Setting anchor
Finding the true meaning of Women Outside's mission

We approached the wall, ice tools at the ready. I stood at the end and glanced at the three women beside me. In unison, we lifted our tools, and at the command of our guide, began to hack at the frozen waterfall. Chips and chunks flew through the air, but it was a memory that hit me first: a flashback to the last Women Outside event I’d organized in Durango. There were more than a hundred people in the audience, turned toward a screen on which we watched a ski alpinist’s latest adventure. When a bit of ice bounced off my helmet, I smiled at the change of scene.

Between 2016-19, I organized the Women Outside Adventure Forum for local gear retailer Backcountry Experience. It was a three-day event with the simple purpose of bringing together women who love the outdoors – athletes as well as writers, scientists and filmmakers. When the pandemic derailed the 2020 event, I was surprised to feel a sense of relief. Between each annual event, I never found the time to evaluate the evolution of Women Outside – what did I truly want this project to be? 

At its heart, Women Outside is about storytelling. Listening to the inspiring tales of others has its purpose, but I always wanted to provide opportunities for others to make and tell their own stories through participatory events. So, after a two-year hiatus, I approached Backcountry Experience about a two-day intro to ice climbing clinic for women. As usual, they were on board, setting us up with demo gear and accommodations in Ouray. 

Climbing – perhaps more than other outdoor sports – has a steep barrier to entry. And though growing in popularity, ice climbing is even more of a niche activity. Between the specialized gear, the cold and the added intimidation of scaling a frozen waterfall, it can prove inaccessible for many.  

“It felt like it was an elite sport,” Anne Zalbowitz, a local realtor who participated in the clinic, said. “It felt too overwhelming and exclusive to access.” 

The night before our departure, we met for gear pickup and a meet-and-greet. Though I’ve rock climbed for 10-plus years, this would be my first trip with other women. We gathered in a semi-circle, trading introductions. There was Zalbowitz, who was new to not only ice climbing but the sport in general. Heidi Steltzer, a professor of environment and sustainability at Fort Lewis College, who wanted to experience ice from a non-academic standpoint. And Maryrose Milkovich, who, like me, wanted to become a more self-sufficient climber. Between us, our ages spanned four decades. 

Despite our different goals and motivations, we were in agreement on one thing: learn something “badass.” 

The following morning, we met our guide, Sheldon Kerr, from IRIS Alpine, outside the Ouray Ice Park. IRIS provides guiding services for women as well as non-binary and trans climbers and skiers. After introducing everyone to their gear – an assortment of orange and black crampons and ice tools shaped like medieval weapons – Kerr led us up the road into the ice park. We paused at the top of the canyon, peering down at the flowing sheets of ice. 

I asked Kerr to teach us everything we needed to know in order to safely climb on our own after these two days. So, instead of heading directly into the canyon, we found ourselves perched on the cliff edge learning how to build anchors. 

“People have tried to walk me through anchors and stuff like that before,” Milkovich said. “When I’m out with my brother or my fiancé, my instinct is just to continue to rely on them rather than actually building the knowledge for myself.”

Like Milkovich, I’ve been shown how to build an anchor more times than I care to mention, but ultimately relied on others. Though the people I’ve climbed with – mostly men – have been generous with their knowledge, it felt safer to trust in their expertise than my own. 

For years, I’ve battled with imposter syndrome – in part because I wasn’t confident building my own climbing systems. Whenever I described myself as a climber, it came with a caveat: “But I’m really more of a runner” or “but I’ve only lead routes in the gym, so it’s different.” Since organizing this ice clinic, I’ve spoken with numerous women who find it difficult to identify as climbers outside of the men in their lives. Milkovich joked that we should start a support group. 

As I followed Kerr’s instructions, eventually building a top-rope anchor without her supervision, I felt a surge of confidence at becoming responsible for my own safety. 

Eventually, we did get around to climbing. The Ouray Ice Park contains more than 100 routes for beginning to advanced climbers. After her role as a drill sergeant, Kerr had us tie in to start climbing. 

She said that ice climbing is a sport where “two climbers at very different ability levels can be on the same climb and get very different things out of it.” While some of us worked to improve our form and technique, others were simply becoming comfortable leaving the ground. 

“To feel included and accepted with zero skills, just knowing that my person was accepted made me feel welcome,” Zalbowitz said. She added that ice climbing gave her the confidence to work through intimidating moments in her day-to-day life. “I’ve had more confidence walking into a room where I felt uncomfortable with the surroundings and setting,” she said.

Not long after we returned to Durango, I began to notice the other women posting about the trip on social media. There were stories about building confidence, learning leadership skills and becoming more self-sufficient. After two years agonizing about the future of Women Outside, I’ve realized that this is what it’s really about.