It’s a muggy friday morning in the Ozarks. A leanly muscled man in cowboy boots, denim short-shorts, and a tank top that looks painted on is standing in the bed of a parked pickup, addressing a crowd of hundreds. 鈥淚t鈥檚 hot, guys. It鈥檚 really hot,鈥� he says, using a microphone plugged into a beefy PA system. 鈥淲hat do we need to be doing today?鈥�

鈥淗ydrating!鈥� the crowd answers. 鈥淏eer!鈥� someone yells.

Around him, there are nearly 300 rock climbers in costumed pairs: spandex stars-and-stripes wrestling singlets here, Kiss-颅inspired makeup and wigs there. A sweaty, oddly matched duo stands nearby, one in a Big Bird outfit and the other in a plush shark costume. The man in the pickup starts calling out the name that each team has chosen for itself. Dirty climbing puns predominate: Lichen Those Jugs So I Slab That Ass, Wham Bam Hand Jam, Tell Your Sister Thanks for the Loose Belay.

A reference to 鈥檚 recent gear troubles鈥擠oes Make My Rack Look Small?鈥攇ets a big laugh. So do Climb a Wall and Make Mexico Pay for It and First Auto-Belay Ascent of the Dawn Wall.

Every September, climbers from across the country gather here, at the 鈥攁 private dude operation in northern Arkansas that also happens to be home to more than 400 estab颅lished routes鈥攆or what has to be rock climbing鈥檚 wildest competition. The man with the mic is , the event鈥檚 39-year-old founder. In a few minutes, the 11th annual will begin.

From 10 a.m. today to 10 a.m. tomorrow, two-person teams will climb nonstop鈥攐r as close to nonstop as they can manage鈥斅璻acking up points for each route they complete. To be considered official finishers, each climber will have to send at least one route per hour; to automatically qualify for next year, each will have to do 100. Some teams will climb hundreds of pitches.

Chasteen hands the mic to another guy, , known around here as 颅Gordo the Great. He鈥檚 more animated鈥攁 per颅former, vibrating with energy. 鈥淲hat is up, you beautiful disgusting people?鈥� he yells. 颅Nearby, a smoke machine comes to life. 鈥淕et with your partner,鈥� Gordo says. 鈥淵ou know what鈥檚 happening now.鈥� He orders the crowd to repeat after him.

鈥�Partner!鈥� he yells. 鈥淧artner!鈥� the crowd answers.

鈥淩ise and grind, the hour is upon us!鈥� he says. 鈥淭he sun rises in the east!鈥� In fact, the sun is already well above the canyon wall, beating down. The temperature is nearly 80 and going up. 鈥淣ow we rise on walls of stone,鈥� Gordo continues, striking a warrior pose. 鈥淣ow we send till cows come home.鈥�

鈥淕ive me 24 hours of ample belay. Give me 24 hours of heaven on earth. Give me 24 hours of hell!鈥�

His voice rises in聽volume and 颅dramatic effect, building to a finale. 鈥淭oday we climb for glory.鈥� When the sun rises again tomorrow, we arise like zombies from the bowels of night. We are lions in a field of lions. Let鈥檚 go!鈥�

On 鈥済o,鈥� someone fires a shotgun and the climbers scatter. Most run across the ranch鈥檚 main gravel road and up a long open slope to a wooded area known as the North 40, a densely developed crag that hosts more than 120 routes, each just a few feet from the next. Others head down to the valley bottom and up again to the canyon鈥檚 East Side routes. AC/DC鈥檚 鈥淭hunderstruck鈥� pours out of the speakers. The hottest Hell yet is under way.

鈥檚 third Horseshoe Hell聽has not started auspiciously. He and his partner, , began their day on the East Side, hoping to knock out a few harder routes while they were still fresh. But things didn鈥檛 go as planned. The sun lit up the rock, and Bennett, with sweat dripping into his eyes, took a couple of falls on a climb that was well within his ability. At one point, a climber just a few feet away disturbed a hornet鈥檚 nest. As the hornets boiled out, Bennett abandoned a draw and leapt off the wall, dropping away just in time, while the angry insects laid into the other man. Now, in the early afternoon, Bennett and Scarpella have crossed the canyon to climb on the edge of the North 40, in the shade, in an area known as the .

Horseshoe Canyon is (no surprise) horseshoe shaped. It sits in northern Arkansas, near the Ozark National Forest, east of Fayetteville, and not too far south of the Missouri state line. It鈥檚 reachable via a narrow and winding stretch of Arkansas State Highway 74鈥攆rom there a rough gravel road leads through a gap in the walls and down onto a grassy canyon floor.

On both sides of the valley, the floor curves up into wooded hills capped by knobby cliffs. Originally, the bare rock walls that line the ranch were beside the point. The owners who purchased the property in 1994 intended to open a typical dude ranch. But by the late nineties, as climbers began to develop the spot鈥攁 few locals had been hopping the fence to climb illicitly throughout the eighties鈥攖he owners hired people to start bolting routes. Today the ranch is home to more than 400 climbs alongside more than 100 boulder problems. Climbers can pay for day use or to camp out.

Horseshoe Hell is the ranch鈥檚 marquee climbing weekend, and Bennett and Scarpella, who go by the team name Cumbre o Muerte鈥擲ummit or Death鈥攁re the defend颅ing champions in the 24-hour competition. Both are sponsored Scarpa athletes; back home in the Denver area, they climb 颅together often. Both are 31 and have been at it for about a decade. They showed up here in 2014 just to experience the event and get the lay of the land, but they came back in 2015 to win it.

This year they鈥檙e looking for a new challenge. The day before the 24-hour Hell begins, there鈥檚 a 12-hour competition. Participating in this phase can be a way for climbers to try a slightly less extreme endurance challenge, and it also serves as a qualifier for the 24. Bennett and Scarpella want to become the first team to win both the 12- and 24-hour competitions in the same year. Yesterday they climbed in the punishing sun for 12 hours straight. But as Bennett had pointed out then, 鈥淚t鈥檚 so hard to thread the needle鈥濃€攖hat is, to do just enough to win the 12 without completely destroying themselves for the 24.

One key to success, Scarpella says, is . The rock here is hard, dark sandstone, and their fingertips were raw and throbbing by the end of the 12-hour Hell. Last night, Scarpella applied a soothing tincture to his hands every time he woke up, and he felt better than expected when the 24 started. Now, three hours in, he鈥檚 attempting Something for Sofia, a 25-foot route graded at 5.11c that got the best of him twice yesterday. He manages the crux move, swinging out from under an overhanging roof, and sends it. Bennett lowers him to the ground.

鈥淩edemption on the 5.11 rock climb,鈥� Scarpella says wryly.

鈥淭he 5.11, three-bolt rock climb,鈥� Bennett reminds him.

Scarpella shakes his head. 鈥淲ow.鈥�

They鈥檙e ribbing themselves, of course. North American rock climbs are 颅graded using the , which ranges from 5.0鈥攖he equivalent of an easy but steep uphill scramble鈥攖o 5.15c, for the hardest routes in the world. Most of Horseshoe Canyon鈥檚 routes fall between聽5.7 and 5.12; for Bennett and Scarpella, a 5.11 is pretty routine.

By 3 p.m., it鈥檚 a blazing 89 degrees with 43 percent humidity. Climbers sweat and suffer, burning raw fingertips on hot rock. The canyon鈥檚 upper sections are 颅densely 颅wooded, threaded with goat paths, so climbs often start in the shade. Most routes are rela颅tively short single-pitch endeavors, but many take climbers above the tree line and into direct, relentless sunlight.

Bennett and Scarpella aren鈥檛 the only team gunning for the never before achieved double victory in the 12 and 24. and 鈥攖eam Those Guys鈥攁re after the same prize. Vabulas is a 颅seven-time Horseshoe Hell veteran; Howell is aringer Vabulas recruited online. He specializes in long, high-mileage free-solo days, and he鈥檚 been known to have soloed naked. (You can find him on Vimeo, climbing without a rope and wearing nothing but a gray newsboy cap.) Today, like his partner, he鈥檚 climbing in SpongeBob boxer briefs and a bow tie.

Around 4 p.m., the two teams cross paths at a route known as Newton County Mentality. A howl to mark the hour rises somewhere in the canyon and travels around like a wave, climbers and volunteers and spectators joining in as it passes their section of the wall.

鈥淗ow are y鈥檃lls tips 颅after yesterday?鈥� Vabulas asks.

鈥淟ike rhino skin,鈥� Bennett says, deadpan. 鈥淟ike pink baby rhino skin.鈥�

24 Hours of Horseshoe Hell: The World’s Wildest Climbing Competition

Horseshoe Hell was born around a campfire. In the spring of 2006, Andy Chasteen was visiting the canyon to climb with friends. One night, with alcohol flowing, somebody suggested that they see how many routes they could do in ten hours straight. Horseshoe Canyon has so many routes, so close together, that they would hardly have to waste any time traversing from one to the next.

The group kept spitballing and finally settled on doing a full 24 hours. Chasteen pitched the ranch鈥檚 owner on the idea, set a date three or four months out, printed up flyers, and mailed them to climbing gyms in the region. He expected no more than 40 climbers to show up. He got 120.

Chasteen had been climbing for only a couple of years at that point and had 颅never been to a competition. He was a born-and-raised flatlander鈥擬issouri, Texas, Oklahoma鈥攚ho grew up playing basketball and other team sports, then got into climbing. These days he doesn鈥檛 climb as much as he used to; he鈥檚 more into road bikes. But he鈥檚 an energetic and dedi颅cated booster of Horseshoe Hell, which has thrived under his leadership.

Patagonia signed on聽as a title sponsor in 2008. Attendance has boomed, and there鈥檚 now a lottery and a wait聽list to enter both the 12- and 24-hour versions. Most years there鈥檚 a broken bone or two, but Horseshoe Hell has never seen a life-threatening fall鈥攁n impressive achievement considering the darkness, the potential for exhausted confusion, and the fact that some competitors don鈥檛 wait until the legendary after-party to start drinking.

Some of climbing鈥檚 biggest stars have competed鈥攊ncluding Alex Honnold and Tommy Caldwell鈥攂raving sleep deprivation, sandpaper stone, heat, ticks, and chiggers. But Chasteen wants Horseshoe Hell to be as much a festival as a competition, open both to recreational climbers and pros. If you want to do 5.7 and 5.8 climbs for 24 hours, you can.

鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 matter if you can climb 5.14,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat means nothing.鈥� He compares Horseshoe Hell to an ultramarathon: you win by finishing.

Only five people have competed in 颅every Hell. Two of them are , who were friends and climbing partners for years before they married in 2012. Their continued presence is something of a miracle. In the heat of the afternoon, while Dick belays Natalie up a climb on Kindergarten Boulder, a route-颅riddled rock that sits on the forested slope below the main North 40 wall, he talks about an accident that changed his life.

In November 2014, Dick, then 65, was at his local climbing gym back home in Ne颅vada. (During that year鈥檚 Hell, he and Nata颅lie sent 152 routes each, and Natalie set a new women鈥檚 pitch-count record.) Dick was nearing the end of a 90-minute workout. He鈥檇 already climbed every auto-belay 5.11 at the gym except one, a new 5.11+. He was climbing on auto-belay, working out the moves: climbing partway, coming down, climbing a little farther, coming down. At one point, he unclipped from the auto-belay device to get a drink of water, and when he came back to the wall, in the zone, he started up the route again. He was 30 feet off the floor, near the ceiling, when he fell. He didn鈥檛 realize that he鈥檇 never reattached his auto-belay.

When Dick hit the deck, he couldn鈥檛 feel anything from the neck down, but by the time he was loaded into an ambulance he could move his toes again. He never lost consciousness, didn鈥檛 break any arms or legs, didn鈥檛 do irreparable damage to his brain or spine. But he had a long recovery ahead, and a doctor told him he would never climb again.

Dick still sounds offended about that part. 鈥淗e made it sound like it was bowling,鈥� he says. 鈥� 鈥榊ou have to give up bowling.鈥� 鈥� He鈥檚 been climbing since 1974. Climbing is his favorite sport, his social network, and the reason he met Natalie. He was determined to make it back.

Dick was hospitalized for two months. Early on he couldn鈥檛 squeeze a stress ball with his left hand, and the accident produced body pains that have never gone away. But somehow, just ten months after the fall, he was climbing at Horseshoe Hell again. He belayed Natalie to a new women鈥檚 record, 160 routes climbed, and achieved the mandatory minimum to be considered an official finisher: 24 routes, one per hour, all 5.7鈥檚.

This year he鈥檚 still in recovery, still aiming to send just 24 routes, but he鈥檚 upped the grades, putting some 5.8鈥檚 and 5.9鈥檚 in the mix. That鈥檚 partly so that he and Natalie don鈥檛 have to roam around the crag in search of 5.7鈥檚 for him to climb. Efficiency matters: This year, Natalie hopes to blow up her own record. Her goal is 200 routes.

Dick lowers Natalie down from her latest climb, and she sees that her next target is occupied. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to wait,鈥� she says, suggesting they go elsewhere. Dick is unruffled. 鈥淲e鈥檒l have to come back,鈥� he says. 鈥淗ydrate. We can take a breath here, dear.鈥� She agrees to pause and take a rest. The sounds of trash talk drift over from an颅other pair of climbers nearby. 鈥淲hat are you, a 40-year-old woman?鈥� one young man says to an颅other. Natalie laughs. She鈥檚 51.

By 7 p.m., night is setting in. The cicadas start singing, loud enough to drown out the climbers鈥� small portable stereos. Volunteers stagger up and down the dung-strewn goat paths carrying massive coolers of water and Skratch drink mix on their backs. Headlamps come out, but the pace of climbing doesn鈥檛 relent.

A young spectator, Chance, maybe nine or ten, finds Bennett and Scarpella climbing in the near darkness. He鈥檚 from Springfield, Missouri, two hours away, and he鈥檚 here with his dad for the weekend鈥攈is first outdoor climbing trip. (鈥淲e鈥檝e got a lot of Chinese food places鈥� in Springfield, he explains. 鈥淏ut we don鈥檛 have a lot of climbing places.鈥�) They鈥檒l watch some of the competition today and climb at another crag a few miles away tomorrow.

鈥淵ou鈥檙e a great climber,鈥� Chance tells Bennett after he touches down from his latest route.

鈥淚鈥檓 a tired and sweaty climber,鈥� Bennett says.

Chance is solemn. 鈥淪oon you鈥檒l be a delirious climber.鈥�

They bump fists, and as the kid and his dad walk away, his voice carries back: 鈥淚 got a fist bump from last year鈥檚 winner!鈥�

If Chance sticks with climbing, this trip will likely be his first of many to Horseshoe Canyon. While the competition attracts athletes from the 颅usual places鈥擝oulder, the Bay Area鈥攊t also draws heavily on the climbing communities in this 颅region. For people in Oklahoma, Missouri, Kansas, and Arkansas, Horseshoe Canyon is a locals鈥� crag, a spot to grow up on and return to. Some of the volunteers were raised in the area, left for work or school, and now fly back from all over to pitch in. Others just 颅never left.

As the night deepens, the pace starts to slow. Team Those Guys is struggling. Howell is fighting off nausea; Vabulas鈥檚 feet are white and shriveled from too many hours spent sweating in tight climbing shoes. Meanwhile, Bennett and Scarpella have headed over to another area of the ranch, Titanic Boulder, but things aren鈥檛 looking good. Their muscles have begun to tingle and twinge, and their arms refuse to engage. Around 11 they decide to rest for a while. They strip off their harnesses and down a couple of beers. They figure their chances of winning the 24 are slipping away. Rumor has it that a pair of youngsters from Texas are climbing hard, sending routes so difficult that no one鈥檚 ever bothered with them in the competition.

Natalie Dower, meanwhile, keeps method颅ically checking off climbs on her list, and聽Dick keeps notching his single climb per hour. With just over 11 hours left, Natalie has 颅already sent 138 routes.

Time crawls by in a blur of increasing pain and exhaustion. At 4 a.m., with six hours to go, there鈥檚 a scramble of activity as each team completes a mandatory check-in, the event volunteers verifying that nobody is so thrashed that they become a danger to themselves or others. The temperature has dropped to a halfway-reasonable 67 degrees, but the humidity has climbed to 98 percent. The night is a swamp, the darkness punctured only by headlamps bobbing up and down the rock walls. The cicadas scream. Flying, biting insects charge into every small pool of light.

Bennett and Scarpella are still struggling. They鈥檙e back on the North 40, and they鈥檝e scaled down their ambitions, easing off聽the 5.11鈥檚 and 5.12鈥檚 they鈥檇 planned to do. Bennett says they鈥檙e now just 鈥減icking out 5.9鈥檚 and 5.10鈥檚 that look cool.鈥� They know that they overdid it in the 12-hour competition, wrongly assuming they鈥檇 be able to keep on charging in the 24.

A climber nearby is snoozing on his rope bag, and Bennett and 颅Scar颅pella seem tempted to follow his lead. They sprawl out on a broad, gently sloped boulder, and Bennett pulls a T-shirt over his eyes. Another competitor, almost invisible on the wall above them, sings 鈥淭he Boxer鈥� softly to himself as he ascends. Within minutes the defending champions are asleep.

They pull themselves off the ground about 45 minutes later and try to get psyched for the 颅final push. It鈥檚 a limp, not a sprint, to the end. By the time daylight is filtering through the trees, most teams that haven鈥檛 given up entirely are barely managing their minimum one route per hour. A large cluster of climbers, including Bennett and Scarpella, converge on the Kindergarten Boulder, where they bang out 5.5.鈥檚 and 5.6鈥檚 and count the hours and minutes until 10 a.m.

Bennett has gone full zombie. As a ragged howl advances around the crag to mark 9 a.m., he鈥檚 standing still, staring into the distance, tied in to his rope at the base of an easy route.

Another climber nearby is just a few pitches away from the 100 routes she needs to qualify for next year, and as she climbs her friends attempt to power her through. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e a crusher! You鈥檙e a crusher!鈥� She tries to respond with a roar, but it comes out as more of a groan.

The minutes tick down. She hits 97 routes, 98, 99. Someone is cranking Rage Against the Machine on a portable stereo, and everyone seems to be experiencing one last surge of desperate energy.

Bennett snaps out of his trance and starts up the wall. When he reaches the anchors he tops out, climbing up and over onto the flat roof of the boulder, and looks around. Scarpella free-solos to ascend and reach his partner. Soon both men are standing on top of the boulder, arms raised in 颅exhausted, ironic triumph. Up high they鈥檙e in the 颅direct path of the sun, already blazing and heating the day into the eighties, and from the ground, in the shade of the boulder, they glow in haloed silhouette.

Bennett howls, pumps his fists, and yells 鈥淐umbre o Muerte!鈥� Below him the survivors of Horseshoe Hell can only manage a halfhearted cheer.

After the competition formally ends with another shotgun blast, the climbers trickle down to the valley floor to turn in their scorecards. Some of the sponsor tents are handing out beers and margaritas, and despite the early hour the cold drinks get snapped up. Still, the crowd of competitors disperses quickly. People who have booked cabins or nearby hotel rooms shower and collapse into bed; others roll filthy and sweat-covered into hammocks and tents. They bandage their cuts and scrapes, apply skin tincture to the raw pads of their fingers, and check each other for ticks.

Late that afternoon, after a few hours鈥� sleep, they regroup on the sloped grass in front of the ranch鈥檚 main lodge for the announcement of the winners. Chasteen and several volunteers are down below; prizes (swag, ropes, gear, plaques) are displayed on a hay bale. A slip-and-slide has been constructed during the afternoon. It runs from the top of the slope down to Chasteen and company鈥攖o claim a prize, each winner will proceed to the top, take a shot of whiskey, and slide on down.

There are many ways to win at Horseshoe Hell. Prizes are awarded for most routes climbed, most points (based on route difficulty), and most vertical distance climbed. There are team and individual rankings, prizes for recreational and intermediate climbers, and prizes for the advanced and elite divisions. Prizes by grade, by gender. The ceremony goes on awhile.

Scarpella and Bennett are named the winners of the 12-hour competition, with a combined 40,770 points鈥攆ar more than most people rack up in the 24. They take their shots and slide down laughing, slamming into a hay bale at the bottom. But their 24-hour score, 41,350 points, is barely higher; it鈥檚 good for eighth place overall in the team standings. The young guns from Texas win the 24-hour, with 68,380 points accrued on 348 climbs. Their route count included 颅forty-four 5.12鈥檚, four of them 5.12d.

Howell and Vabulas had hoped to have a shot at prizes for route count and total distance. Despite their overnight struggles, they achieve their goals: they win for most routes climbed by a team in both the 12- and 24-hour competitions and for most distance climbed as a team鈥攎ore than 1.5 vertical miles each.

Natalie Dower beats them both鈥攁nd every other climber in the 24-hour 颅competition鈥攆or most routes climbed by an individ颅ual, with 206 to Vabulas鈥檚 and Howell鈥檚 202 each. She also picks up prizes for most 5.7鈥檚 climbed, most trad routes climbed by a woman, most points for a female climber in the elite division, and most points racked up by a climber, of either gender, who鈥檚 45 or older. She hits the bottle and the slip-and-slide for each victory.

Dick Dower didn鈥檛 win any prizes, but he set a quiet milestone of his own: for his 24th and final climb of the competition, he sent his first trad lead since the fall.

That evening the after-party gets rolling at a covered pavilion halfway up the hill to the North 40. It鈥檚 basically a rave on a ranch: flashing lights, a DJ, a packed mass of sweaty revelers, many of them costumed and glow-sticked. Climbers jump and grind and scramble up to swing from the rafters, and the hot, damp air vibrates with bass from the speakers and energy from the crowd.

Down at the main lodge, a tattoo artist works through the night, inking a lineup of eager customers with the Horseshoe Hell logo. Many of the longtime volunteers and competitors who come back year after year get tattoos; the Dowers are among the first in line. Andy Chasteen sits on the sideline, on a large boulder in the shadows just outside the pavilion, supervising鈥攗ntil eventually he gives in to loud demand to enter the fray. He dives and crowd-surfs above the climbers鈥� heads, getting passed from raw hand to raw hand.

In college football, fans like to say that they lost the game but won the party.聽At Horseshoe Hell, not everyone achieved their goals, climbed as hard or as long as they had hoped or imagined they might. But at least for tonight, everyone is feeling like聽a winner.