Image credit: A frozen waterfall in Yellowstone National Park. ©CRAIG WOLFROM

Spring 2025

Chasing the Ice

By Craig Wolfrom

The art of climbing frozen waterfalls in Yellowstone National Park.

Frozen waterfalls are an ephemeral phenomenon found in bitterly cold mountain gullies. Most people are happy just to admire the ice, which can resemble wavy sheets of plastic or heads of cauliflower or glistening chandeliers or a thousand candles all melted together. But the formations are more than eye candy for a small subset of adventurers — ice climbers. They see the shimmering walls as playgrounds where they can test their physical, mental and technical skills, using gear as sharp as the dagger-like icicles that hang all around them as they carefully move skyward.

A NATIONAL PURSUIT

While ice climbing isn’t possible in most national park sites, thrill-seekers might be pleased to know they can pursue the sport in parks from coast to coast, including at Acadia, Kenai Fjords and Rocky Mountain national parks, as well as at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Be sure to check with the park regarding specific regulations and permits, follow leave no trace principles, track the weather, climb with a buddy, and respect wildlife.

Last year, I took two trips to Yellowstone National Park to photograph ice climbers. In late November, I traveled to Cooke City, just outside the park, for the annual ice-climbing event “Cookeout,” which brings together novice and expert climbers for clinics and festivities. I ran into Alex Shafer, a student at Montana State University, and he and his climbing partner, Jay Alford, were kind enough to let me tag along and photograph them on Park Gate, a climb near the Northeast Entrance. On my second trip, just before the holidays, I joined Baldwin Goodell, a college buddy and longtime adventure companion, and Whit Magro, a friend of his. Many of the park’s ice formations were still too thin to climb, but others were stout enough for their ice tools and ice screws. They ended up scaling a multi-pitch series of icy pillars on the shady side of Abiathar Peak and Plumb, near the park’s eastern edge, named for its extreme verticality. They also hit Rocketman, an alcove east of Cooke City that we reached by snowmobile.

I hadn’t ice climbed in decades, but I realized that the only way to capture images of Whit and Baldwin on the second pitch of the Abiathar Peak ascent was to get on the ice myself, so I dusted off my gear and followed them upward. At Plumb, in search of a top-down angle, I scrambled up an ice-free gully adjacent to the climb, anchored a rope and rappelled down to shoot Whit in action.

When I lived in Bozeman, Montana, in my 20s, routes like the ones in Yellowstone were right in my backyard, and I rock climbed a lot and ice climbed a little. Life (and jobs and kids) subsequently took me away to Idaho, where I turned to river rafting and kayaking because good climbing spots were no longer easy to reach. But inching up that frozen pillar, swinging ice axes, feeling my big muscle groups work and trying to keep my composure, I realized how much I had missed the sport, and I was struck by a yearning to one day call myself a climber again.

About the author

  • Craig Wolfrom Contributor

    Craig Wolfrom is an adventure seeker who captures still images and writes about his climbing, skiing and whitewater exploits. In 2024, his National Parks magazine article, "From Peak to Sea," was a finalist in the service and lifestyle category of the American Society of Magazine Editors Awards for Design, Photography and Illustration. Craig lives in Hailey, Idaho.

This article appeared in the Spring 2025 issue

National Parks, our award-winning quarterly magazine, is an exclusive benefit of membership in the National Parks Conservation Association.

More from this issue

Monuments for All

Read more from NPCA