Denver Peak after the late Aspenite folk singer. While I don't know if I would call myself a fan of John Denver's music, I do enjoy many of his songs (as well as the Muppets Christmas, which I grew up on), and I appreciate what he has meant to the Roaring Fork Valley and to Colorado. Despite this, I am utterly opposed to the re-naming of Mt. Sopris's east summit on his behalf.

Storm clouds over Sopris

The reason for my opinion, and my subsequent rant, is that after living in Glenwood Springs for the better portion of my life Mt. Sopris has been a source of inspiration and admiration for me for many years. On a bad day, all I have to do is look up at Sopris's twin summits and I feel some relief. It is hard to explain to people who haven't lived in the lower Roaring Fork Valley what exactly Mt. Sopris means to us. MANY businesses have taken Mt. Sopris as their namesake. Even one of the local elementary schools is named Sopris Elementary. The eponymous Mt. Sopris is a totem and a treasure for us here in the Glenwood Springs and Carbondale area.

Sopris is a singular peak. When viewed from the north, Sopris is one of the largest and most prominent peaks in all of Colorado. The effect of re-naming this magical peak would be like splitting the mountain in half. No longer could you look up and see "ah, look at Mt. Sopris today" without feeling in some way incorrect. One of the arguments put forth by the petitioner is that the east summit is "unnamed". I promise those of you that may have less experience with the mountain that it does have a name, and that name is Mt. Sopris.

By most measures both the east and west summits of Mt. Sopris are of equal height (12,953') and thus BOTH are considered "Mt. Sopris". Many mountaineers summit only the east peak (the one in question) when they scale Sopris's long slopes. Though the peaks do fit the standard criteria in Colorado (300 feet of topographical prominence) to qualify as individual peaks, when one steps back it is clear that Sopris is one mountain.

I suppose it is a pointless rant, as the likelihood of the U.S. Board of Geographic Names changing Mt. Sopris is slim, and even if such a change did occur, I suspect most of the people in the Roaring Fork Valley would never accept it (except maybe a few in Aspen, but in my mind they have no say as the mountain is not visible from their backyards). Let me say this, however. The individual behind the petition, whom I believe is from Denver, has claimed that the resistance to the proposal is based on the misunderstanding that they want to change the name of the entire mountain. This is not true. We here who this change will most effect understand their proposal perfectly. The other claim put forth (in a recent Aspen Times interview) is that the opposition is very small but very vocal. This couldn't be further from the truth. Of all the many locals I have talked to, almost all are outraged by this ludicrous idea, and if the petitioner could read the letters to the editor in the local newspaper it would be clear that the opposition is not so small.

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