Is the climate crisis endangering the world’s biggest ice park? And why does it matter?

Ouray is where I first swung an axe in 2008, and I’ve returned a dozen or so times to sample the 200-plus routes. I’ll admit it wasn’t love at first try. It took a while to get the hang of the technique—and the cold. But now, I’m unequivocally addicted to the empowering feeling of sinking a sharp tool into ice, swinging and kicking my way to the top.

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In the 14 years that I’ve been visiting Ouray and the nearly 30 years since the Ice Park opened, conditions have been changing. Ouray Ice Park director Peter O’Neil, who has been climbing in the San Juans since the ‘80s, says that climate change has raised two questions for operations: “Do we have enough water?” And, “is it cold enough?”

The first issue is the result of a creek that doesn’t flow as vigorously as it used to, thanks to a Southwestern drought that’s the worst in a recorded 1,200 years, and is widely considered a product of—or at least exacerbated by—climate change.

The water used to form the park’s ice comes from a municipal creek-fed tank diverted into 7,500 feet of piping that’s been installed throughout the Uncompahgre Gorge. But as the flow of the Weehawken Creek that supplies the city’s water slows, securing enough water to form thick ice becomes a challenge.

Cold temperatures—the other piece of the climate impact puzzle—are what Ouray ice farmer Tim Foulkes calls, “the biggest issue we experienced with climate change this season.”

O’Neil is answering that challenge by collaborating with Ouray Silver Mines to transfer three of its water shares to the Park. This would mean the installation of pumps—whereas the current system is gravity-fed—so the park plans to launch a capital campaign for a new system soon.

Not only will this new source improve water security for the park, it will also allow ice farmers to, as O’Neil puts it, “work like mad” when temperatures are optimal to compensate for warmer periods.

O’Neil calls the Park’s use of water “as neutral as it could possibly be.” Aside from any evaporation that occurs, water flows back into the watershed from where it came with the spring melt.

Cold temperatures—the other piece of the climate impact puzzle—are what Ouray ice farmer Tim Foulkes calls, “the biggest issue we experienced with climate change this season.”

The ideal temperature range for farming ice is between eight- and 22-degrees Fahrenheit (-13 to 5 degrees Celsius). As the climate warms, Foulkes has had to shift production later in the evening to wait for temperatures to sufficiently drop.

This year, Foulkes says they struggled to make ice without cold enough nights, and the Park had to open a week later than scheduled. Rain the week before Christmas made matters worse, causing the ice they’d farmed to delaminate, or detach from the rock beneath and calve off.

While Ouray Ice Park is actively seeking solutions to its climate woes, natural ice climbs are completely at the whim of their environments.

“We can at least control the water,” O’Neil explains, “whereas routes in the backcountry where the water source is diminishing might not come in at all or are thinner than they are historically.”

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In my decade or so of ascending frozen waterfalls, I’ve observed how unseasonably warm temps have impacted backcountry climbs. In early February 2018—a time when ice is normally in prime condition in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains where I live—I took a visiting friend to climb at Provo Falls. We drove over an hour and hiked up the steep, 25-minute approach only to find rapidly melting ice and wet rock.

On the US East Coast, avid climber Paul Bayne says that in the 20 years he’s been ice climbing, he’s been seeing “more intense mid-season warm-ups.”

While temperatures still dip below freezing, he’ll observe days or periods of mid-winter warm weather that wreak havoc on ice. Of course, the odd balmy day has always reared its head in winter, but these warm spells are striking more often and intensely.

“We want to be a welcoming community to underserved and marginalized communities,” says Ouray Ice Park director Peter O’Neil. The accessibility of the Park—compared to a remote frozen fall—is one of the things that makes it so great.

This past February, Bayne remembers a Saturday in Vermont when temperatures hit the high 60s (Fahrenheit).

“The climbs were delaminating and crashing all around us,” he tells me. “Water was running on everything. Many climbs that would normally be okay to TR [top-rope] in mild conditions were dropping blocks of ice like it was late March or April.”

Not only does the increased risk of unstable and falling ice make the sport more dangerous, but it also changes the dynamics of ice quality and routes. In an interview last winter, legendary alpinist Will Gadd observed that in his 35 years of climbing, he couldn’t “think of a single ice or mountaineering route” that hadn’t been impacted by climate change.

Reduced precipitation, rain when there should be snow, and tepid temperatures, are the same climate impacts butting up against skiing. “Every single ski area in the world is facing the same challenge,” O’Neil says.

Ice climbing’s existential threat is at odds with its growing popularity. The sport has been vying for inclusion in the Olympics, and has become more diverse. This winter, the Ouray Park hosted the inaugural All In Ice Fest, inviting BIPOC, LGBTQIA2S+, and adaptive climbers to rope up.

“We want to be a welcoming community to underserved and marginalized communities,” says O’Neil. The accessibility of the Park—compared to a remote frozen fall—is one of the things that makes it so great.

The irony is that the sport of ice climbing is finally becoming more accessible to a broader population at a time when the very pursuit itself faces growing inaccessibility at the hands of climate change. The same could be said of skiing and snowboarding. As a result, the impetus on diversifying these outdoor sports right now—in part through accessible parks like Ouray and events like the All In Ice Fest—becomes all the more critical.

As for the long-term future of ice climbing, O’Neil predicts that, “if the ski industry goes away, we’ll go away.” In Bayne’s opinion, while many sports like skiing, ice fishing, and snowmobiling face climate impacts, warmer winters have “the biggest impact on disturbing the ice climbing season.”

Will we see more parks like Ouray open in an effort to gain more control over conditions and extend the lifespan of the sport? Will indoor ice climbing gyms, like the giant refrigerator in Scotland, proliferate?

Or will we decide that ice climbing without natural ice just isn’t the same, and let the sport go? Regardless of where this niche pursuit ends up, all we can do is advocate for climate action, and follow the standard signal of a belayer when they’re ready to catch your fall: Climb on.