High on the granite walls of the Stawamus Chief, tucked deep in a cirque ominously known as the Uncrackables, a slender shadow curls upward—a groove in the rock shaped unmistakably like a rearing cobra. For decades, climbers arrived beneath that silhouette to test themselves against a line that seemed almost too thin, too steep, too unforgiving to be real. They came drawn by a simple promise whispered through the climbing world: This crack will tell you exactly who you are.

The story began in 1981, when Canadian climbers Peter Croft and Tami Knight first ventured up the route. Back then, Cobra Crack was an aid line, graded A2, its smooth granite walls far too blank for free climbing. They hammered in gear, pulled skyward, and gave the route a name inspired by the rock’s serpentine shape. The climb slept for a while after that—an oddity in the forest, waiting.

As the new millennium dawned, whispers of its potential returned. Could anyone climb it freely? The crack was not just thin; it was vicious—barely wide enough for a single finger, widening just enough to tempt a climber upward before tightening again. Its surface was so abrasive that most attempts ended with torn skin and days of recovery. But its allure was undeniable, and soon the world’s strongest crack specialists began to circle.

In 2005, Swiss climber Didier Berthod arrived with quiet determination and extraordinary skill. His attempts were powerful, emotional, and ultimately heartbreaking. Midway through his campaign, a crippling knee injury ended his hopes. His struggle—raw, human, and unforgettable—was captured in a climbing film that made him known far beyond the granite walls of Squamish. Soon after, Berthod walked away from climbing entirely, choosing a life of spiritual reflection over the pursuit that had once defined him.

The cobra waited.

A year later, Canadian climber Sonnie Trotter stepped up to the challenge. Over three years, he threw himself at the crack forty times. Each attempt demanded not just strength but an almost alarming tolerance for pain. Midway up, the crack steepened into a 45-degree overhang, forcing the leader to jam a single middle finger into a tiny undercut pocket, an act more akin to self-inflicted torture than athletic movement. Higher still, the technical crux required momentum, precision, and absolute trust in gear far below. When Trotter finally pulled over the lip in June 2006, he had not only made the first free ascent, he had redefined what a traditional crack climb could be. Trotter on Cobra Crack:

Climbers soon began to sign a wooden fingerboard dangling at the base of the wall, a quietly triumphant “Earlmarker” recognizing those who had earned the ascent. The list grew, slowly, as the climbing world absorbed the truth: Cobra Crack was not just another testpiece. It was something special—one of the hardest crack climbs ever completed, a line of pure difficulty and improbable beauty.

Years passed. The route’s aura remained.

Then, in 2023, after more than a decade away, Didier Berthod returned to Squamish. Older, calmer, and guided by different goals, he surprised the community by completing another legendary project—a climb even harder than Cobra Crack. The following spring he returned once more, this time to face the serpent that had changed the course of his life. In 2024, he claimed the 20th ascent of Cobra Crack, closing a personal circle nearly twenty years wide.

Today, the line still commands respect. Climbers speak about its brutal finger-locks, its dramatic movement, its unlikely pathway through stone. They talk about the pain—always the pain—and the uncanny beauty of the climb that continues to draw the best in the world. Two decades after its first free ascent, Cobra Crack remains one of the hardest traditional climbs on Earth.

But beyond the grade, beyond the fame, its true power lives in the stories etched into the rock—stories of devotion, heartbreak, persistence, and transformation. The cobra still waits on the granite wall, demanding honesty from everyone who steps beneath its shadow. And for those willing to try, it offers something rare: a chance to meet themselves, move by painful move, all the way to the top.

Whippers