The Story Behind the Siege: Alex Johnson’s Decade-Long Battle With the Swarm
The first time I hiked up to The Swarm was February 10, 2011. I had absolutely no knowledge of the boulder and zero expectations. I didn’t even know what it looked like. I was on a lengthy solo trip to the bouldering mecca of Bishop, California, and went out climbing that day with Kilian Fischhuber, Nalle Hukkataival, and Anna Stohr. The boys were raring to go on what they referred to as a legendary crimp line, and I figured I was pretty good at crimps. Why not tag along?
Walking up to the Secrets of the Beehive area for the first time took my breath away. A massive boulder perched at the edge of the world, hardly dwarfed by the snow-capped peaks of Humphreys, Basin, and Tom beyond. A single line of miniscule crimps, edges as thin and sharp as broken glass, perfectly spaced for long pulls, trended up and right on an otherwise blank overhanging face, and ended with a competition-style glory jug. The footholds were tiny, hardly identifiable, and the texture of marble. A perfectly sequential set of holds—and only one way up. Just barely enough usable surface existed for a climb to be possible. It was one of the most beautiful, impressive lines I’d ever seen. Although I considered it to be out of my league, something ignited within me, and my long, tumultuous relationship with The Swarm began.
From then on that climb stayed in my mind, there no matter where I was or what I was doing.
After spending most of both 2011 and 2012 focused on World Cups, I traveled to Europe in the fall of 2013 on an eight-week bouldering trip. Climbing outside every day, I felt my technique sharpen and my finger strength increase. Something in me started to pull back toward home. By the end of the trip, all I could think about was Bishop and The Swarm.
Leaving Europe, I landed Stateside and took a few days at home in Wisconsin with my family working to insulate my tiny 12-foot travel camper—my home in Bishop for the next several months. My brother and I hit the road for the 26-hour journey West. On the drive out I made a subtle post on my Instagram that I might be trying the climb. I didn’t say, “I’m going to try The Swarm, for serious.” I just put out a photo of the boulder, and a caption that began with the John Muir quote, “And I must go…” and closed with “sights set high. Bring it on.” I was apprehensive about going public because it was so uncommon. Most climbers will only talk about a climb after they’ve completed it. Yet at the same time I wanted to tell the story of what it was truly like projecting at your limit. So often all we see is the victory celebration, yet I find the blood, the grit, the screams of effort along the way far more interesting. Of course, there was the chance I wouldn’t be able to finish it, would fail and be embarrassed. In the end, I decided to go for it, and the catchy hashtag #SiegingTheSwarm popped into my head one day, so that’s what stuck.
Those first few days working the climb in early 2014 felt so promising. My brother, Patrick, took his winter break from college to accompany me. He’s four years younger than I am, and not a climber. It was such a cool experience having him there, out in the boulder field under the Sierra. He got to see what my lifestyle was like—at age 25, living on the road with my dog, hanging out in the mountains. He schlepped pads, brushed holds, cheered, pushed “record” on my little camera. On rest days we went fishing. It seemed like the perfect environment for success; maybe a story of sibling bonding would arise if I sent.
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