Indian Creek Climbers: It’s Not About Rules, It’s About Respect

An op-ed in response to the Bridger Jacks BASE jumping story, written in solidarity with the Tribes of Bears Ears

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Bears Ears, UT. (Photo: Isaiah Branch-Boyle (@isaiahjboyle))

This op-ed is written in solidarity with Indigenous peoples with ties to Bears Ears, who asked the authors to help share what’s too often ignored. First, each author shares a personal perspective on the issue at hand. Then, they offer a collective response to a story that appeared in Climbing in May. 

A note from Angelo Baca

Bears Ears is a place of refuge and power, sanctuary and grace. Anyone who spends time there is awed by the humility and peace one can find on its sacred ground, especially those who love the land. Arguably, outdoors people are some of those same people—choosing to connect with a living place in an increasingly manufactured and digital world. Yet, Indigenous folks know this place well and have been doing their best to protect it. They need our help to show others how to respectfully visit these lands and keep them intact.

Words matter in these conversations—when people say “recreation” in outdoor lingo, this may mean something else to Indigenous people. To us, it sounds like a word of entitlement to do whatever one wants on public lands, whether it is a good idea or not. When people say “public lands,” Indigenous people hear stolen native lands. When people say “written law,” Indigenous people hear natural law being ignored, disrespected, or placed higher than the laws of human beings when they should be just as important to all peoples.

Ironically, the word “recreate” would make sense to mean to “re-create,” but it doesn’t create anything; in reality, it often destroys or gets “loved” to death. It is confusion atop semantics wrapped in Western terminology, far from Indigenous realities of sacred contexts. Indigenous philosophy around climbing can be vastly different, from Hawaii to Utah and beyond, as was covered previously in an Access Fund webinar that educates climbers about protecting rock art and petroglyphs such as the Sunshine Wall example.

BASE jumping off the rock towers in Bears Ears is a temptation that some perceive as exciting. But what BASE jumpers don’t understand is that these places shouldn’t be bothered. Not because they are exempt from humans, but because there are costs and consequences to these actions.

What if someone jumps and dies off these rock places in Bears Ears? Then, it would be up to the Tribes to do something both ceremonially and spiritually to try to find a way to make that right again. What about the cost of emergency services and rescue? Who pays for the cost of these thrills if it goes wrong? All of us do. It is the ultimate lesson in letting go of ambitious selfishness to collective selflessness. Herein lies the crux: Climbers love the ultimate act of self-accomplishment, while the rest of us need them to consider the opposite sometimes—especially in sacred places like Bear Lodge (Devil’s Tower) and Bears Ears National Monument.

If climbers were to ask me, “What is the difference between rock climbing and BASE jumping?” then I would say, “The issue is the question itself, not answering the question.” The fact that climbers have to ask Indigenous peoples what their priorities are in terms of climbing or one form of recreation over another for protecting sacred places, while struggling to learn and understand those reasons is what should be wrestled with—not finding an adequately satisfactory answer through your own biased recreational lens. There is no answer that will satisfy. Dominant culture, as well as climbing culture, gets to ask questions from a place of power and privilege as opposed to cultural humility and continued education, another expression of entitlement.

It is also a question about risk and death, as well as respect—rock climbers are usually concerned with their own lives as well as others when they ascend in terms of safety and training. BASE jumping is considerably more risky and deadly. But it is harder to chase the sense of individual accomplishment or a conquering mindset when you consider how your actions as a climber affect everyone, not just you. Pose the question back yourself: What are my responsibilities to the land and the people I’m climbing on, even if I might disagree with them?

As a climber myself, I am drawn to the rocks as much as anyone else. But I recognize that ancestors before me climbed out of necessity, protection, defense, and survival. These same canyons, spires, and cliffs carried our prayers and voices of sacred rituals and of native languages in reverence long before they ever heard English or other languages from climbers frequenting these walls. These words also kept the world together. They made these places safe, silent, and intact for human beings and non-human relatives so we can co-exist together in a good way. Let’s keep doing that while learning that not every place should be conquered, but loved and respected in the ways required and asked of us.

A note from Kitty Calhoun

Several years ago, on a hidden cliff in the middle of the Pacific, I was working the crux moves on a mini-traction while Jay Smith, my husband, cleaned a new route nearby. Suddenly, a police siren interrupted the sound of tropical birds. I looked down to see a white police truck with flashing lights making its way toward us. “Come down from there now!” the officer yelled through a megaphone.

After descending the route, I asked the officer what the problem was, as Jay approached and I handed over my driver’s license.

“I could charge you on three counts: climbing without a permit, and two counts for placing bolts in the rock,” he responded.

Jay and I were aghast. We were not trespassing on private property—this was state land. We did, however, have to pass through a small Indigenous village to get to the cliff.  After some investigation, I discovered who reported us to the police: a family with ancient roots in the community. I wanted to know why our presence upset them. So I asked an Indigenous friend with a historical lineage on the island to join me in approaching the family for answers.  The patriarch of the family said, “There are bones in those cliffs.” His wife spoke over him: “We don’t want this place to change. We promised our grandparents. We have to protect it. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” I replied, thinking of the changes that had occurred in Indian Creek, a place I feel deeply about, over the last 30 years. Over time, I’ve seen it change from a place of adventure with little information and few other climbers, to a social scene with lines forming for classic routes touted on Mountain Project. All I could say is, “I hear you. I would like to visit again if I may.”

The first time I stood in Indian Creek, located in what’s now designated as Bears Ears National Monument, I felt overwhelmed—not just by the towering sandstone spires or the vast desert silence, but by something deeper—something sacred. Every cliff face, every wash, every windswept mesa held traces of a living history: petroglyphs etched in stone, the quiet remains of dwellings, prayer sites still in use. These weren’t just signs of past presence, but enduring relationships rooted in reverence for the land.

In that moment, I understood I was a guest in a place shaped not only by geologic time, but by an ongoing spiritual presence of its original stewards.

As a climber, I have spent my life drawn to big landscapes, seeking the kind of solitude and transcendence only the mountains can offer. But I’ve learned—slowly, humbly—that true respect for a place begins with listening to those who know it best.

A message in response to Britt Zale’s BASE jumping story

As climbers, many of us are just beginning to confront what Tommy Caldwell recently put into words in his May 2025 Patagonia piece, “Beneath the Rock”: that our outdoor education rarely included lessons in Indigenous history, stewardship, or sacredness. Caldwell admits it took him years to begin unlearning that silence. Many of us are still learning how to listen.

So when we read the recent Climbing profile of Britt Zale’s BASE jumps from Bridger Jacks, we felt more than concern—we felt sadness. It isn’t just a story about risk and reward, or even about trespass. It’s a story about cultural erasure.

Five sovereign Tribal Nations—the Hopi, Navajo, Ute Mountain Ute, Zuni, and Ute Indian Tribe of the Uintah and Ouray Reservation—hold ancestral, ceremonial, and spiritual ties to Bears Ear. These landscapes hold not just memory but meaning. Indigenous people actively use them today for prayer, offerings, and ceremony.

Would we celebrate a BASE jump off the Salt Lake Temple? Or a highline over the Vatican? Most of us would recoil at the idea, out of disrespect for some or desecration for others. Why should we treat Indigenous sacred places any differently? Respect for these places also means to keep them intact, whether they are magnificent spires or rock towers, ancient village sites or sacred kiva spaces, they are old, delicate, and apt to fall apart unless we limit constant intense contact such as BASE jumping.

Zale describes an “impulse to conquer” among her motivations for BASE jumping the Bridger Jacks. “… it was more than just a personal thrill or an impulse to conquer the towers,” wrote Zale. “My desire to jump in the Creek is not that far off from the Bears Ears Commission and BLM’s desire to protect it—it come from a deep love for the land.” Yet the language of domination, especially when paired with recreational stunts in a sacred space, reinforces colonial narratives that minimize—if not outright ignore—the intrinsic connections between Indigenous people and the Bears Ears landscape for time immemorial.

Bears Ears Commissioners believe, after significant discussion and reflection, that activities like BASE jumping are inappropriate and disrespectful to the sacred nature of the landscape. And yet, the jumps described in the article took place in a culturally significant area. Since she was attempting to make her jumps prior to the BASE jumping ban going into effect, Zale should have inferred from the fact that BASE jumping was going to be banned that it was perceived as disrespectful or offensive by the Tribes.

But following the rules is not the same as visiting with respect. Ethical outdoor recreation, especially in sacred Indigenous landscapes, requires more than regulatory compliance. It demands listening. These landscapes are not inert. They are alive with culture, story, and spirit, and they are fragile.

In September 2024, a group of Patagonia climbing ambassadors participated in a learning circle with leaders from the Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition (BEITC). We spoke not only about access and climbing ethics, but about humility, reverence, and relationship. We asked hard questions about what it means to be guests on lands that have always been Indigenous homelands. It was a powerful, challenging, and necessary conversation.

After we climbed, BEITC Co-Chair Davina Smith (Diné) shared a deeply personal story. As we stood at the base of a towering crag, Davina’s spirit grew heavy. This moment wasn’t about adventure, it was about memory, truth, and survival. To many, these cliffs are challenges to conquer. But for her, as a Diné woman, this rock face holds a deeper story. It is not a place of recreation; it was a place of refuge. We’re sharing it here with her permission, and with gratitude for her willingness to entrust us with her truth:

“My connection to these lands, to climbing, is not about personal achievement. It’s about ancestral endurance.

These canyons once cradled Diné families, not distant ancestors, but relatives whose stories still live in our blood. When Kit Carson and the U.S. Cavalry began rounding up Navajo people during the Long Walk, many fled to Bears Ears. I imagine mothers clutching children, elders struggling, all climbing these walls, not for glory, but survival.

They weren’t climbing for sport.
They were climbing for life.
For dignity.
For the future of our people.

So, when I hear Bears Ears called a ‘place of refuge,’ I don’t hear poetry, I hear truth. These rocks are our relatives. They sheltered us.

Bears Ears is a living archive of resistance, love, and survival. We return not as visitors, but as descendants here to remember, to protect, and to never forget.”

This perspective is too often ignored in outdoor media: These lands are not ours to define. And yet, this article on Zale’s jump includes no perspectives from Tribal Nations or cultural experts. That omission does more than silence, it erases. The article dismisses the Bears Ears Commission perspective as uninformed and dogmatic. It perpetuates a one-sided narrative of exploration and individual achievement, while glossing over the deep spiritual, cultural, and historical ties Indigenous communities hold to Bears Ears.

Other teachings from the circle helped illuminate the broader spiritual geography of Bears Ears. Hopi leaders consider Bears Ears part of their ancestral homeland, and it remains deeply significant to their cultural and spiritual traditions. Some Hopi clans trace their migration histories through the region, and still visit the land today for ceremonies, prayer, and the gathering of sacred resources. Landforms, petroglyphs, and place names throughout Bears Ears help preserve these histories, serving as living evidence of the Hopi’s long-held connection to the landscape.

A Zuni leader offered a different, but equally profound perspective. For the Zuni Tribe, Bears Ears is not just part of their history, it is part of their living cultural and spiritual landscape. Though the Zuni people now reside in New Mexico, they understand Bears Ears as a cathedral, not in the sense of a single structure, but as an entire landscape imbued with meaning. The petroglyphs and pictographs found throughout the region are not simply remnants of the past—they function as sacred texts. They tell stories of migration, identity, and connection to this place. Bears Ears continues to inform the Zuni people of who they are and where they come from.

And for the Ute Tribes, Bears Ears is not just ancestral land, it is a vital and living part of their cultural and spiritual world. For thousands of years, Ute people moved through this landscape in rhythm with the seasons. Every mesa, canyon, and spring holds meaning, and for them, these lands contain special powers.

Bears Ears isn’t just a backdrop for personal feats. It is a sacred landscape. And we, as a climbing community, have a responsibility to engage with it not just with our gear, but with our hearts, our minds, and our humility.

Let’s be bold enough to ask not just what we can do in these places, but what we should.