(lines left to right) Land of the Free, Priseneros de Ceilo, La Sombra de Muerte

This series will share my thoughts on some memorable places in the vertical realm, as well as some teachable notes from my lived moments.

During the winter of 2024/25, I had the opportunity to explore El Potrero Chico—a mecca of bolted limestone walls. If you squint hard enough, the right formations almost feel alpine, rugged and raw. At least, that was my experience.

As I scanned the walls, searching for lines that sparked my climber’s instinct, one formation pulled me back—again and again. Five times in a single trip, I returned to the North Face of El Toro, an atmospheric arena that became my proving ground after a year sidelined by a knee injury. A year of crutches, painkillers, and watching others climb. Now, I was here. Back on the sharp end.

My first foray onto the wall was on Christmas Day, and it couldn’t have been a better gift—a quiet, 20°C afternoon spent playing in the shadow of El Toro. The route was Land of the Free, a full-value day of 5.11 climbing, with 50 meters of sparsely bolted 5.10 sprinkled in for a little added excitement. More than anything, it was a return to what I love: engaging climbing. The kind where every move matters and falling into an autopilot mindset can have potentially costly consequences.

Adding to the adventure, a handful of bolts had begun rusting away from their USSR-stamped hangers, an eerie reminder of the route’s age. Unlike the highly trafficked Sendero Luminoso, this wall felt neglected, overgrown—as if we were the first to climb it in some time. Loose soil, tufts of grass, and small plants clung to the cracks. Every foot placement threatened to liberate more debris than I wanted to think about. My belayer, Kendall, was soon covered in a fine dusting of limestone silt, while I spent most of the day with dirt in my eyes, and spines of prickly grasses and cacti laced through my clothing.

But as we pushed higher, the character of the climbing shifted. The rock grew cleaner, the holds more defined, and soon we were moving through stunning sequences on a rising grey and orange headwall. By the time we reached the 5.11+ crux pitch, I was buzzing—fully immersed in the kind of climbing that makes me feel small in the best way possible.

Then, suddenly—SNAP.

The hold broke. My body ejected into space, plummeting. For a split second, I was weightless, then the rope came tight. My belayer, caught off guard, was yanked upward into the belay.

I hung there for a moment, heart pounding, hold still in my hand, before checking in with Kendall. “You good?” “Yeah. You?” “Yeah.”

With the laughter of relief, I pulled back on and gave it another go—but the section felt exponentially harder after the fall. Still, this was the kind of climbing I live for. Trying hard, high off the ground, feeling like a small speck on a vast expanse of rock. All the while tied to good company in ridiculously exposed settings.

The upper pitches continued to deliver—an aesthetic dihedral, a comfortable belay on a pillar, then fun, vertical crimping up a white streak of stone. But as I reached the stance below the final 5.12 roof, I knew.

I was spent. The effort to Haul the rope this far had taken its toll. My forearms were cramping, my toes screaming inside my shoes. Kendall and I locked eyes, unspoken understanding passing between us. The wall wins today. And that was okay. It was more about finding a fun and engaging arena to connect with an activity and a space that resonates with both of us. Enjoying the controlled chaos of the day was more than enough for me that day, and the longer I spend in these places the more I cherish the journey going up and focus less on arriving at the summit.

We rapped down, swapping rock for tacos and beer, exhaustion settling into our bones. The climb had been an absolute gem—atmospheric, engaging, just the right amount of adventure. And best of all, it was just the beginning of a rewarding chapter with the North Face of El toro.