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Gran Trono Blanco Trip Report
By: Will Stanhope
I first heard about the Gran Trono Blanco from my friend “Troutman.” Trout is a perpetually-stoked drifter, following the seasons from climbing area to trout-infested rivers. With wild long hair tamed by a tattered piece of webbing doubling as a headband, Trout looks like a classic Yosemite Stonemaster. He refuses to use chalk and seeks out filthy wide cracks and chimneys. Though in his early 20s, Trout is a throwback to a bygone era when climbing was still counterculture.
This past fall, in Yosemite, a crew of dirtbags were gathered around a campfire at the SAR site, sipping King Cobras. Our ears perked up when Troutman began spouting off about the Gran Trono Blanco, a forgotten stash of desert granite hidden in the Mexican Baja. To hear a Troutman story is a special experience. Illuminated by the glow of the fire, Trout’s eyes flashed wildly as his excitement boiled over. “We saw these domes, covered in Needles-like yellow lichen with bolted dykes. We were like, ‘who did this?!” As legend had it, pistol wielding banditos were synonymous with the area. Robberies were commonplace. The Gran Trono Blanco had Troutman’s seal of approval, so I had to go.
My friend Paul McSorely and I settled on trying the PanAm route, the most traveled line on the biggest face of El Gran Trono Blanco. Through the grapevine I heard that Paul Piana had freed the line years ago. Apparently, some climbers took offense to the way Piana had retrofitted the line and chopped many of his bolts. My goal was to free the line despite the chopped bolts. I didn’t know anything else, at all. In an age of internet beta over-stimulation, it felt strangely liberating to go in there blind, armed with two ropes, a free rack and some old rumours.
After four pitches of technical face climbing we arrived at the centerpiece of the route, a long sweeping chocolate brown dihedral. Racking up, I tried to settle the butterflies in my stomach. This was the crux of the route and I badly wanted to onsight it. It was now or never. After about 50 feet of technical stemming, and splayed out on glassy smears, I blew it and fell. Frustrated, I pulled back on and finished the pitch. It was getting late and there wasn’t enough time for another try. Adrenaline deflated, we pushed on and finished the route at sunset.
At the top we marveled at the steep gulches, or arroyos, slicing deep into the Mexican backcountry. Beyond the arroyos lay an enormous salt flat, followed by another chain of arid mountains. It was the biggest expanse of nothingness I have ever seen. Paul and I snapped on our headlamps, skimmed the rim of the wall and weaved our way through the subtle water-worn canyons back to the car. At our campsite we made a roaring fire and rolled up some burritos.
Trying to onsight a remote big wall in a day is a lofty goal. You have to surrender yourself to the unknowns, and admit that failure is more probable than success. But without the big question marks, where is the fun?
I first heard about the Gran Trono Blanco from my friend “Troutman.” Trout is a perpetually-stoked drifter, following the seasons from climbing area to trout-infested rivers. With wild long hair tamed by a tattered piece of webbing doubling as a headband, Trout looks like a classic Yosemite Stonemaster. He refuses to use chalk and seeks out filthy wide cracks and chimneys. Though in his early 20s, Trout is a throwback to a bygone era when climbing was still counterculture.
This past fall, in Yosemite, a crew of dirtbags were gathered around a campfire at the SAR site, sipping King Cobras. Our ears perked up when Troutman began spouting off about the Gran Trono Blanco, a forgotten stash of desert granite hidden in the Mexican Baja. To hear a Troutman story is a special experience. Illuminated by the glow of the fire, Trout’s eyes flashed wildly as his excitement boiled over. “We saw these domes, covered in Needles-like yellow lichen with bolted dykes. We were like, ‘who did this?!” As legend had it, pistol wielding banditos were synonymous with the area. Robberies were commonplace. The Gran Trono Blanco had Troutman’s seal of approval, so I had to go.
My friend Paul McSorely and I settled on trying the PanAm route, the most traveled line on the biggest face of El Gran Trono Blanco. Through the grapevine I heard that Paul Piana had freed the line years ago. Apparently, some climbers took offense to the way Piana had retrofitted the line and chopped many of his bolts. My goal was to free the line despite the chopped bolts. I didn’t know anything else, at all. In an age of internet beta over-stimulation, it felt strangely liberating to go in there blind, armed with two ropes, a free rack and some old rumours.
After four pitches of technical face climbing we arrived at the centerpiece of the route, a long sweeping chocolate brown dihedral. Racking up, I tried to settle the butterflies in my stomach. This was the crux of the route and I badly wanted to onsight it. It was now or never. After about 50 feet of technical stemming, and splayed out on glassy smears, I blew it and fell. Frustrated, I pulled back on and finished the pitch. It was getting late and there wasn’t enough time for another try. Adrenaline deflated, we pushed on and finished the route at sunset.
At the top we marveled at the steep gulches, or arroyos, slicing deep into the Mexican backcountry. Beyond the arroyos lay an enormous salt flat, followed by another chain of arid mountains. It was the biggest expanse of nothingness I have ever seen. Paul and I snapped on our headlamps, skimmed the rim of the wall and weaved our way through the subtle water-worn canyons back to the car. At our campsite we made a roaring fire and rolled up some burritos.
Trying to onsight a remote big wall in a day is a lofty goal. You have to surrender yourself to the unknowns, and admit that failure is more probable than success. But without the big question marks, where is the fun?
