Only the tips of his crampons and ice axes held the climber’s body close to the wall as he balanced more than 100 feet above the snow-covered ground. A kick from his left boot dislodged a chunk of ice, which crashed far below like a chandelier shattering into thousands of pieces. Then Lake City, Colorado, was quiet again.
Lake City is an old silver-mining town — population 432 — tucked in a valley in the San Juan Mountains. It’s a popular summer gateway to the high country, but the throngs of warm-weather tourists and vacation homeowners tend to vanish at the first hint of snow. Business windows display “Closed for the season” signs, while a small but hardened group of locals hunker down for the long winter.
But on many weekends this year, just around the corner from downtown, dozens of cars lined the entryway to Engineer Pass. There’s a new kind of visitor in Lake City, the kind that thrives on the same bitter cold that drives others out: ice climbers. Here at the Lake City Ice Park, glittering ice cascades from the surrounding cliff faces like the tentacles of giant blue-green jellyfish. Climbers scale the towering walls and then shuffle into a warming hut to soothe their frozen toes.
The niche sport has brought a welcome influx of cash and liveliness into the winter isolation of Hinsdale County. Restaurants and lodges cater to the ice climbers, altering their hours and menus to accommodate them. One even began offering ice climbing gear rentals.
“My goal is to fill every lodge in town and have the restaurants stay open all winter long,” said Ben Hake, Lake City’s Parks and Recreation director. Winter sales tax revenue has risen by nearly 40% since 2019. Hake’s goal is to eventually cover a mile of the canyon in ice, turning Lake City into a climber’s paradise.
But the demands of Colorado’s billion-dollar winter recreation industry can have unwelcome side effects. Recreation booms and increased visitation have reshaped the identities of small communities across the Western U.S. And once development starts, it can become difficult — sometimes impossible — to control.
“We push and push tourism, and at some point we have to look at how we’re going to manage it,” said Lily Virden. She grew up in Lake City, where she is now a public school teacher and the owner of a clothing and gift store called 38º North. “This is the first year that I think we’re like, ‘Whoa, are we ready for this?’”
SEEKING SHELTER FROM the falling snow on a Saturday in February, a group of climbers hunched over a jigsaw puzzle-covered coffee table at the San Juan Soda Company. Christian Hartman’s family has owned the summertime ice cream pitstop since 1988. In July, the line often snakes out the front door and across the street.
“My parents used to say that you could literally shoot a cannon down Main Street in the winter and not hurt anybody,” Hartman said. “It was that dead.”
Three years ago, for the first time, Hartman decided to stay open during the winter. On the shelves, mixed in with the souvenirs and gifts, customers can find a menagerie of ice tools, mountaineering boots, crampons, ropes and helmets. Summer sales still dwarf winter revenue, but the shop is starting to make a small profit during climbing season.
“My parents used to say that you could literally shoot a cannon down Main Street in the winter and not hurt anybody. It was that dead.”
Around the corner at the Lake City Brew Company, owner Justin Hill has redesigned his menu to appeal to hungry climbers. During the fleeting summer months, thousands of Texans, Oklahomans and Louisianians pass through Lake City, attracted by the vast network of off-road vehicle trails right outside town. Every seat in the brewery fills up, and guests overflow onto the patio. Now, Hill’s tables stay full in January and February.
“The park makes it more exciting to live here in the winter,” Hill said. “Without ice climbing, Lake City would be pretty desolate.”
The Lake City Ice Park was created by a motley crew of carpenters and raft guides who shared a passion for the sport. They began “farming,” or creating their own ice in the Lake City area in the late 1990s — a scheme fueled by a mischievous curiosity and thousands of feet of hose.
Two local climbers, Craig “Mad Dog” Blakemore and Mike Camp, later noticed that the town’s main water tank sat right above cliffs that could potentially hold ice. The pair asked the town manager if they could tap into Lake City’s water supply and pump water over the edge when the temperatures dropped. This became the first section of the ice park.
“She (thought) I was crazy as hell,” said Camp, who has been ice climbing for nearly 40 years. “I said, ‘Just give me a chance, and let’s see what happens.’ The next weekend we had a whole wall of ice.”
Today, the town of Lake City runs the ice park on a modest annual budget of $16,000. Over the last three seasons, Hake has added two new areas, the Beer Garden and Dynamite Shack. Many of the climbs are steep enough to turn the average person’s stomach, but access is surprisingly easy. Climbers can tiptoe across frozen Henson Creek and drop a rope for almost any route after a 10-minute trek to the top of the cliffs.
The climbers often say they heard about the park by word of mouth or stumbled on it by accident. Although finding a hot breakfast can be challenging, they think the long drive to Lake City is worth it, a way to avoid Colorado’s busier, more well-known ice walls.
“Lake City is super low-key, and we prefer that,” said Brad Priebe, a climber from Colorado Springs. “But it’s amazing to see the number of people out climbing ice.”
THIRTY MILES WEST of Lake City, ice climbing has already remade another small Western Slope town. In Ouray, the climbers can scale more than 150 named routes along the Uncompahgre River Gorge at what has become the world’s largest man-made ice-climbing park. During the winter of 2021-’22, the Ouray Ice Park pumped $18 million into Ouray County.
In small recreation-dependent mountain towns like Ouray and Lake City, there is a fine line between much-needed economic growth and development run rampant. While most residents welcome the ice climbers, others worry that the crowds that are likely to flock to a well-known park could spoil some of the magic that originally drew them to Lake City in the first place.
But Lake City’s size and remote location could slow down its transformation. Surrounded almost entirely by public land and with a less-than-square-mile footprint, the town has limited space to expand, and there are no satellite communities nearby to help siphon off the population growth.
“I would definitely like (the ice park) to keep growing,” Hartman said. “You can try and increase growth, but it’s hard to stop it. Sometimes it’d be nice if it were like a faucet that you could turn on to flow that you want, and then leave it there. But we don’t have that kind of control.”
“It’s not like a boom or bust, and we’re not sinking money we don’t have. (The town) is content to build it slow and build it well.”
For years, Lake City tried to promote other types of winter sports, advertising its groomed snowmobile trails and small ski hill. But in the era of climate change, snowfall varies from year to year. At the ice park, the town can turn on the tap and create winter recreation. The Parks and Recreation Department is already working to create more ice to ensure that anchors stay open and climbers don’t have to wait in line.
“We’re trying to put a stable foundation under our community,” said Hinsdale County Commissioner Kristine Borchers. “It’s not like a boom or bust, and we’re not sinking money we don’t have. (The town) is content to build it slow and build it well.”
Hartman, the soda shop owner, said he still thinks of Lake City as a “true mountain town.” It’s the only incorporated community in Hinsdale County, home to a single school and no chain restaurants. But he believes the changes are for the best. There are new faces in town. The climbers are quiet, and the recreation is human-powered: no wheels or motors, just muscle and movement.
During the peak summer season in June and July, Hartman’s customers often ask him: “What’s it like during the winter?” His answer is slowly changing.
Bella Biondini is the editor of the Gunnison Country Times and frequently covers water and public lands issues in western Colorado.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
