Editor’s Note: This story is part of our #ThrowbackThursday series, revisiting memorable adventures from the Arkansas Outside archives. Originally published in 2014, this firsthand account captures Cris Slaymaker’s experience competing in and volunteering at one of the country’s most legendary climbing events, 24 Hours of Horseshoe Hell at Horseshoe Canyon Ranch. While the story reflects the event as it was more than a decade ago, the spirit of endurance, camaraderie, and organized chaos remains the same. If you’re interested in attending or competing in the 2026 24 Hours of Horseshoe Hell, visit the official event website at 24 Hours of Horseshoe Hell for current event information, registration details, and updates.
Every September, hundreds of climbers from across the country descend on Horseshoe Canyon Ranch near Jasper, Arkansas, for one of the most legendary climbing competitions in North America: Horseshoe Hell. Equal parts endurance contest, climbing festival, costume party, and reunion, the event has earned a reputation for pushing participants to their physical and mental limits while celebrating the unique camaraderie of the climbing community.
For competitors, the goal is simple in theory but brutal in practice. Teams attempt to climb as many routes as possible during either a 12-hour or 24-hour competition. Every route must be lead climbed from the ground to the anchors without falls or weighting the rope. Elite teams routinely complete more than 200 routes over 24 hours, while some climbers tackle both competitions for an astonishing 36 hours of climbing in a single weekend.
For everyone else, Horseshoe Hell is still an unforgettable experience. Between competitions, the ranch transforms into a playground filled with bouldering, zip lines, horseback riding, giant slip-and-slides, campfires, live music, and enough stories to last until next September.
This was my third Horseshoe Hell, but my first time competing.
This is my story.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
5:18 p.m.
I finally arrive at the unofficial Camp Little Rock, established by the Night Shift Ninjas, Anna and Gabie. With flushing toilets, running water, and the Pavilion nearby, they’ve picked prime real estate.
Batman, my climbing partner, and Poison Ivy, our scorekeeper and team manager, are waiting so we can check in for the 12-Hour Hell competition.
Unfortunately, my nagging headache has evolved into something downright demonic.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
3:23 a.m.
The headache is gone.
Apparently paying tribute to the porcelain god instead of eating dinner solved that problem.
I can climb.
5:45 a.m.
Tim wakes Gabie and me from our sleeping bags atop an air mattress inside the big tent. Time to get moving.
I pull on my space kitten leggings, a Crazy Cat Lady tank top, and an ugly Christmas sweater covered in cats. If there’s ever an appropriate place to look ridiculous, it’s Horseshoe Hell.
Then I spot something magical.
A perfectly cooked, foil-wrapped sweet potato sits in the campfire ring.
First food in nearly 12 hours.
Perfect climbing fuel.
I repack my gear bag, double-check my snack stash, and fill every water bottle I own.
7:00 a.m.
The climber meeting begins at the Pavilion.
I immediately realize I’ve forgotten my coffee.
Fortunately, Kristen takes pity on me and shares hers.
Bless her.
Team Batman and Crazy Cat Lady is officially underway.
Batman, better known as Bruce, and I are about to put our three-year climbing partnership to the ultimate test.
Event founder Andy Chasteen reviews the rules, leads everyone through the traditional oath, and reminds us all not to drop our partners.
Solid advice.
7:30 a.m.
The shotgun fires.
We’re off.
Batman immediately takes the wrong trail toward our first crag.
For once, my sense of direction wins the argument.
8:05 a.m.
Our first route is Poop Deck, a friendly 5.6 I’ve climbed before.
I know exactly what needs to happen.
Go up.
One climb down.
The nerves arrive as soon as I clip the anchors. Climbers are stacked at the base of nearly every route, already tied in, wearing climbing shoes, and waiting for their turn.
There’s nothing like a crowd to make an easy climb feel harder.
10:30 a.m.
Bruce and I settle into a rhythm.
Belay.
Tie in.
Double-check knots.
Climb.
Repeat.
Everything flows smoothly as we trade leads and keep moving.
“Hi, Poison Ivy!” we shout each time we pass our scorekeeper.
So far, so good.
Noon
Two weeks earlier, Squirrel Deck, a 5.8+, completely shut me down.
Today feels different.
I reach high with my left hand and find the vertical crack. My fingers wedge securely inside while I inch my feet upward, carefully edging on tiny imperfections in the sandstone.
One more move.
I push with my legs, release the crack, and grab the horizontal hold above my head.
My hand sinks in perfectly.
Now all that’s left is moving my feet to the final holds.
I pull through the crux.
Success.
1:48 p.m.
Fatigue arrives at Doomsday Wall.
We’ve already broken our personal record for routes climbed in a single day, and we’re only halfway through the competition.
My hands ache.
My forearms burn.
I wonder if I’m still sane.
Six more hours.
Poison Ivy finally orders us back to camp for a short break.
Hydrate.
Rest.
Find some shade.
We obey without argument.
3:22 p.m.
Eight hours in.
Seventeen routes completed.
Not bad.
I start thinking we’ve had an incredible day and maybe it’s okay to quit while we’re ahead.
Bruce has another idea.
“Time for some short routes.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with short and quick,” I reply.
A nearby climber immediately fires back:
“That’s what she said.”
Even exhausted climbers never miss an opportunity for a joke.
4:30 p.m.
An “easy” 27-foot climb suddenly feels like scaling Everest.
I grunt, curse, and somehow claw my way up Perfect Hair Forever, a 5.7 that has no business feeling this difficult.
We decide it’s time to change tactics.
Instead of short, steep routes, we head toward longer, ladder-like climbs where steady movement beats raw power.
One chicken head at a time, we find our rhythm again.
Our final destination is Kindergarten Boulder.
We’re going to finish this thing.
7:30 p.m.
Bruce clips the final anchors just as dusk settles across Horseshoe Canyon Ranch.
Back on the ground, we stuff gear into our packs and pull out our headlamps.
The shotgun echoes through the canyon.
The 12-Hour Hell competition is over.
We are exhausted.
We are filthy.
And we couldn’t be happier.
7:37 p.m.
The Pavilion is almost unrecognizable.
The population of Horseshoe Hell has tripled.
Headlamps weave through campfires while laughter echoes across the ranch. The atmosphere feels somewhere between a climbing festival and Burning Man.
Friends greet us with hugs, cheers, and, in my case, an unexpected shoulder rub.
Thanks, Baxter.
The Arkansas Climbers Coalition serves incredible hot dogs.
New Belgium Brewing keeps the pints flowing.
Anna, one of the Night Shift Ninjas, is glowing after her own successful competition.
When the scorecards are turned in, I can finally relax.
Twenty-five climbs for me.
Thirty-three for Batman.
Not bad for our first Hell together.
8:30 p.m.
Hundreds of climbers gather beneath a sky filled with stars to watch the 2014 Reel Rock Film Tour: Valley Uprising.
If Reel Rock is filming at your event, you’ve made it.
One of the featured climbers, Alex Honnold, is already wandering around Horseshoe Canyon Ranch preparing for the 24-Hour competition.
As the credits roll, a quiet anticipation settles over camp.
Tomorrow, the real madness begins.
Friday, September 26, 2014
I survived the 12-Hour Hell.
Now it was time to help everyone else survive the 24.
While the competitors prepared for an entire day and night of climbing, I traded my harness for a radio and joined the legendary Hell Staff. For my third Horseshoe Hell, I finally earned the coveted volunteer shirt.
9:00 a.m.
We gathered for the volunteer meeting, proudly chanting:
“I am 24-Hour Hell Staff!”
It sounds silly until you’re standing among dozens of volunteers who know they’re about to spend the next day chasing dehydrated climbers around a canyon.
Afterward everyone drifted toward the Trading Post.
The place buzzed like a medieval marketplace. Vendors displayed the newest climbing gear while competitors wandered through camp in everything from superhero costumes to tutus. Volunteers compared assignments, spectators searched for coffee, and goats grazed peacefully in nearby pastures, blissfully unaware of the controlled chaos unfolding around them.
9:45 a.m.
The anticipation was electric.
Andy Chasteen gathered everyone together one last time to review the rules before reading off the team names.
Every year the names are almost as entertaining as the competition itself.
“I Swear This Is the Last Year I’m Doing This.”
“Space Jesus Take the Wheel.”
“The Dyslexic Agnostic Insomniacs (Who Climb All Night Thinking About Dog).”
Andy tried to keep a straight face.
“My Finger Doesn’t Feel Good in That Hole.”
His face turned bright red.
“Exposed Arete-tion.”
“Free Solo Repellers.”
“A Beer Counts as a Route.”
“Skydiving Is Expensive but I Can Skip Bolts for Free.”
The loudest applause, however, belonged to Leather and Lace. Now climbing in their sixth decade of life, they’d been competing at Horseshoe Hell since the very beginning.
Legends.
9:54 a.m.
Jeremy Collins stepped forward to lead the Climber’s Creed.
More than 250 competitors shouted the words together.
“I’ve got 99 problems, but 100 pitches ain’t one.”
“Partner…don’t freaking drop me.”
Then came my favorite line.
“We are lions in a field of lions.”
The final words had barely left everyone’s lips when the shotgun blasted across the ranch.
Instantly the crowd exploded in every direction.
Some sprinted.
Some jogged.
Some power-walked toward the cliffs carrying enough climbing gear to stock a small gym.
Within minutes, the campground emptied as every trail leading into the canyon filled with climbers chasing their first route.
I headed back to camp.
My first volunteer shift wouldn’t begin for several hours.
3:52 p.m.
Crag Team has one simple mission.
Keep climbers safe.
That sounds easy until you realize you’re monitoring people who have voluntarily decided climbing for 24 consecutive hours sounded like a great weekend activity.
We watched for dehydration.
Heat exhaustion.
Sleep deprivation.
Poor decisions.
The walkie-talkies certainly helped coordinate rescues and answer questions.
Mostly, though, they became an endless source of terrible jokes, random trivia, and speculation about where the professional climbers might be climbing.
Rumor spread quickly through Horseshoe Hell.
“Alex Honnold’s at Prophecy Wall.”
“No, somebody saw him hiking toward Titanic Boulder.”
“He’s already climbed twenty routes.”
Nobody really knew.
The gossip traveled faster than the climbers.
6:00 p.m.
I arrived at the backside of Titanic Boulder just in time to watch a competitor work through a beautiful traditional climbing route.
A familiar face wandered over.
Alex Honnold.
He casually asked if there was a good place nearby to water the trees.
I pointed toward a ledge and couldn’t resist.
“You get style points if you pee from up there.”
He laughed.
Just another climber enjoying the weekend.
6:47 p.m.
A few minutes later, Alex tied into Cradle of the Deep, a 5.12b.
Watching him climb felt almost unfair.
He floated upward with the effortless grace of a squirrel scampering up a tree, moving confidently across sections of sandstone where I couldn’t even identify usable handholds.
For perspective, a 5.12b sits roughly ten full Yosemite Decimal System grades above my hardest climb at the time.
It might as well have been magic.
Every movement looked calm, controlled, and completely deliberate. Even when his body stretched to its limit, he never appeared rushed or uncertain.
Then he reached the anchors.
Back on the ground, the world’s most famous climber did something wonderfully ordinary.
He pulled a package of Oreos from his backpack, ate a few, and offered the rest to anyone standing nearby.
Just another climber sharing snacks after a good route.
Moments like that remind you why climbing has such a special community.
8:08 p.m.
Darkness settled across Horseshoe Canyon Ranch.
From high on the trails, the canyon transformed into something magical.
Hundreds of headlamps drifted across the cliffs like stars slowly climbing toward the sky.
At night, a climber’s entire world shrinks to the circle of light cast by a headlamp.
Beyond that glow is darkness.
Your partner’s voice becomes your only connection to the ground below.
The western side of the canyon felt especially lonely.
I hiked from crag to crag checking on teams, offering water, sharing encouragement, and carrying five-gallon jugs farther than I cared to remember.
Sometimes all a tired climber needed was another human being stopping long enough to ask,
“How’s it going?”
10:00 p.m.
A horn echoed across the canyon.
Halfway.
Immediately a massive cheer erupted from every corner of Horseshoe Hell.
The North Forty transformed into a full-blown celebration.
Glow sticks clipped to quickdraws painted psychedelic streaks across the rock.
Music echoed through the trees.
Cold brew coffee and fresh pizza tasted like gifts from the climbing gods.
The energy was almost tangible.
It pulsed through the campground.
I considered checking out the new Bouldering in the Lights competition before deciding sleep sounded like the smarter choice.
As I walked back toward camp, one question lingered in my mind.
Why was there a couch in the middle of the woods?
At Horseshoe Hell, some questions are better left unanswered.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
2:45 a.m.
It felt like I had just fallen asleep.
Because I had.
Three hours earlier, I’d crawled into my sleeping bag convinced I’d sleep until noon. Instead, Tim, my faithful climbing partner and unofficial human alarm clock, gently nudged me awake for another volunteer shift.
The walk back into the canyon was quiet.
Neither of us had much to say.
3:51 a.m.
The canyon looked like something from Greek mythology.
Teams moved slowly up towering walls only to be lowered back to the ground and begin again.
It reminded me of souls condemned to an eternity of climbing.
Then I laughed.
That was exactly what was happening.
This was Horseshoe Hell.
5:38 a.m.
Every flat patch of ground had become a makeshift bedroom.
Exhausted climbers lay scattered beneath trees, curled beneath ropes, or sleeping directly on crash pads.
Around them, other teams continued climbing.
I spotted Baka and Bice from Tune Squad.
The last time I’d seen them was nearly 12 hours earlier.
“What route are you on now?” I asked.
“One twenty-two.”
I shook my head.
“I remember what you two looked like after 100 last year.”
They just smiled and tied in again.
6:12 a.m.
Why did I sign up for this?
It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question.
7:00 a.m.
Sunlight.
Suddenly the canyon looked alive again.
The headlamps disappeared.
Faces emerged from the darkness.
The zombies became climbers once more.
Only three hours remained.
Between 7:18 a.m. and 8:33 a.m.
Twenty-one hours earlier, everyone had raced from route to route with endless energy.
Now the pace had changed.
The teams that began the competition warming up on 5.10s were happily climbing 5.6s.
Nobody cared anymore.
The goal had shifted.
It wasn’t about climbing the hardest routes.
It was about finishing.
Some teams celebrated their 100th climb.
Others fought for every remaining route.
Every ascent became another small victory.
8:40 a.m.
Baxter and J.D. slowly worked their way up a traditional 5.6.
Their hands were raw, pink, and scraped nearly smooth after almost a full day on sandstone.
Nearby, another team clipped the anchors on their 100th route.
Just 12 hours earlier, they’d welcomed me back from the 12-Hour Hell with hugs and cheers.
Now I was cheering for them.
Watching climbers accomplish something they once thought impossible never gets old.
That’s what makes this community special.
8:54 a.m.
The Honey Badgers appeared.
Again.
Only this time one of them didn’t look so good.
“Logan,” I yelled. “Are you trying to kill David?”
No answer.
“Hey, Slay,” someone called. “Can you check his forehead?”
I reached over.
Warm.
Clammy.
Not great.
For a moment I seriously considered exercising my authority as a volunteer and pulling Team Honey Badger from the competition.
Then I remembered who owned the climbing gym.
I settled for encouraging water, food, and a little common sense.
Sometimes that’s all you can do.
9:00 a.m.
Another horn echoed across Horseshoe Canyon.
One hour remained.
One hour until scorecards were due.
One hour until the suffering ended.
One hour for just a few more climbs.
The North Forty had transformed into a ghost town of abandoned backpacks, lonely climbing shoes, and empty water bottles.
The climbers themselves looked like ghosts.
Dirty.
Sleep deprived.
Running almost entirely on determination.
Still, they tied in one more time.
9:45 a.m.
Two women with incredible hair clipped the anchors on their 100th route.
Their chalk-covered faces exploded into smiles.
The cheers echoed across the canyon.
Moments like that are why people keep coming back.
10:00 a.m.
BOOM!
The final shotgun blast thundered across Horseshoe Canyon Ranch.
The competition was over.
Climbers stumbled toward the Trading Post carrying ropes, gear, and 24 hours’ worth of exhaustion.
I made one last sweep through the canyon for trash before heading back myself.
Hell was officially over.
Later That Day
“Hey, Slay.”
“Wanna go climbing?”
“No.”
“I’m taking a nap.”
“…Actually, Carlos, bring me a beer.”
An IPA has never tasted so good.
Sleep, however, never happened.
Instead, Lauren, Cale, Carlos, and I climbed into my dirt-covered Honda Civic and drove to Kyle’s Landing on the Buffalo River.
The cold water washed away the sweat, the dust, the chigger bites, and about half the soreness we’d accumulated over the past two days.
It was exactly what we needed.
Saturday Evening
By dinner time, spaghetti replaced energy bars.
The awards had been handed out.
A chocolate stout found its way into my hand.
The after-party was in full swing.
Someone was shredding an imaginary guitar.
Spider-Man was somehow hanging from the Pavilion rafters.
Honestly, nobody questioned it.
I was relieved to learn the Honey Badgers had survived their 36-hour adventure intact, even if they’d worried me more than once.
As the music drifted through camp and conversations stretched late into the evening, I looked around at the climbers, volunteers, spectators, and friends who had once again turned a weekend of suffering into one of the most memorable gatherings in the climbing world.
Some people look at Horseshoe Hell and see nothing but exhaustion.
I see something different.
I see friendships strengthened through shared challenges.
I see strangers becoming teammates.
I see encouragement shouted from the ground to someone hanging 60 feet above it.
I see a community that celebrates every climber, whether they complete 25 routes or 225.
The climbing is what brings everyone together.
The people are what keep us coming back.
As we packed camp and prepared to head home, I looked over at Bruce.
“So,” I asked.
“When do you want to start training for next year’s Horseshoe Hell?”
He smiled.
Neither of us hesitated.
Because once you’ve survived Hell…
…you can’t wait to go back.
Editor’s Note (2026)
More than a decade later, Horseshoe Hell remains one of the country’s premier climbing festivals and endurance competitions, drawing climbers from around the world to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch in the Arkansas Ozarks. While routes, competitors, and costumes change from year to year, the spirit of the event remains exactly as Cris Slaymaker captured it in 2014: equal parts grit, laughter, community, and just enough insanity to keep climbers coming back year after year.
Thanks to Craig Wynn, Bruce Cash, and Paula Cigainero for all the photos.
This article was originally published on ArkansasOutside.com, your trusted source for outdoor news and updates in The Natural State. Unless otherwise credited, all photos included in this piece are the property of Arkansas Outside, LLC. We take pride in sharing the beauty and adventures of Arkansas through our lens—thank you for supporting our work!
