My Son Balin Miller Believed He Could Be One of His Generation’s Great Alpinists. With Such Ambition Comes Great Risk.
Every January, we share a tribute to members of our community who we lost last year. Some were legends, others were pillars of their community, all were climbers. Read the full tribute to Climbers We Lost in 2025 here.
Balin Miller, 23, October 1
A loud, brash voice echoed in the entryway: “Mom, can I go climbing?”
To which I responded, “Where and with whom do you want to climb?”
Balin replied, “Just along the Seward Highway—and I’m not climbing alone.”
“But it’s shitty weather,” I said.
The wind whipped at the windows and whistled through the small cracks in the tired weatherstripping framing the front door. Wooden chimes drummed against the window, as high gusts of wind pulled in falling snow and whirled it back out into the dark night.
Balin continued, “To be fair, it’s not my first time climbing at night in winter.”
I rambled through my monologue of fear factors, then asked, “Do you have any schoolwork?”
Balin piped up in a dramatic tone, “Mom, calm down. I’ll be okay, and my homework is good.”
The Seward Highway is tightly shouldered by the turbulent Cook Inlet on one side and a vertical grade of rock on the other. The area where Balin wanted to climb sat within 40 minutes of the house and served as a common getaway cragging spot for him and other climbers.
Due to the geographical landscape, there were not many places to pull off and park. However, local climbers always found a safe pocket to wedge their car, and within a few feet of their vehicle, could start their ascent. Though I’m not a climber myself, the climbing didn’t seem great due to scars in the rock from dynamite. But the short drive and location made it appealing.
In Balin’s early teens, his passion for the sport of climbing gained traction and really took off once he could drive himself around. In high school, he worked at Alaska Rock Gym, where he taught youth climbing classes. During this time, he became so skilled that he could lead water ice pitches with his dad. He called it “tickling the ice,” and before long, he was traveling far and wide in search of the steepest, most technical frozen waterfalls he could find.
His dad liked to say that while he may have shown Balin “the ropes,” he—much like Einstein’s grade-school teacher—had simply introduced a genius to the tools he would soon master far beyond him.
Balin relished anything related to climbing and loved guiding others as they learned the sport. He taught his younger sister, Mia Moorman, how to climb before she was in elementary school, later taking her to get her first pair of climbing shoes. He was also extremely close to his older brother, Dylan Miller, who shared the same passion for climbing. The two were inseparable and even shared a room from toddlerhood into adulthood while attending Montana State University in Bozeman.
Not only was Balin an exceptional climber, he also had an exceptional ability in math and physics. He enjoyed the sciences and studying how the physical world worked. Until he realized his career path would land him suspended in a 9-to-5 job, he had been studying to become an environmental engineer.
Dylan perfectly captured his brother’s personality in this excerpt from something he wrote previously:
“Balin had a magnetic presence—goofy, quick-witted, and utterly unforgettable. A one-of-a-kind sense of humor, unlike anyone else. His laughter could fill any room, and his playful spirit left us with thoughts to ponder.”
When I remember my son Balin’s laugh, it makes me think of glittering rays of sun and sparkling effervescence. I have a particularly fond memory from a Walmart parking lot in Idaho. He was wearing his iconic bright orange vest. He jumped audaciously into a grocery cart, yelling to Mia, “Push me!” He was 21, and she was 13. Both acted so happily chaotic and giggled whenever Mia cut the corners tight.
I remember another day while sitting and drinking coffee at Kaladi Brothers in Anchorage with Balin. He shared a dream to become one of the greatest alpinists of his generation. He was 18 years old at the time. I knew he meant what he said, and it scared me, because that kind of ambition comes with great risk. His words lingered in my thoughts for a few moments, then sank to my stomach like a heavy hammer.
I knew at that moment that this passion of his was more than a phase or a hobby—it ran deep into his soul and was overflowing. One part of me was proud of how good he was; the other part wanted him to walk away from these ideas of greatness. I may never fully understand the why, but I understood the how—how it made him feel: alive, happy, and free.
Balin’s very last ascent of Sea of Dreams was a magnificent feat to accomplish solo. He made the summit in six days with perfection. Unbeknownst to Balin, crowds of people had been watching his six-day journey, cheering wildly as he reached the summit. He had no idea about the people watching 3,000 feet below, or the thousands of viewers on TikTok as a stranger livestreamed his—and other El Cap climbers’—ascents.
Since none of those strangers watching knew who he was, his only identification was the orange tent he slept in on the wall. This had earned him the name “Orange Tent Guy.”
In his short yet vibrant life, Balin completed what his brother estimates to be nearly 500 climbs, many of them documented on Mountain Project. He was known for free-soloing difficult routes, but his most remarkable achievements were the climbs he became the first in history to solo: Reality Bath on White Pyramid, The French Connection on Mount Hunter, and The Slovak Direct on Denali.
Balin believed that every young person with the desire to climb should have the opportunity to do so. Thus, I have created the Balin Scott Miller Foundation. The foundation’s mission is to provide grants for essential climbing gear to children, teens, and young adults.
Last February, prior to Balin’s passing, I also established VIRR Get Outdoors, which creates designs inspired by photos from my sons’ adventures—like Balin’s solo of Reality Bath—to raise money for kids who can’t afford shoes for climbing or other sports. Behind every design is a real story. Now, a portion of the profits from VIRR will go toward the Balin Scott Miller Foundation.
Connect with us at @orangetentguy.us and Balinscottmillerfoundation.org.
Read the full tribute to Climbers We Lost in 2025 here.
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