Iron rungs bit into my sweaty palms as I dangled above a hundred feet of open air. Below, Gold Mountain’s chossy cliffs fell into the pine-cloaked folds of Ouray – “Switzerland of America,” they call it – but all I could see was the next rung.

The section known as the “Monkey Bars” is the hardest pitch of any via ferrata in Colorado, even in North America. Just like the playground feature I loved as a kid – except here, the stakes were iron, granite and gravity. I gulped back fear as the ground inched closer on tired arms.

Stretching toward the next hold, the world narrowed to the deep, echoing thrum of adrenaline. When I karate-kicked my feet off the wall, one hand slipped and I braced for a plummet that never came. My cool-headed mountain guide, Clint Cook, swung in and hauled me to safety.

 

Colorado’s vertical frontier

Just before I’d stepped onto the first rung an hour earlier, Cook cautioned, “It’s best to just not fall.” He said it with the half-smile of someone who’s spent a quarter-century guiding climbers across Colorado’s most formidable terrain in the San Juan Mountains.

Cook is co-owner and head guide of Basecamp Ouray – exactly who you want in your corner when your muscles give out midair. In addition to his 25-year guiding career and experience building via ferrata courses, he was the 25th American out of 200 to earn certification from the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations, the most prestigious guiding organization in the world.

Stoic, self-assured and endlessly competent, Cook has spent his life and career in the mountains – although he grew up in what he jokingly calls the “mountainous state
of Kansas.”

I met Cook and guide-in-training Erin Laine one summer morning outside Basecamp’s headquarters – a hybrid climbing gym and community hub on Ouray’s bustling Main Street.

Laine, with a sun-bleached ponytail and easy confidence from winters ski guiding around the globe, handed me my gear: helmet, gloves and a Y-shaped leash attached to a harness. Two metal locking carabiners, called “lobster claws,” clip onto a cable bolted into the cliff. Though safety gear prevents a fatal fall, the leash’s shock absorber could still let a climber tumble six feet – hence Cook’s warning.

Via ferrata is Italian for “iron path,” a name that makes more sense when you’re clinging to rungs bolted into sheer rock with nothing but air below. Originating in the Alps during World War I, the concept helped soldiers navigate the mountains. Today, these routes offer recreational adventure across Europe, bridging hiking and full-on climbing.

In Colorado, access is still relatively new – and limited. Of two dozen U.S. routes, 10 are in Colorado, including four in Ouray and Telluride. Most lie on private land or ski resorts and require a guide due to permitting and safety. Telluride’s was the first public, unguided route; Ouray manages two more public routes, which Cook helped build.

Gold Mountain is one of the newest and most ambitious entries in this vertical frontier. Climbers can go with a guide from Basecamp Ouray or opt to go self-guided for a $99 fee. At the trailhead five minutes from town, Cook briefed us: this was the most challenging via ferrata in North America. The route climbs 1,200 vertical feet across 12 “pitches” and ends in a tightrope walk across a 300-foot suspension bridge – the second longest in the nation.

The idea was born during COVID, when outdoor recreation skyrocketed. Logan Tyler, Basecamp’s founder and a former professional climber, saw an opportunity to build a world-class route that mimicked Europe’s vertical pedigree. While most via ferratas in Colorado traverse sideways, Gold Mountain climbs upward and incorporates natural rock features.

The private land was purchased for a good deal. Tyler persuaded the Texas landowners to consider a route up the towering cliff. Over four months, he and a small team hand-drilled more than 2,000 feet of cable, over 1,000 rungs and two suspension bridges. It opened in 2022.

One pitch at a time, the route carried us higher – across sky bridges, past mine shafts and into the layered history of Gold Mountain, its soil still glinting with gold.

 

Following the gold vein

The climb began with a stout vertical section. As a hobbyist rock climber, I felt confident on the wall, though a few moves pushed me outside my comfort zone – and I was grateful for my experience. No climbing background is required with a guide.

We scurried upward, our carabiners clicking on the cable between bits of Cook’s commentary and quiet encouragement.

Red walls cradled the old mining town as waterfalls laced the cliffs, snowmelt feeding the Uncompahgre River. Its name, from the Ute language, means “red water,” “dirty water” or “slow-moving water.” Though not red, the river often appears muddy yellow – likely due to hot spring minerals or old mine runoff.

At the top of pitch four, a short hike brought us to the next climbing section and a rickety ore-sorting house from the Memphis Mine, part of some 120 claims dating back to the late 1800s.

We followed some of the same paths and gold veins the miners once did. “There aren’t many places you can get this up close and personal with Colorado’s mining history,” Cook said.

After that walk through history, we hit the first decision point. The route offers three optional deviations for climbers who want a tougher challenge.

I opted for the extreme every time.

The Don Wall – a nod to Yosemite’s Dawn Wall and to a beloved local guide who died in an off-roading accident – gave me a taste of traditional climbing. Traversing sideways on a bulging rock face, I reached for granite pockets while my toe smeared across pebbled ledges. Cook guided me through calmly: “Find those rungs. Keep moving sideways.”

After more scrambling, we followed a narrow ore cart railway through a tunnel blasted in the rock.

“Imagine going up this same cliff we’re climbing at 30 miles per hour,” Cook laughed. “That’s what these miners used to do.”

As the tunnel ended, so did the tracks. A steep drop gave way to the first cable bridge, which Cook, Laine and I walked duck-footed across, white-knuckling the handrails. It led to a weathered, century-old blacksmith shop. Inside lay rusted rods and a dusty miner’s boot.

The pièce de résistance came nearly 1,000 feet above the start. We had finally reached
the notorious Monkey Bars – North America’s hardest pitch – requiring strength, precision and nerves of steel.

After swinging through most of it with help from my guide, I exhaled – only to face an overhanging arête, estimated by climbers to be a 5.10+, a difficult climbing grade. On spent arms, I worked up the last few feet to find Cook waiting with an enthusiastic high-five.

Only one obstacle remained: a 273-foot suspension bridge, the second longest of its kind in the country. As I stepped across, one foot in front of the other, the wind swayed the structure and my stomach turned until I reached solid ground.

I looked back and traced the jagged line I’d climbed. It was dizzying to see how far I’d come – 1,200 feet below. Somewhere between the iron rungs and Gold Mountain’s relics, fear had transformed into
focus, and awe into understanding.

Striking gold

The hidden gem of Ouray is often referred to as the “Switzerland of America,” and from this height, the name rings true. Nestled in a box canyon and stitched with historic mining scars, this part of southern Colorado is carving a new alpine legacy – one that fuses its past with a bold, vertical present.

Once a tool of war, via ferrata has become something else entirely: a way to meet the mountains halfway.

As Colorado’s own via ferratas reach new dizzying heights, so do the people who climb them. By the time I unhooked my lobster claws and rang the celebratory gong at the summit, I felt something like the rush of a gold strike.

Not metal in the dirt – but something rarer: the grit you find from within.