Angel's Gate
As we hiked up the South Kaibab Trail on Monday, a descending hiker asked us, “Did you make it to the bottom?” I said yes without breaking my rhythm. He called after us, “How long did it take?” While I was trying to remember our descent time from two days ago, Homie responded, “It’s a long story.” That aptly sums up our relationship with Angel’s Gate, a remote Temple in the Grand Canyon. We— Homie, Derek, Steve Hawkins, and I—tried this peak two years ago. We failed. Covid canceled plans in 2020, but we returned, sans Steve, in March 2021, and after 100 miles and 25,000 vertical feet spread out over two trips, we finally stood atop “The Doghouse” (the highest summit) of Angel’s Gate.
It’s all about the layers, bands, tiers when climbing temples in the Grand Canyon. As anyone who has visited knows, the Grand Canyon is a chasm cut through many different layers of rock with two billion-year-old black granite at the bottom. The layers going up alternate between steep, foliage-covered slopes and vertical rock bands. Each of these vertical layers presents a challenge. The most intimidating band is the “Red Wall” — a 300-500-foot, dead-vertical expanse of very hard, very sharp limestone. This band is never climbed directly and must be breached by finding a break in the wall, usually a drainage gully that has eaten away at the wall, reducing its angle.
For Angel’s Gate, the Red Wall break lies below the Wotan’s Throne / Angel’s Gate saddle and is only 4th class. The catch is that this break is 22 miles from the nearest trailhead. Above the Red Wall is a series of Supai bands and it was the fourth band that thwarted our first attempt. We’d find out later that we were within a hundred yards of the route through here. Armed with this new information, we returned.
Unfortunately, Steve couldn’t join us, but since he lives on the south rim of the Grand Canyon (he is Imperial Grand Poobah of the park facilities), he jumped at the chance to fax our backcountry permit. He did his usual run down to the river and back (Steve is a badass ultra-runner) on the day we started. We descended 4800 feet down the Kaibab Trail to Phantom Ranch but met Steve just a few hundred feet below the rim. He’d gone all the way down and back up before 10 a.m. Impressive. We chatted only briefly before parting ways.
We’d left Superior, Colorado at 3 p.m. on Friday and drove 12+ hours to the GC, with a brief stop to sleep at Mexican Hat, Utah. Our plan was to spend two nights at Clear Creek, a 10-mile hike from Phantom, making for an 18-mile approach. At Phantom, we ran into a ranger, Della. She was most helpful, very nice, and excited about our plans. It was so gratifying to meet a ranger whose goal was to help people enjoy this great park. Yes, she needs to and does enforce all the rules that keep this place unspoiled, but she isn’t trying to put up any barriers. I found this a refreshing change from my past interactions with park staff on the rim where, understandably, they assume everyone hiking into the canyon is an idiot. Understandably, because so many people get into trouble here. It’s so easy to do because you can descend without great effort, but then find yourself with a daunting climb, tremendous heat, and no water. Della could tell we knew what we were doing (presumably by looking at Homie). After taking on extra water at Phantom, we headed east to Clear Creek and camp for the night.
Halfway there we spotted, in the distance, a group of six taking a break. When they caught sight of us, they popped up and immediately started hiking. Fast. Their group first split into two groups of three and the back group first shed one hiker, and then another. They were racing for a 6-person site and didn’t want us passing them. In my younger days, I was like a Labrador and if someone started running, I gave chase for no other reason than to chase. But I’m decrepit now and my awkward shuffle wasn’t going to run down those ultra runners, as we’d later discover they were. Homie mused aloud about releasing the kid (Derek) to bring them to heel, but we decided to stay together. We knew we’d find somewhere to sleep.
Though my competitive juices aren’t as viscous these days, they aren’t completely dry. The three stragglers were too tempting not to pursue; after all, we humans are persistence hunters. I upped my pace from a plodding 2.8 mph to a blazing 3.0 mph and we slowly closed the gap. Five miles later, we passed those three and arrived at camp. The other three had claimed their prized site, but we got a stellar one as well. There really aren’t any bad sites here. Their group leader and Homie were wearing the same shirt from the Cruel Jewel 106-mile, 33,000-foot ultra in Georgia. Respect.
We threw up our tents and I pulled off my shoes to inspect my feet. Sure enough, I had developed a blister on my left heel. I’d carefully manage that for the next couple of days. Derek graciously handled all the water gathering while I…now I’m sure I was doing something, but I can’t remember what. Suffice to say it was key to our success. We were done with dinner, teeth brushed and ready for bed at 6:40 p.m.. My wife Sheri would have loved this. I invited her along to be basecamp manager, knowing the rest of the trip would be pure hell for her, but she demurred.
We set off down Clear Creek the next morning at 6:17. The route was familiar from two years ago. Down to the confluence and up the east fork of Clear Creek Canyon for a mile. Then up the steep slope and through the Tapeats band up onto the Bright Angel Shale. We traversed hard to our left across slopes covered in prickly pear, yucca, agave. We all got impaled at least once. We then dropped into the wash leading up to the Red Wall break and ascended to the saddle in just two hours from camp. We stashed some extra water and clothes here.
Homie, armed with a few GPS waypoints he placed from our first attempt, led us upwards towards the Supai bands. Homie is a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out routes on complicated, difficult terrain. Derek’s more like a border collie, darting left and right, seeking out the best route. I’m like a Saint Bernard, huffing and puffing and constantly being gapped (Yes, I know I was just calling myself a Labrador, but that was in my younger days. Clearly I have dogs on the brain. I must be watching too much of Olive and Mabel). The first three Supai breaks went smoothly with only one false traverse to the left. We lost less than five minutes with that and arrived at the fourth Supai band after an hour. This progress is in stark contrast to two years ago, where we spent hours trying to find the correct breaks, severely sapping our energy and motivation for the fourth, final, and hardest Supai layer. We started the long traverse at least a quarter of the way around the mountain. We saw a couple of possibilities but this time we wanted to make sure we went far enough and traversed all the way around to the west side before retreating back to the one weakness we thought we could climb.
We ascended a vertical chimney that was 5th class, but short enough that we didn’t bother with the rope. Above we traversed a ledge a long way to the left, passing an exposed, 5th-class traverse section and then up two more 5th class short sections before finally topping out the previously impassable fourth band. The way to the summit block was open and we hiked up steep, loose, open terrain of the Hermit Shale to the base of the roped climbing.
The roped climbing ascends the soft, white Coconino layer and was supposed to be two pitches. We carried two 30-meter, 8mm ropes, a rack of gear to #3 Camalot, slings, and some cord to leave for rappel anchors. We drank, ate, and geared up at the base, in the sun, as it was a bit chilly in the shade. Our route was on the west side and mostly in the shade at this time of day.
I led the route, mostly because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be contributing anything to the venture. Derek could have easily led it. Homie, too, but he prefers that I take the lead when we rope up. I love doing this, as I spent most of this trip following in his footsteps. I got in a good piece at the start and made an awkward move up the slab. This first move was probably the crux of the route. Above, the climbing got easier, though a bit more runout, but I found good protection when I needed it. I climbed a 5.6 off-width crack (no gear due to the width) and arrived on a big ledge. I belayed here, inadvertently stopping short on the first pitch.
The others soon joined me and I climbed directly above the ledge which had a touch of 5.8 climbing, though I think I could have gone around to the left and made this section easy. Once above this section, I arrived at a small notch in the summit ridge. There was a sling with rappel rings here that we’d utilize on the descent. I dropped down the other side about fifteen feet and then up an easy chimney just high enough to where I could step left onto a low-angle face and scamper up to a ledge. I belayed there, due to rope drag.
From here the description says it is third-class and indeed it was, going off to the left, but I wanted to climb directly to the ridge, only 15 or 20 feet above my belay, mainly to get into the sunshine as soon as possible. This proved to be fun and easy climbing with great position. I topped out the ridge and found another rappel anchor so belayed there. Homie soon joined me and he was able to unrope and scramble south a hundred feet to the true summit.
When Derek and I joined him there, Homie still hadn’t found the summit register, much to his consternation. But he kept digging and unearthed a beautiful brass (copper?) box, sized perfectly for the notepad inside. We were surprised to see that we were just the seventh ascent since 2013. There was one ascent in 2013, one in 2016, two in 2017, then one each in 2019 and 2020. I can see why this peak isn’t that popular. Getting here is a ton of work. The climbing is moderate and mediocre. The appeal, for me at least, is the same as it is for all these GC temples: they look so cool from a distance. It really boils down to the most essential of all climbing questions: I wonder if I could find a way to the top of that…
This is adventure climbing for the average climber. It’s potentially dangerous, as the rock quality isn’t great and the location is remote, but the technical skills are modest. Weighing heavily on the plus side is the non-stop, spectacular views of one of the most amazing places on Earth. For almost this entire adventure we were both above and below the tree line, so nothing impeded the vistas in any direction.
We did two rappels back to the ground, packed up, and reversed our route back to camp. We left two slings making a couple of rappels down the fourth Supai band. It was safer than trying to reverse the climbing. Back at the Wotan/Angel’s Gate saddle we took a short break before descending back to camp, arriving 11.5 hours after we left. We were tired but elated. Hugs all around. We chatted with the other two groups, who made special trips to our camp to ask how the climb went. They were both excited for us. Fun to meet such nice people.
The next day was a long one. By the time I went to bed, it was 23 hours long. It started at 4 a.m. in Clear Creek and ended at 3 a.m. at my house in Superior and coupled complete serenity with sustained stress. Our hike back to Phantom was pure magic. Absolutely perfect temperatures. We hiked in shorts and short sleeves. The trail was, relatively, flat and smooth. A full moon lit us so that we could hike without our headlamps, passing under the dark shadows of temples climbed and temples to be climbed. One of the best hiking experiences I’ve ever had.
The hike out of the ditch went well, a rarity for Homie and maybe a singularity. The drive home was broken into three legs. I took the first leg and it went smooth. Heading out of the park, we passed the longest line of cars waiting to get into a national park that I’ve ever seen. It was 3 or 4 miles long. I have no idea where they will put all those cars. They must close entry at some point. Derek’s leg, to Fruita, also went well. Then it was time for the Midnight Rambler: Homie. This was a nasty, nasty leg. Snow was sticking to the road by Avon and kept coming down until we pulled into his driveway, three hours later. We drove under signs saying that Vail Pass was closed, but Google showed only a delay of 24 minutes. The pass was nearly devoid of cars, but for good reason: it was the middle of the night, snowing hard, visibility nil, and roads very slippery. Homie did a masterful job, but it was 35 mph for 90 minutes. Things improved east of the tunnel, but not by much. A fitting end of a difficult, fun, satisfying adventure. Of course, we are already planning the next one…
