In Malibu, a Rock Scene Where Hollywood Cameras Roll

THE cliff was called Planet of the Apes Wall, and on a recent Sunday afternoon, it was buzzing with primate life. A dozen rock climbers — hands chalked, muscles bulging under tight shirts — reached and toed on steep stone, an igneous face towering in the California sky.

“Falling!” shouted one climber, her fingers peeling from a small hold. A rope stretched and creaked, dust spitting from fibers in the sun. The climber swung from shadow to light, defeated but safe, dangling 50 feet from the ground.

It was a typical weekend day at Malibu Creek State Park, where about 2,000 visiting climbers each year get an alpine fix in mountains made famous by Hollywood films. Craggy and steep, with a rushing stream and swooping views, the Santa Monica Mountains above Malibu offer an unexpected wilderness just a couple of miles from the ocean.

The TV show “M*A*S*H” was filmed in a valley upstream from the park’s entrance. The show’s opening scenes, where a helicopter tracks past dry hills, were shot near Planet of the Apes Wall, which borrows its name from the 1968 movie. “Charlton Heston was once here,” said Reed Goodwyn, a climber from Reseda, Calif., who has ascended the Apes Wall hundreds of times. P style="TEXT-INDENT: 2em">Mr. Goodwyn reeled rope through a belay device, pulling up the slack before his climbing partner left the ground. P style="TEXT-INDENT: 2em">“You’re good,” he said. “Climb when ready.”

In an area known for its ocean breaks and opulent homes, rock climbing has a surprising presence in the mountains over Malibu. Start at sea level on the Pacific Coast Highway and drive up Malibu Canyon Road. There’s a tunnel and 20-mile-an-hour turns. Slabs and fins of stone soon glint in the sun as you drive into the heart of the Santa Monica Mountains, a range that runs 40 miles from the Hollywood Hills to Ventura County.

“For L.A. climbers, the Santa Monicas are the premier local destination,” said Louie Anderson, a pioneer of more than 200 rock-climbing routes in the Los Angeles area and author of “Sport Climbing in the Santa Monicas,” a 2003 guidebook that details climbing destinations in the vicinity, including Planet of the Apes Wall, Echo Cliffs, Boney Bluff, Black Flower, Conejo Mountain and Tick Rock.

Reached from Malibu Creek State Park as well as other nearby parks and trailheads, rock-climbing routes in the region number in the hundreds. Some climbs are short boulder routes that require crash pads but no ropes. Sport climbing, which relies on pre-placed bolt anchors, is popular at Apes Wall and Echo Cliffs. The tallest climbs can stretch 350 feet up a vertical face with ocean views.

Seaside climbing at Point Dume State Beach, two miles west of the commercial center of Malibu, includes routes up to 100 feet high on a rock promontory above crashing waves.

“There is no lack of diversity,” said Mr. Anderson, who started exploring the Malibu Creek area as a teenager in 1981. “You have different rock types, different climbing styles, creekside climbing, backcountry climbing, and climbs on the beach.”

For film fans, there’s also endless trivia associated with the area. Parts of Malibu Creek State Park were formerly owned by 20th Century Fox, and hundreds of bygone productions — from “Tarzan Escapes” in the 1930s to “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” in the 60s — were filmed there. Ronald Reagan even had a ranch near the crest of the range. In the 2008 movie “Iron Man,” the mansion of the billionaire weapons maker Tony Stark, played by Robert Downey Jr., was digitally superimposed on the climbing cliff at Point Dume State Beach.

My recent visit to the Malibu area included two days of climbing as well as a chance run-in with a film crew. At the Apes Wall, I met up with Patti Martins, a regular from Thousand Oaks, Calif., who learned to climb in an effort to bond better with her teenage son. “He quit,” she said, “but I am still addicted.”

We hiked 20 minutes from the parking lot, a trail leading to a cliff draped with human forms straining in the sun. It was a warm weekend in February, the cliff a tangle of ropes and bodies balanced on stone.

“Watch me!” shouted Carla Shaw, a climber halfway up the crag. Ms. Shaw, a visibly fit 52, was signaling her climbing partner to be prepared for a fall. She stretched for a hold on the overhanging face, muscles popping on her back. “Falling!” she shouted, slipping from the rock to swing like Tarzan on a vine.

Ms. Martins and I set a rope on the cliff’s edge, and I tied a figure-eight knot in the end of the rope and attached it to my climbing harness to climb Christmas Pump, an 80-foot route on the Apes Wall rated an upper-intermediate grade. The rock, an igneous cast called basaltic breccia, was gritty and strange with scoops and pockets, a slab of Swiss cheese eight stories high.

I cinched my shoes and reached for the rock, fingers inching into a pod at head height. My feet pressured small creases on the face, and the rope straightened as Ms. Martins belayed, reeling line to keep me tight.

“You got it,” she encouraged, shouting as I stretched through a move.

On the beach at Point Dume, where I went with a friend later in the week, our morning climb was nearly thwarted by a film crew. We drove in at 10 a.m. to the sight of orange cones and idling trucks, an assistant walking our way with a clipboard and pen.

“We’ve got an animal on the beach,” he said, motioning overhead. I leaned to look and was stunned to find a 15-foot-tall giraffe, an animal actor in a commercial for a candy company being filmed on the beach.

A generator buzzed in the background as we shouldered packs and walked away from the odd scene. It was three hours until production time, enough of a window to climb.

Point Dume’s cliff, a shark fin of stone, stood high over tan sand. I tied in to climb a corner route, waves crashing 50 feet from my pack.

Reach, pull, step and repeat. The motions were similar to rock climbing anywhere, and Point Dume’s face — a wall of smooth stone, polished with sea spray and grit — made for a fun medium to practice the sport.

Offshore, surfers paddled in swells on the Pacific plane. Toward the road, the giraffe paced with its trainer, waddling on a long leash, leaving foreign footprints in the sand.

I climbed halfway up and clipped my rope to a bolt anchor, ascending an easy route with ledges and deep holds. The ocean surged, a white noise blocking distractions below.

On top, I squinted to find where Iron Man may have lived. I tied a knot and sat down, feet dangling from the edge. It was a rest before the descent. A moment of quiet before rappelling back to the sand, the giraffe and whatever else an afternoon of climbing in Malibu might bring.