Trip Reports



The Organ Mountains as seen from the west. Photo courtesy of Ryan Conklin.



The Organ Saint Traverse

April 25-26, 2014

Organ-Desert Peaks National Monument

Las Cruces, NM

“The Organ Saint – by definition, a person so enamored of the harsh beauty of the Organs that, far from minding the length of the approaches and the hostility of the terrain, he actually lies down with the cholla and blesses the rattlesnakes." (Dick Ingraham, father of Organs mountaineering)

Darkness is minutes away. The wind is gusting at over 70 miles per hour and I am plastered to a thin slab at the top of the North Rabbit Ear. To my back, the sun is fading over the Chihuahuan Desert and distant Florida Mountains, breaking the desert into a patchwork of deep blues and glowing reds with the lights of Las Cruces, New Mexico twinkling like embers on the valley floor beneath my feet. I know this because I can see it all in a flash as I look down and backwards between my legs, my face buried into the rock slab, desperately hoping the skin from my face will add to the friction that I need to keep from blowing right off of the mountain. The wind gusts again, tugging me aggressively, and then abruptly vanishes. There is a split second of calm. I look back to see my climbing partners, Jon and Glen, looking up at me, their faces wearing the same strained look of desperation that I feel. My arms and legs spring into action, and I scramble quickly up the slab to a sheltered alcove. Jon and Glen are right behind me. Just as Glen reaches the alcove, his hand closing around a lichened rock horn, the wind gusts again, bending us over nearly prostrate. “This is appropriate,” I think. “This is how you bow to the Organ Saint.”

Living in El Paso, Texas for two years, I spent nearly every weekend climbing in the Organ Mountains. While Hueco Tanks was only a 30 minute drive from my house, its long lines and gravel paths could never compare to the wildness and adventure of the Organs. In the Organs, the best climbing is, on average, 2-3 hours of bushwhacking across the harsh high desert, but the climb is always worth it – pitch after pitch of perfect desert granite, no waiting, complete solitude. At the top of the climbs, my partners and I rested on small granite summits or straddled thin fins of rock to sign faded summit registers. We often found the same names over and over again on the technical peaks – names of locals who, like us, loved the challenge, beauty, and danger of the Organ Mountains.

Pretty, but has a little bite to it ...

As I spent more time in the rugged little range, I naturally began to wonder if anyone had ever completed a full technical traverse. Inquiring around, no one was aware of any successful technical attempt, but directed me to two strong climbers who had nearly completed the challenge the previous year. While one, Aaron Hobson, was taking a break from climbing due to family obligations, the other, Jon Tylka, was ready to try the traverse again. His stories of the attempt conjured a picture of terrible bushwhacking and unroped 4^th and low 5^th class movement for hours at a time – exactly what I expected from the Organs. Jon and I made plans to try again but, with the chaos of our respective schedules, we never found time to do the traverse. I left El Paso in the summer of 2013 with our dream unfulfilled.

Nearly a year later, I received a phone call from Jon.

“Those rat bastards,” he ranted over the phone. “They stole the traverse from us.” Apparently, as I was able to piece together, he had been up on several peaks and found summit registers marked with the names of two climbers who proclaimed a “full traverse.” We were terribly disappointed, but the deed was done. We chatted a bit more about climbing together later in the spring and said goodbye. However, two weeks later, he called again.

“You’ll never believe it,” he relayed excitedly. “Marta was up on The Wedge and didn’t see their names on the summit register.” Marta Reece, a local Las Cruces climber, has arguably spent more time in the Organs than anyone else alive – if she saw no evidence of their coming or going, there was hope. Jon continued, “There’s still a chance for us to pull this off!”

“That’s great, Jon,” I replied, “but there’s one problem – I’m in Vermont.” There was silence on the line. I knew exactly what Jon was thinking, because I was thinking it, too.

“Alright,” I sighed. “I’ll look into flights and give you a call.”

We eventually set the attempt for the last weekend in April 2014. Jon, more familiar with the traverse route from his previous attempt, spent his weekends scouting routes and replacing old rappel stations. He was the navigator and rope gun. I spent my days in the gym and my weekends climbing ice in Smugglers’ Notch, Vermont. I was the pack mule. We both decided that we wanted the traverse to be unsupported (the standard for most long Organs routes is to cache water at strategic points along the ridgeline). To carry enough water and gear but stay safe with our “fast and light” plan, we decided to bring on a third team member. I invited Glen Melin, my old rope partner from El Paso. Strong, tough as an ox, and with a great attitude, Glen was just the addition our team needed to be complete.

Comprised of 22 distinct peaks and nearly 30 independently named features, there are four main “complexes” in the Organ ridgeline – the Needle/Squaretop Complex (5 peaks), the High Horns (7), the Low Horns (6), and the Rabbit Ears (4). Our plan was to begin on the southwest side of the range near the old Modoc Mine, hike up to Hummingbird Saddle at the far southern end of the range, and then work north along the ridgeline and hit all the 22 major peaks along the way. We considered the traverse complete after descending from the ridge and arriving at the Aguirre Springs campground on the east side. Based on Jon’s previous experience with the traverse, we estimated that 36 hours would be necessary for the roughly ten miles of hiking and 10,000 feet of elevation gain and loss in the traverse. In deference to the “father” of Organ climbing, Jon proclaimed that we should call the traverse the “Organ Saint Traverse.” We all agreed, though, at the time, we could not have realized just how appropriate the name would prove to be.



I arrived in El Paso on the night of April 24^th after a series of flight delays. Glen picked me up and we drove the one hour north to Las Cruces. We were both excited, but already a bit concerned - my travel delays had already eaten into our preparation time and, arriving in Las Cruces after midnight, we knew that we could not hold to the previously planned 3:00 am start time. At Jon’s house, we quickly sorted gear and rested for four precious hours. By 7:00 am on April 25^th we were walking up the steep path to the ridgeline, in high spirits but already 3 hours behind our timeline. The hike quickly transitioned to a long uphill slog and, despite battling mesquite and stool, we arrived at  Hummingbird Saddle at 9:45 am – a swift 2 hours and 45 minutes. By 2:30 pm, we had ticked off the Retaining Wall, the traverse’s high point at the Organ Needle, and the 4^th and 5^th class pitches of the three Squaretop formations.

“We’re making great time,” Jon commented, and indeed we were. The weather was sunny, warm, and clear and, with one complex down and three to go, we were confident we could finish on time.

“Let’s work to get into the Low Horns by tonight,” Jon said. The “Slow Horns,” we all knew, would be the mental crux of the traverse with their tortuous approaches and ill-defined routes up the six flanks. Moving efficiently, we tagged six more peaks by 7:00 pm – the massive Wedge, elusive Lost Peak, razor-thin Third Peak, hulking Dingleberry, craggy Wildcat, and humped Razorback. Three rappels put us at the base of the Spire, with two pitches of 5.8 to the summit. We were moving well, but it was getting dark quickly. And then the wind struck.

Throughout the day, the wind pushed a gentle, cooling breeze up and over the mountains. However, as the sun set over Las Cruces, a terrible windstorm whipped up from the west and, as it collided with the mountains, turned the benign spires of the day into dark, hulking giants that threatened to hurl us to the desert floor. Topping out on the Spire at 9:00 pm after two gruelingly slow pitches, the whipped us mercilessly. Rappelling as quickly as possible, we found that the wind in the saddle between the High and Low Horns was nearly as bad. Sheltered behind a boulder, we held a shouted conference.

“We should push on,” Jon shouted. “We don’t have enough water to stay here overnight.”

I shook my head. “No way,” I yelled back over the wind. “In conditions like this, we’ll use all our energy just fighting the wind to get nowhere. It’s dark AND windy – did you see how long the Spire took?”

Glen chimed in. “There’s a water cache over there under that rock,” he pointed. “We stay here, rest, and wait for the wind to calm tomorrow morning. Everyone takes two liters, but we only use it if we start to run out tomorrow.”

Jon and I agreed. We all took two liters from the cache and, as best we could, carved out a niche behind the boulder to rest. Covered under a space blanket and our light down jackets, we dozed as the night closed in around us.

The wind, however, seemed to be just waking up and intensified throughout the night. Seeing the forecast before the traverse and all familiar with desert windstorms, we knew that when the weather forecast predicted dust storms for Saturday that we needed to be nearly complete with the endeavor and headed down by midday on Saturday. We simply had not expected it to arrive this early. As the eastern skyline lit up pink over the Tularosa Basin, it was clear that we would be traversing the Low Horns in less than ideal conditions. The new morning lighting our path, we hunched our shoulders against the wind and began to trudge towards our next peak.



The ridgeline marches northward from Little Squaretop



The hulking Low Horn 6 guards the entrance to the Low Horns complex like a fortress. Although Jon had attempted a route on the south face, its intimidating overhangs and runout slabs had yet to reveal a feasible route. Instead, we planned to traverse on 4^th class slabs around the eastern side to a point between Low Horns 6 and 5, drop packs, and quickly scramble up #6 before continuing down the line. The traverse around the bulky #6 took nearly two hours, at one point requiring us to rope up for a long pitch up a blocky, broken gully. On this east leeward side, the wind could not reach us and we moved more quickly. With the sun out and the air calm again, everyone felt much better about the prospects of finishing the traverse by dark. However, reality hit us in the form of a 60 mph wind at the top of Low Horn 6. Scrambling down from the ridge, the weather radio in my pocket hit a rock and switched on. Above the winds, I heard a discouraging message: “… up to 70 mph gusts for Las Cruces and vicinity today, strengthening into the evening.”

“No, no, no, no,” I muttered, trying to will the voice away. “The sky is absolutely blue, the weather should be perfect. We have one chance.” I switched the radio off as Jon and Glen scrambled down beside me in the saddle. Despite the wind, they were smiling.

“Not as bad as I thought, getting around to here,” Jon said. Noting my frown, his face grew concerned. “What’s wrong?” I relayed the NOAA message to him. As we had done in the saddle the night before, he signaled us all to crouch down for a conference.

“Nine peaks in twelve hours,” he said with a raised voice. “Most of the traverse in the Low Horns is leeward. We go to Big Windy Gap and reassess then.”

“In the meantime, move quickly and carefully,” I added. “We rope up if there is any question.” I looked at Glen, and he simply nodded.

As we all rose and shouldered packs, my mind was racing. “Is this classic groupthink?” I wondered. “Is this how people get killed in the mountains, or is this just mountaineering?” At the beginning of the climb, Jon had reminded us all of one of our favorite Ed Viesturs quotes – “getting to the top is optional, but getting down is mandatory.” Thinking on that, I suddenly recalled another Viesturs-ism – something about mountaineers being risk mitigators, not risk takers. I sighed and followed down behind Glen and Jon, who were already scouting the descent route.

Over the next five hours, we finished the five remaining Low Horns with a mix of 4^th class scrambles and 5^th class roped climbing, to include a solid 5.6 section that we soloed by accident as we searched for a sheltered route up the 5^th Low Horn. “So much for risk mitigation,” I thought afterwards. However, it was clear that we were all shaken by the ease at which we were pulled into a tenuous situation and clearly took more care after the incident. In the “conditions” column in my notebook, I recorded the same word over and over – “WIND!!” However, encouraged by our pace through the “Slow Horns,” we made the rappel out of the third complex and into Big Windy Saddle in high spirits. Dodging a rattlesnake, we traversed the brambles of Big Windy under sunny skies and abated winds, blasted up the steep but non-technical hike of the Rabbit Ear Massif and then traversed a 3^rd class scree slope to the base of South Rabbit Ear. Now nearly 2:00 pm, the sun was on its downward path again and, as with yesterday evening, the wind seemed to whip into an excited frenzy as the day cooled. It was almost as if the Organs were eager to have us alone again in the dark. I caught Jon’s eye as he watched the sinking sun.

“We’re chasing the clock,” he said. “Again.”

“Three peaks left,” I replied. “One is non-technical. We’ve done Middle Rabbit Ear before.”

“Yeah, but North Rabbit Ear is long. Really long. We’ve got to move.”

“Then let’s go,” Glen chimed in, shouldering his pack and leading the way up the blocky ramp to start the scramble up South Rabbit Ear. As we moved towards the summit, the wind suddenly dissipated. Dust hung thickly in the air, but it was strangely quiet for the first time in nearly 24 hours. No one said anything, but we all nursed the same precious thought – perhaps the wind storm had passed, or at least abated long enough to let us plow through the last three peaks. We scrambled up to the South Rabbit Ear’s summit at 3:09 pm, signed the log, and then zipped back down the scramble route. A short hike across the saddle between the South and Middle Rabbit Ears brought us to the start of the Southeast Face route.



At South Rabbit Ear, with only the remaining Rabbit Ears in the dusty background



The Southeast Face of Middle Rabbit Ear should be the technical highlight of the entire traverse. With clean stone, great positioning, and a sandbagged 5.7 offwidth crack on the 3^rd pitch, it promised to be a substantial challenge in approach shoes with full packs, 20 peaks into the traverse. Yet, with the daylight diminishing and darkness only 4 hours away, there was no time to enjoy the classic climb. We roped up in the saddle and Jon fired up the first pitch. Middle Rabbit Ear was kind to us for the moment, blocking the wind with its break bulk. Of the four Rabbit Ears, the Middle has always been my favorite, and I was again thankful to be in its sheltered alcove. When we pulled onto the broad summit at 5:15 pm, we found that the wind was still very much alive. Since our last encounter with it after the South Rabbit Ear, it had intensified and now gusted with a ferocity that I had never experienced in the Organs. “Probably because on a day like this you would just go to Hueco,” I thought wryly. Oh, for a large, cushy pad and five minute walk to my car!

We traversed to the north side of Middle Rabbit Ear and located a boulder with tattered rappel slings that marked the first of three rappels. The slings were faded and frayed, so I rummaged through my pack for our extra webbing, cut the old tat, and reslung the boulder. The rappel was clearly going to be rough due to the wind, so at least we would have a good sling in our favor. As I stepped out over the void, the wind gusted and pushed me off my feet. Regaining my balance, I began to feed rope out and descend, bracing against the gusts. I was thankful to have the two fabric grocery bags hanging from my harness and filled with neatly stacked rope – the Tylka Bag, or T-Bag, as we had begun to call Jon’s timely creation (Jon, anticipating the wind, had insisted we bring the two light bags and stack the rope in them during rappels). I touched down next to the Churchkey, a massive overhanging buttress jutting off of the north end of Middle Rabbit Ear, and pulled myself off of the rappel line. In the narrow slot between the Middle and North Rabbit Ears, the wind swirled in all directions and whipped dirt into my eyes. I hunched, watching Jon and Glen touch down in rapid succession, and then I began to pull the rope. After stowing the ropes in a T-Bag, I turned to see Jon slither down off of the pinnacle of the Churchkey, his face white.

“It’s bad up there,” he said. We remained silent, but quickly went to work with the final two rappels off of the Middle Rabbit Ear. The second went smoothly, but at the bottom the third rappel, the rope snagged in a scrub oak. Glen soloed up a short crack system to retrieve the rope and then lowered back down to us. It had taken nearly an hour for the three rappels and it was now 6:00 pm. Everyone was thinking the same thing – the sun set, the wind howled, and we had only one more peak remaining to complete the traverse. Jon, who had attempted the traverse several years prior, made it to Middle Rabbit Ear before a storm forced him and his partner to bail. He was at his old high point. With Glen in the military, subject to transfer at the government’s whim, and me living in Vermont, it was likely we would never have this chance again.

The North Rabbit Ear is four pitches of 4^th to low 5^th class climbing by the most direct route. Standing in the saddle, we could see the line winding up a ramp system and around to the west face.

“We’re roping up for these pitches,” Jon said firmly. “Get us as far as you can get on a rope length.” Glen and I both nodded and pulled the ropes from the T-bags. So, there it was. We were going to keep going. In a flash, Jon was roped and climbing, with me belaying and Glen minding the rope. As I watched Jon progress, I suddenly felt a powerful force pick me up by my hips, pull my feet out from under me, and then let go, slamming me back to the ground. Laying on the jagged stone, I could see Jon still climbing above me and the first stars twinkling even farther up, hazy in the dusty twilight. The belay strand still in my right hand, I lay on the ground and belayed, afraid to feel that I had broken something.

“You okay?” Glen asked. “That was a huge gust.”

“I’m good, I think. The Organ Man is really at it tonight,” I replied, referring to the legend of an old hermit who haunts the high passes. Then, from above, I heard Jon yell “off belay” and the rope came taught between us. Good timing.

I struggled to my feet, noting nothing broken, and started up after Glen. We pulled over a small roof – awkward with approach shoes and packs, and soon passed Jon. Moving steadily over the blocks and short faces, we shouldered through the wind to a large ledge as the rope ran out. I built a hasty anchor and Glen belayed Jon up to our ledge. Without stopping, Jon swung wordlessly by us, jammed up a short, moderate crack, and disappeared from view. The rope tightened and we repeated the process again. This time when we reached Jon, he pointed up to what would usually be a straightforward 4^th class scramble up to the summit. “One pitch,” he stated, “Nate’s turn.” Here, on the north face of the northernmost major peak of the Organ Mountains, the wind was unbelievable.

“70 mph in Las Cruces,” I wondered as I carefully made my way up the blocks. “Then what are we dealing with here?” As if in answer, the wind whipped a pack strap sharply against my face. “First thorns, then no water, and now flagellation,” I thought. “Before long the Organ Saint will have us bowing.” I made two more moves, and then the gust hit, nearly tearing me from the slabby face. I buried my cheek tightly against the gritty rock as I lowered my head against the wind. Below me, the flash glimpse of Las Cruces, the Florida Mountains skyline, sinking sun, and my partners’ faces looking up at me, revealing what I felt inside. “Move!” I thought. “Move!” Then, the sudden brief calm, a flurry of scrambling, and we all tumbled into the alcove before being pushed prostrate by the renewed fury of the gusts. We were alone with the night, 200 feet from the summit and 3 rappels from the end – yes, we simply had to move. Hunching against the gusts, we picked our way carefully up the final blocky ridge to the North Rabbit Ear Summit. On this peak, the last peak in the Organ Saint Traverse, there was no celebration, no picture. We had to get down. Jon signed the summit register and then started down a brushy gully to the first rappel – a slick new sling looped around an exposed and precarious-looking flake. I looked incredulously at the flake, then searched around for another feature. There was nothing else.

“All the way here, and I’m going to die on a shitty rappel flake,” I thought. But Jon, who had rappelled this only a week before, hooked up confidently. Glen waited until he was off the rope and anchored on the bolts below before he linked his belay device in. His headlamp disappeared into the abyss below. Minutes passed, almost too long, then the rope went slack. I hooked up, knocked against the flake once more, and began my rappel. The wind pulled the rope sideways and parallel to the ground, giving me a fireman’s belay that forced me to bounce on the rope and wonder just how much the fateful flake must be bouncing above me. Reaching Jon and Glen, I quickly anchored into the bolts and helped them to pull the rope. The drag was enormous and we all tensed as the rope came loose from the rappel station and whipped off to the left. I kept pulling and soon the rope dangled in front of us, ready for the final two rappels. We rigged, rappelled, then rappelled again. This time, our feet struck solid ground on the saddle at 11:00 pm on Saturday the 26^th of April. Two miles below, the lights from RVs at Aguirre Springs twinkled. But we were down, and the worst was over. Wordlessly, we picked our way down the scree slope and through dense brush. As we descended, the sound of the wind faded away, as did its intensity, and our conversation slowly, tentatively began to fill the void. By the time we reached the trail, the wind had stopped completely at our level but continued to howl far above, from whence we had just come. Noticing the change, we all stopped and peered at the looming shadow of the Rabbit Ears. The clouds rushed west to east across the dimly lit sky, a reminder of the power of the summit winds. We turned off our headlamps and the stars exploded around the jagged profiles of the Organ Mountains, marching away south to where we had started at the Organ Needle 41 hours, 10 miles, and 10,000 feet ago.

“So that’s it,” Jon said with a quiet reverence. “The Organ Saint.”

Our feet were sore, our lips cracked, our clothing shredded by ocotillo and agave. We had dodged rattlesnakes, bowed to the elements, and ascended to the heights of every major peak in the North Organ ridgeline. The pilgrimage was complete. We turned and walked the final mile quietly, to where a warm car would take us back to a world that would never understand what we had just given in homage to the Organ Saint.



Nate and Glen early in the Traverse, with little thought of what is to come