Climbing and Colonialism: “There Are No First Ascents on Stolen Land”
Yosemite, the Buttermilks, the Sierra Nevada. Legendary destinations for climbers around the world. Stolen land for Indigenous peoples. That's the history Jolie Varela, founder of Indigenous Women Hike, spent years trying to bring into American climbing festivals before finally walking away. She explains what the climbing community still needs to learn from the people who were here first.
Vertige Media: What is your connection to Bishop, California, and the surrounding valley, which has become such a major climbing destination?
Jolie Varela : I grew up on the Bishop Reservation, on Paiute land. The Paiute are one of the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada and eastern California. One of my grandmothers is from the Big Pine tribe (about 12 miles south of Bishop), and the other is from Bishop. Those boundaries are colonial. Our families used to move throughout the valley with the seasons, hunting and gathering pine nuts.
Colonization came here in four waves. First came the settlers and their cattle, which depleted our resources. Then came the militia, clearing the way for what would become public lands. Next came conservation. To make those lands public, Indigenous people had to be driven off and killed. The final wave was the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power (LADWP), which took control of the valley's water and now owns more than 95% of its land.
We never learned about the forced march of 1863 or the theft of our water in school. I didn't learn that history until much later, in 2016, when I joined my people at Standing Rock, where the Sioux were protesting the Dakota Access Pipeline.
Vertige Media : On the western side of the valley, the Buttermilks bouldering area draws climbers from all over the world.
Jolie Varela : Yes. Someone once described the Buttermilks to me as "the mecca of climbing." But it was once a place where wedding ceremonies were held, and my great-great-great-grandfather was born in a nearby canyon.
I didn't start hiking until I was about 28 or 29, for my mental health. That's when I discovered the grinding stones, which our ancestors used to prepare food, and the petroglyphs, designs carved into the rock by Indigenous peoples.
If I had to learn this history myself, it's hardly surprising that climbers don't know it. But they get to enjoy the dirtbag lifestyle—living cheaply, often out of a van, to spend as much time climbing as possible—without ever really acknowledging the original peoples of these lands.
Over time, I made a place for myself in the climbing community. But it came at the expense of my mental health. Sometimes people treated me horribly. People yelled at me. These days, I don't want to put myself through that anymore.
Vertige Media : Do you remember the first time you confronted the climbing community about these issues?
Jolie Varela : It was over the Craggin' Classic, a series of climbing festivals organized by the American Alpine Club. I found out that LADWP was a partner. Here were climbers who called themselves environmentalists, partnering with an agency that continues to oppress Paiute people! I called out the partnership publicly, and some climber friends wrote to the American Alpine Club. One of the organizers called me, furious. His inbox was overflowing with emails accusing the club of racism. I told him, "Well, here's your chance to prove them wrong." At first, all they wanted was for me to say a few words before a film screening. Eventually, we managed to organize the first all-Indigenous panel in the festival's history. Afterward, that same organizer came over and apologized. I did an enormous amount of unpaid work. I organized Indigenous climbing days at the Happies, a bouldering area on the volcanic plateau north of Bishop. I also worked extensively with Shelma Jun, the founder of the major climbing festival Flash Foxy. Over time, I made a place for myself in the climbing community. But it came at the expense of my mental health. Sometimes people treated me horribly. People yelled at me. These days, I don't want to put myself through that anymore.
Vertige Media : You still run your organization. What is Indigenous Women Hike doing today?
Jolie Varela : In 2018, we hiked the Nüümü Poyo, what people call the John Muir Trail, without permits. We invoked the American Indian Religious Freedom Act, a 1978 federal law protecting Indigenous people's right to practice their spiritual traditions and access sacred sites. At the time, I'd never been backpacking. My non-Indigenous friends taught me everything. Now I'm the one passing those skills on to my community. I run overnight camping workshops, and this year I took an elder into the mountains for her first night camping outdoors. Gear is a huge financial barrier, so I also started a free gear library for everyone in the valley. We have tents, packs, camping stoves, even climbing shoes.
Next year, we're going back to Peru to hike with Quechua women and explore ways of traveling that don't impose colonialism on the communities we visit.
Vertige Media : What does "decolonizing the outdoors" actually mean to you?
Jolie Varela : For me, it means strengthening my connection to my land, my people, and myself. I don't like it when people say our languages or ceremonies have been "forgotten." Nothing has been forgotten. It's all just waiting to be remembered. For non-Indigenous people, it means questioning their own place in all of this. "Ally" has become such a buzzword. I prefer "accomplice." That means listening to Indigenous people, supporting them, standing up for Land Back—the movement to return land to Indigenous peoples—and supporting reparations. The Wilderness Act of 1964 defines wilderness as a place "where man himself is a visitor who does not remain." That definition erases us. Major environmental organizations like the Sierra Club need to acknowledge that conservation was a form of colonization. The best thing you can do for the land is give it back to us, along with the resources to care for it. Colonization affects all of us. White people also need to confront what their ancestors did.
I find all this pride in being "first," this whole conquest mentality, ridiculous. You're climbing on grinding stones, right next to petroglyphs, and you think you're the first?
Vertige Media : Climbers place a lot of importance on "first ascents," claiming to be the first to climb a particular route or peak. Why do you see that as a colonial mindset?
Jolie Varela : John Muir (the Scottish-born American naturalist and major figure in the U.S. conservation movement) was simply following trade routes that countless tribes had been using for centuries. I find all this pride in being "first," this whole conquest mentality, ridiculous. You're climbing on grinding stones, right next to petroglyphs, and you think you're the first? There is no such thing as a first ascent. I would never plant my tribal flag on somebody else's mountain. Our names for places simply describe them. Payahüünadü means "the place where the water flows." Historian Mark David Spence, who wrote Dispossessing the Wilderness about the expulsion of Indigenous peoples during the creation of America's national parks, tells the story of explorers who thought they were the first to reach the summit of the Grand Teton. When they got there, they found a structure that had been standing for centuries.
Vertige Media : You often talk about "entitlement." What do you mean by that?
Jolie Varela : When I go to the Buttermilks with my cousins, we don't feel like we belong there. And yet the bones of our foremothers are buried there. One day, we took a microphone out and started asking climbers if they knew the valley's original name. Not a single person knew. One guy said, "Uh... there's the Paiute Palace Casino?" That's exactly what entitlement looks like. Feeling you have the right to go wherever you want, to live in your van on stolen land, without ever questioning where that right comes from. Think about how your access limits ours.
Vertige Media : Why is it so important to confront John Muir's racism, given his reputation as a conservation pioneer and his association with the creation of Yosemite National Park?
Jolie Varela : Because he's considered the father of conservation. He founded the Sierra Club.
You'll also find names like Joseph N. LeConte (an engineer and mountaineer who helped pioneer exploration in the Sierra Nevada) and Nathaniel F. McClure (a U.S. Army cavalry officer) along the trail. But it's Muir's name, above all, that erases Nüümü Poyo, "the people's trail." At Yosemite, he marveled at meadows he believed were untouched wilderness. He didn't understand that Indigenous people, whom he described as dirty, had been caring for those meadows, including through controlled burning. Those traditional burns were later banned. Dry vegetation accumulated, and that's part of why California now experiences such devastating megafires.
At the first Indigenous panel at Outdoor Retailer, the big outdoor industry trade show, I explained that this industry makes billions of dollars from the displacement and genocide of our peoples. One white guy turned bright red and walked out. I loved it.
The Timbisha people live in Death Valley National Park, and they can't bury their dead there.
(She pauses, overcome with emotion.) And yet, for years, non-Indigenous people were allowed to scatter their ashes there. Colonization continues even in death. As for me, I will never ask for a permit to walk on my own land. I refuse.
Vertige Media : How does that racism still show up in climbing today?
Jolie Varela : Look at some of the route names. They're misogynistic, racist, or anti-Indigenous. So many people make money off our sacred lands without wanting to learn anything about the history of the places they climb or the cultures of the people who live there. At the first Indigenous panel at Outdoor Retailer, the big outdoor industry trade show, I explained that this industry makes billions of dollars from the displacement and genocide of our peoples. One white guy turned bright red and walked out. I loved it. But I should say that not everybody is indifferent. Some people genuinely want to learn. Some climbers even pay me a kind of voluntary rent for using the land. That money helps me stock the community fridge on the reservation.
First, there's something I want to tell climbers: You don't have to climb everything. We shouldn't put in a single new bolt (a permanent anchor drilled into the rock).
Vertige Media : What would a genuinely respectful relationship between climbers and Indigenous peoples look like?
Jolie Varela : First, there's something I want to tell climbers: You don't have to climb everything. We shouldn't put in a single new bolt (a permanent anchor drilled into the rock).
Climbing organizations worry that Land Back will threaten their access to climbing areas. But tribes aren't trying to kick anybody out. They just want to be able to take care of their lands. Ask yourselves why your access should count more than ours. Learn about the peoples of the lands you occupy. Give 1% of your revenue to an Indigenous land fund. Stop speaking of us in the past tense, and don't pity us. We don't just want to survive, we want to thrive.
My elder often says that white people don't know what home is. I do. So accept being uncomfortable. Otherwise, how can you grow?
