Balin Miller Led a Generation of Alpinists in His Brief, Brilliant Life

In mid-June of this past summer, I happened to be working out of Talkeetna, performing maintenance on seismic stations for the Alaska Earthquake Center. We had perfect, crystal-clear weather on the helicopter flight in, and I found myself staring out its window at the 9,000-foot south face of Denali. I knew that somewhere up there, Balin was alone. He was soloing the Slovak Direct.

In that moment, while I marveled at both the beauty of Denali and the audacity of my young friend, I realized we had transcended the competitive nature and petty jealousy that plagues so many young climbing partnerships. I wasn’t envious of his position; I was just amazed. I was proud. But I was also nervous: It is a brave act to love someone who partakes in the practice of high-end solo climbing.

I tried to explain the feat to my pilot, but my words felt empty. There was a weight to Balin’s aspirations; he was pushing the envelope of Alaskan alpinism a step further, and part of me worried about him. While offering my explanation of the significance of soloing the Slovak Direct—a route with difficulties up to AI6, M6, and A2 which had never been even attempted solo—it was painfully apparent that cutting-edge alpinism is an abstract and strange art form to an outsider’s perspective. I would need to keep my pride to myself.

I met Balin in January of 2022 at the Spire Climbing Gym in Bozeman. He was there with his closest friend at the time, Noah Burke. Balin and Noah cut their teeth together while high schoolers in Anchorage, climbing most of the classic rock and ice routes in Hatcher Pass and along the Seward Highway—even putting up new routes together as teenagers. Their climbing interests slowly diverged, with Balin pursuing high-end alpinism and Noah quietly sport climbing harder than any other born-and-raised Alaskan ever has. However, the bond they formed as psyched young teenagers was formidable, and they remained close friends, despite Noah, like many others, finding Balin impetuous and obnoxious at times. Balin was a very honest person, who said what was on his mind, even when it would be more appropriate to keep those thoughts to himself. But then again, that trait makes for an excellent and communicative partner in the mountains.

As I remember it, within about 10 seconds of our first conversation beginning, Balin had proposed that we go and climb Mt. Huntington together. We flew into Huntington with Frankie Dunbar a few months later. After a couple of weeks, Frankie got tired of waiting for weather to clear as well as arguing with the petulant 20-year-old Balin, and he left. Balin had a knack for challenging others’ opinions leading to many raucous debates. I enjoyed this aspect of Balin greatly as I have similar propensities, but occasionally others felt disrespected by Balin’s irreverence. Balin and I then summited Huntington via the Harvard Route (WI3 M6 C1; 4,000ft) several days later—our first of many summits together.

In the years between Huntington and the Slovak, I watched him grow from a kid—nearly five years my junior—into an adult who was becoming more and more comfortable with who he was. He was not without his struggles; at times, it was difficult for him to motivate to simply get out of bed in the morning. Though he rarely misdirected those struggles at others, the mountains were his outlet, and they alleviated his torment well. In his last year, he seemed to have, at least partially, overcome some of these struggles. It was a joy to watch him attempt to carve his own path through life as he gained attention and notoriety for his climbing feats.

In his final year, Balin was unstoppable. It began with a solo of South Seas (A3+; 2,500ft) on El Capitan, followed by the Ragni Route (WI5+ M4; 3,000ft) on Cerro Torre and Exocet (WI5+ M5; 1,600ft) on Aguja Standhardt with me in Patagonia. The momentum built rapidly: he soloed the Californiana (5.10c; 2,300ft) on Cerro Chaltén/ Fitz Roy, then Virtual Reality (WI6) in the Canadian Rockies, and completed the first solo (and long-awaited second ascent) of the storied Reality Bath (WI5/6). After a brief reset, he returned to the Alaska Range for Deprivation and a free solo of the French Connection on Begguya, both graded AI6 M6 and gain 6,500 feet from ‘schrund to summit. True to form, he stirred the pot by claiming the “first proper solo” of the North Buttress, only to relent out of respect when Colin Haley pushed back. He topped it all with the Slovak Direct, free soloing everything but the rock crux. His final climb was one last El Cap solo on Sea of Dreams (A4).

But for all his drive, those close to him knew Balin could also be frustratingly unmotivated. Last July, fresh off that massive solo of the Slovak Direct and a subsequent short crabbing season on the Seward Peninsula with his friend Atticus Rosen, Balin arrived in Anchorage to find me, Julie Costa, and Tristan O’Donoghue psyched for a 4th of July trip to the Hotel Glacier in the Hayes Range.

Balin was cooked. He had already spent 53 days of his summer on a glacier and wanted nothing to do with it. He offered up the perfect excuse: his gear was locked in a Conex container owned by his father, who had conveniently just left for California with the key. Not to mention, Balin’s crabbing season was cut short and he couldn’t feasibly afford the trip if he wanted to go. Case closed, trip canceled. What he didn’t account for, however, is that Julie Costa is the single most generous human being I have ever met. She called his bluff, paid his heli share, and fully outfitted him in brand-new gear the day before we flew. We essentially forced him into yet another stint on an Alaskan glacier.

Of course, once we were there, he became more and more psyched. While Tristan and I climbed our unfinished project from a few years ago on the Stimulation Wall, Balin and Julie began establishing a splitter modern free climb on a feature we dubbed Relaxation Spire. He went from making excuses to putting up a first ascent in 24 hours. Lucky for me, they were moving slowly and I got to go finish the route with them the following day, which is one of the finest rock climbs any of us have done in the State of Alaska.

Balin had only recently cemented himself as a world-class climber, but he was innately a world-class shit-talker. He was irreverent and quick to point out others’ inconsistencies, especially in their climbing. Though he understood it was hard to measure up to the standard he set, so he would forgive just as quickly. His ego was big at times, but his heart was always much, much bigger. There are countless friends and family who will miss the lively conversation that Balin would consistently bring about.

While he will forever be remembered for his bold solos, I and many others will remember him for the climbs and experiences we got to share together. One such memory is standing on the summit of Cerro Torre with Balin and Chris Labosky after opening the Ragni Route for the season. We had a tumultuous journey getting there—at times we were certain we would bail—but wise words from the guidebook author Rolando Garibotti and an optimistic forecast kept us on course.

Chris and I cried on the summit; it was the most emotional I’ve ever felt in the mountains. On our 30-mile hike out we had no food, but I had a lot of time to ponder the question: Why was I crying up there? I couldn’t come up with a good answer. When Balin passed, I thought back to that question and it began to be clear. Chris and I had an innate understanding that moments like climbing Cerro Torre are rare and fleeting. They can define a climbing career. But it makes sense to me now that Balin didn’t cry: I think he was built to experience those types of moments constantly, while the rest of us just watched in awe.

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