She Was the First to Climb and Jump the Bridger Jacks—But Never Wanted to Be the Last

When we consider our outdoor objectives, we rarely consider that one day, the rock won’t be there anymore. But in sandstone areas such as Moab, Utah, it happens: Whole towers fall down and climbs disappear overnight. And we lose these places not just to fate, but also to government agencies, who can shut them down to the public with just a few keystrokes if we’re not careful.

Utah’s public lands have been in headlines for as long as I’ve lived in the area. In 2017, President Trump announced a planned 85% reduction in the size of Bears Ears National Monument, which includes most of Indian Creek, the world’s crack climbing mecca. That spring, I spent my days riding my bike to Moab’s Wall Street crag with a couple six packs, learning to climb outside for the first time and trading beers for top rope belays. I soon assembled some climbing partners and a triple rack. It only took one trip to what climbers affectionately call “the Creek” to be completely hooked. For the next two years, my life revolved around camping and climbing there.

While rock climbing satisfied some innate need to get high up on places outdoors, there was still something missing. On any summit that I climbed, I always peered over the edge, envious of the birds soaring along the cliff. When I saw someone BASE jump in Moab for the first time, I immediately booked a skydiving course at the local airport. Within a year I reached 200 skydives, the number that’s generally recommended to start BASE jumping.

Most jumpers learn and train at the Perrine Bridge in Twin Falls, Idaho, the only legal bridge jump in the United States. After my first of three bridge trips to train, a skydive instructor and expert BASE jumper named Ryan Katchmar invited me to jump off my first cliff in Moab. When he landed next to me and gave me a hug, I felt something—and saw it in his eyes, too. Soon, Ryan and I were both off work and recreating full time because of Covid closures. As the world was getting back to normal in fall 2020, we decided to combine my climbing skills with his BASE jumping expertise by finding towers we could climb and jump together.

I had always considered the Bridger Jack towers to be the most stunning formation in all of Indian Creek. The crumbling rocks, creating six unique spires under 500 feet tall, had an ancient, mysterious quality to them. Ryan excelled at low BASE jumps under 200 feet; I asked him if he thought it was possible to climb and jump all six.

“Let’s see,” he said. “We’ll start with the shortest one.”

No. 1: Easter Island

Easter Island was rumored to be 120 feet tall. If a BASE jump is that short, jumpers tie off to an anchor with military-grade break cord designed to snap at 80 pounds. This anchored jump, called a static line jump, instantly pulls the parachute out of our packs. Usually, only the last jumper uses the anchor, and gives the first jumper, or jumpers, a Pilot Chute Assist (PCA) by holding the pilot chute and bridle for the same effect.

In the middle of climbing Easter Island, we unexpectedly met two of my Indian Creek climbing partners, brothers Josh and Joey Iosue. What are the odds I would run into them in the middle of a seldom-climbed tower? In fact, the first and last time I had climbed any of the Bridger Jacks was with them. Almost two years prior, Josh, Joey, and I had climbed King of Pain, the tallest of the Bridger Jacks.

“Wait for us before you jump,” Josh said. “I want to watch!”

On the summit after a reachy, sandy final pitch, Ryan leaned over the edge with a laser measurement device and pointed it to the ground.

“120 feet and clean!” he shouted. I knew what that meant: The jump goes! Josh and Joey sat on the summit to watch, and I kissed Ryan goodbye before stepping off my first Bridger Jack tower.

Visually, these lower jumps are full-value with an exciting ground rush. My breath caught in my throat as I started gaining speed. I felt the pins release and the parachute was inflated and above my head in an instant. BASE parachutes aren’t made for speed, but for getting the jumper out of trouble. Thus my descent was slow and peaceful, and I had time to take in the view as I soared above the talus.

Easter Island, I thought. Check. First one down!

No. 2: Sparkling Touch

Sparkling Touch was the next tallest Bridger Jack and we decided to climb it the next spring. I managed to keep it together during what the guidebook called a “devious” face climb. I found that I actually enjoyed the easy but scary moves to the summit. At the crag, I had always preferred the clean, straightforward crack climbing, but sketchy tower climbing was growing on me.

Springtime is always more windy in the desert. On this route, I learned that the rock formation exaggerated the wind as it tunneled through the notches between each tower. In BASE jumping, winds can cause off headings upon opening and create rotors over the top of cliffs that can cause your parachute to collapse. Think of strong winds like water over rocks; we had to navigate rapids of air.

Once I was flying away from the tower, turbulent air tossed me to the right. I stayed calm and focused on my landing area below. Upon turning into the wind to land, the strength of it slowed me down so much that I started moving backwards. I couldn’t see my feet with all the climbing gear stashed in front of me, but at least I was moving slowly. I tumbled onto the ground and then was dragged across it by my parachute, still flying overhead. And while staggering to my feet felt a bit awkward carrying 20 pounds of climbing gear, I managed to do so unscathed.

Sparkling Touch: Check. Two of six. 

The Clock Starts Now

Life got busy with two time-consuming construction projects: Ryan and I built a house with a local housing program and the next year I worked tirelessly on bringing a climbing gym to Moab. Before I knew it, it had been three years since we climbed and jumped a Bridger Jack tower. I would still habitually check the winds in Indian Creek, hoping to finish out my quest, but knowing the turbulent nature of the area, I dismissed any chance of jumping another tower if there was even light wind on the forecast. Maybe one cool, calm fall day, we would jump another one, but I was in no rush.

Two months after the climbing gym finally opened, I sat at the front desk and encouraged climbers to submit public comments on the Bears Ears Draft Management Plan that was released in March 2024. By now, President Biden had reinstated the Monument to its original size. I pored through the five alternative management plans and made careful comments about dispersed camping, climbing, and potential road closures. Between lines of policy recommendations, I gushed about how much I loved the region.

When the final plan was published in October 2024, I was a new and busy business owner, still sitting at the front desk of the climbing gym full time, while also working shifts at a fine dining restaurant in town. I was disappointed to read that the new plan limited dispersed camping and required a permit for climbers to drill new anchors. As I read more, I was shocked to read that the plan completely prohibited BASE jumping, paragliding, and highlining. In a dismissive tone, the next line provided the only explanation given: “very few visitors to the [Bears Ears] region participate in most of these activities….”

Despite reading through the draft plan earlier that spring, I had missed the two spots in fine print that the selected plan would ban BASE jumping. I wouldn’t have found it in the several-hundred page document without searching for keywords. Highlining was not even mentioned in the draft plan. No one from the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) had reached out to our communities to let us know that a potential ban was being considered, nor invited us to comment or share our perspective.

I scoured the document for more explanations. The Bears Ears Commission found these activities “inconsistent with the protection of [Bears Ears] objects and the Bears Ears cultural landscape” but didn’t go into detail about how or why. The proposed ban had nothing to do with BASE jumpers’ safety, and there was no record that our activities had a negative impact there. While I understood and shared the local Tribes’ desire to protect Bears Ears National Monument, BASE jumping, paragliding, and highlining had little to no impact on the land—not any more than climbing did, anyway. Why should one user group maintain access and not others?

I had to do something. When the BLM files a final management plan, only those who have commented on the previous draft plan are able to file a protest. I was also getting married in a month, so in between wedding plans, I reached out to the newly formed BASE Access for help with my protest. In a former life, I was a paralegal, and with their attorney’s help, we crafted a response I felt very proud to sign.

If this new plan was adopted, the next generation of climbers would have to navigate a permit system for new climbs, but BASE jumpers would never get a chance to jump in Indian Creek at all. Climbers were a huge, obvious user group with national organizations who had rallied in support of Bears Ears. I had even helped Access Fund create media in Indian Creek to promote its reinstatement. But smaller user groups—the highliners and parachutists—weren’t just forgotten or left out of the process, but completely eliminated as stakeholders. I felt betrayed by the federal land managers—who had successfully recruited climbers, but not BASE jumpers or other niche athletes, to advocate for their sport in discussions with the Tribes. Within a few days, I created an online petition to attach to my protest and over the next four weeks, over 1,100 individuals signed it, including hundreds of climbers.

The protest and petition were submitted in early November, just as friends and family started pouring into town for my wedding. One of them was Josh, my old climbing partner who had climbed King of Pain and Easter Island with me.

“Watching you become a BASE jumper in such a short period of time was inspiring,” he’d told me right after he started skydiving. We met for a morning BASE jump and while we hiked up, he shared with me stories from the last couple years of climbing and jumping all over the country. Soon, we were sitting on tailgates in the parking lot, and the conversation turned towards the proposed BASE jumping ban.

“Guess I won’t be able to climb and jump all the Bridger Jacks,” I said with a shrug.

Josh did not accept this, but instead offered an encouraging smile. “I think we’ve got to start checking off the rest of those towers,” he said.

It would be a rush to the finish line. If we could somehow climb and jump all the Bridger Jacks before the ban went into effect we’d be the first to ever experience that—and maybe the last. With Josh and Ryan, I thought it might just be possible. I knew I would forever regret not giving it a chance.

I smiled back at him and agreed to try.

No. 3: Sunflower Tower

Five days after the wedding, once the family had left town and the house was clean of decorations and leftovers, Ryan, Josh, and I headed to the Creek to climb and jump Sunflower Tower. It was taller than our first two towers, but as we looked up at it, doubt filled us.

“Are you sure this goes?” Josh asked. The tower’s face was ledgy, and I wasn’t sure we would find a jumping-off spot that dropped clear to the ground. We hiked slowly around the base, studying the outcrops of rock.

Tower climbing goes best with a team that has a rhythm down: quick anchor changes, rope management habits, and a clear hauling plan. Ryan and I hadn’t climbed a tower together in a couple years, and I was worried it would take several hours to get to the top, but with Josh on board, the three-pitch route went as smooth as can be. My lead had me shimmying horizontally right off the belay, through a chimney just slightly narrower than the length of my legs. I thought I’d feel awkward after so many hours sitting behind the front desk, but the moment my hands were in a splitter, I felt at home.

The summit was sloped, sandy, and awkwardly small with three people on top gearing up. Ryan succeeded in finding the cleanest spot to jump—off a sandy, uneven edge that avoided all the ledges off the south corner. It had been a long time since I strayed from the clean, flat summits closer to Moab. I was nervous to even look over the edge, but I took a breath and pushed off.

As soon as I was in the air, I realized it was just another BASE jump. By now, I had done over 800 jumps and was no longer a beginner. I was relieved but not surprised when I was safely under canopy, flying towards my vehicle and away from the cliff wall. I looked behind me to see two small figures on the top of the tower. Soon, those small figures were landing safely, completing this serendipitous circle of climbing partners becoming jumping partners in the Bridger Jacks.

Sunflower Tower: Check. Halfway there!

No. 4: Hummingbird Spire

Next up was Hummingbird Spire, known for being the most dangerous of all the Bridger Jacks. Since its first ascent, two major accidents had occurred involving large blocks dislodging onto climbers. Commenters on Mountain Project called it true adventure climbing. No one had ever hauled three BASE rigs to the top.

I led the alternative 5.12 start called Egg Drop Soup which was supposed to avoid the worst of the choss. As soon as the team made it to the notch between the two largest towers, however, we had to navigate a mess of large, loose death blocks.

I climbed through, around, and on top of the large loose blocks, terrified and full of anxiety. In the notch and out of the sun, it was icy cold. After hauling and downclimbing to the final pitch, I belayed Josh on an overhanging hand crack while my hands quickly turned numb. We hadn’t prepared for the first real cold day of the year, and it was hard to climb with frozen fingers and toes.

The final stretch to the summit was 30 feet of steep but not quite vertical scrambling over loose, microwave-sized rocks. When Josh and I got there, we still had no plan on how to safely haul our rigs. I worried about killing my new husband by dislodging one of the rocks, so I waited till Ryan climbed to the lip of the overhang before I started hauling. He stayed one move ahead of them through the gully and helped me pull them over the worst of it.

I could not wait to get off this tower.

“I hate rock climbing,” Ryan said. “I’m selling all my cams when I get home.”

I tried to relate. “To be fair, I like rock climbing and today still sucks.”

When I BASE jumped off the top, it was my first time feeling safe in hours. My canopy flight was incredible, with the sun peeking through each notch in the towers as I flew by in the height of golden hour. Turbulence knocked me around slightly as the wind ripped through the spaces between them.

I nearly kissed the ground on landing. After our endless problem solving, hauling, and careful climbing around the choss, it was nearly sunset. We had left home at sunrise.

Hummingbird Spire: Check. Two more towers to go. 

No. 5: King of Pain

Once we got back to the car, Josh turned to me. “So, Britt, Vision Quest tomorrow?” Our route up King of Pain would be the same route we had climbed together five years prior.

What a psychopath, I thought. I was still so cold. My body felt wrecked. But the weather looked good—a rarity in Indian Creek.

“Sure,” I agreed, without enthusiasm.

“You want to do that again? Tomorrow!?” Ryan was definitely over it. He had already jumped King of Pain years ago via a helicopter ride to the top.

But King of Pain, the tallest of the Bridger Jacks, was particularly important to Josh and me. More than five years ago, before we could BASE jump at all, we had climbed this tower together. Josh was sentimental too, so as we hiked up the next day, we reflected on all it took to get there.

Jumping off towers is a culmination of years of skill building: For me, those years included thousands of pitches climbing, hundreds of skydives, bridge trips, and laps jumping off less technical exits; not to mention the thousands of hours worked at restaurants just to purchase cams, ropes, skydives, a skydive rig, and BASE rigs.

All that, just to climb to the top of a tower and jump off. No wonder there were so few of us jumping them.

We started up the four-pitch route, Vision Quest (5.10+), famous for its mandatory run outs and burly wide climbing. We were ready for stuck bags and heinous hauls, but surprisingly made it to the top without either. We knew there was wind in the forecast for the afternoon, so we were climbing and hauling quickly.

At the summit, I was buzzing with anticipation. It had been a while since I felt such an intrinsic longing to jump off something. I looked down and felt watched by the smaller, surrounding towers. We were shocked and lucky there was still no wind; it felt as if the Creek was gifting us this tranquil, sunny day.

Five years ago, I had to calm my desire to jump off. Now I got to give in.

“I’m going for it,” I said. Deep breath. “Three. Two. One.”

When I jump, I always feel light for just a moment before gravity begins to pull me towards the earth. The cliff face falls out behind me as I accelerate. The wind rushes loudly in my ears.

Freefall after two long days of tower climbing—that feeling of absolute freedom, of belonging in the place where humans have long strived to be, soaring through the air and living to do it again—felt extra glorious that day.

I threw my pilot chute and the parachute opened, jolting me out of my peaceful fall. I turned to fly past all the towers we had jumped, with just one more to go.

After landing, I cried in celebration. While it wasn’t the final tower, it was the one that meant the most to me. I stood on the ground, toggles still in my hands, and looked up in awe and amazement with tears in my eyes.

King of Pain: Check. One more to go.

No. 6: Thumbelina

We weren’t the only user group sneaking in Bridger Jack missions before the proposed ban. That November weekend, my friend and climbing partner Faith Dickey rigged the highline between King of Pain and the Bridger Jack butte. It was the first time an all-female group had rigged the iconic line—and thanks to the impending ban on highlining, it would likely be the last.

That December, I walked around with the knowledge that any day now, the BLM’s Record of Decision would be published and potentially ban jumping in Indian Creek. So one cold morning, the three of us, including Ryan, woke up early and started driving south. Frost permeated the windows. The taluses were dusted with snow.

Thumbelina, was just one pitch—an exposed face climb. It was the quickest tower to climb by far. Our systems were dialed by now. The looming ban meant the end of something, and I could feel it as I climbed the last tower.

We reached a flat, comfortable summit, perfect for stashing our climbing gear, and geared up to jump.

I took time to write in the summit register and look out on the magical Indian Creek.

Behind us was a road I had dirt biked earlier that year, heading behind the towers and into a new canyon. I thought I knew the Creek like the back of my bloodied, taped-up hand, but on that dirt bike ride, I looked out on new cliffs and features that were unrecognizable to me.

I reflected on Thumbelina’s summit: This is why I chose to live in Moab. There was always more to explore here and new ways to experience and learn from the desert.

On each Bridger Jack jump, I went first, and this last tower was no exception. I turned my camera on, the footage more than just mementos for me, but a way to record what will soon be closed. Once my parachute was open, I created a half twist in my lines so that I could face them as I flew away. As always, the line of towers was stunning as I watched them from the sky—this time, I knew, for the last time.

Thumbelina: Check. 

Six out of six.

The Last Descent

It’s hard to put into words that feeling when you realize a dream. When all the hard work and fun is over, it’s almost bittersweet. In a way, I was thankful for the looming ban. Without it, those towers would still be on my to-do list instead of in my log book.

I was the first to climb and BASE jump off all the Bridger Jacks, but just a few days after me, Josh caught up on his last two towers. The dream team officially completed our mission, but it was more than just a personal thrill or an impulse to conquer the towers. My desire to jump in the Creek is not that far off from the Bears Ears Commission and BLM’s desire to protect it—it comes from a deep love for the land. I soon sat down to document our story, hoping to preserve those jumps like the photographers who raced to capture Hetch Hetchy before it disappeared beneath the reservoir.

A month after, in January 2025, the Record of Decision was filed. Despite my protest, it permanently banned all BASE jumping, paragliding, and highlining in all of Bears Ears National Monument. Those of us who spoke up—and maybe too late—were devastated. I felt small in my little desert town, so far away from decision-makers and people in power.

Bears Ears National Monument is in the headlines again, along with other wild places that we may see defunded, sold to private companies, or otherwise cut off from climbing access. Speaking up might seem futile, but it gives me peace to know I fought to preserve access for a sport that I love. I’m sharing this story too late to change the outcome in Indian Creek, but there’s still time for anyone who loves the outdoors to organize and be successful. If you love a place, show up for it however you can.

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