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Close
to the Edge Doug
Robinson
That
line came to me on a bumper sticker, of course.
We spend so much of our lives in cars. And being
in a car driving around America equals being busted
for taking up copious space. Not my fault, I was
born to it. But now it is my problem. Only as dirtbags
do we live clean and simple enough that we’re
not elbowing other sentient beings out of their rightful
share. Shed your baggage. Share the wealth. Clean
and simple is how we approach the edge.
Climbers
know a lot about the edge, so we’ll
just rewrite that line: Close to the Edge. The
name of a climb says it better. Not on, and certainly
not over. Close is close enough. And you are the
only one who knows, for you, for your next move,
how close is close enough.
The
edge is where evolution happens. 5.15 and V15 are
only part of it—the
most obvious part. Most of us aren’t close enough to that evolving edge
to peek over, into the unknown that will become the future. But evolution edges
both ways: not only the growth of our don’t-call-it-a-sport, but our
own development as climbers. Each of us.
Our
personal evolution leads backwards, toward the
roots of climbing. If you climb in the gym, go
outdoors and feel the sky. If you boulder, put
on a rope and go higher. Sport climb? Step up to
trad. Versatile on the rock? Go alpine!
This
is evolution? Sure, even though it leads away from
the purely hardest moves. Every step toward the
roots of climbing adds new challenges to your vertical
world. When a boulderer accepts the sharp end of
the cord, it carries those extreme moves up off
the deck. Doing them above a sport clip adds
the void, nipping at your heels. A worthy
adversary. But now you have to fuss with
the rope. Bother to belay, stop to untangle.
These are not distractions,
but tools; they bring you closer to the inner challenge.
Chuck Pratt said bluntly, “Leading
is climbing.”
Going
from sport to trad adds a big dose of self-reliance.
The void is still there—in fact it gets deeper—but
suddenly the anchors and the pro are not conveniently
bolted in place at your elbow. The vertical just
got wilder. Deal with it. Trad takes the rock on
its own terms. More responsibility for self and
safety and partners is your choice; greater freedom
is your reward.
The
last big leap is to go alpine. Step back to the
ice age. Here the cutting edge is marathon ascents
in unbelievably light and fast style. But your
learning edge is all around you from the first
moments of clutching an ice axe and sucking wind
in a heightened world. So much space, so wild a
pulse.
Every
step toward the edge adds adventure. If you’ve
got it wired, you’re
taking up too much space again. Nobody said this would be easy. You’ll
know. One day it might be sport climbing so sporty that you’re
holding on too hard to stop and clip, the next only slabby 5.8 but way
runout and scary. Or mixed 5.9 in crampons. Boldness and commitment are
staging a comeback. Like offwidth, you just can’t scare them away.
Make that poised commitment, though, not reckless. You gotta come home
healthy, or everyone loses. Practice makes poised. Pushing it on a regular
basis trains your whole adrenal response system, tuning it up toward
true grace under pressure.
Now,
step away from the vehicle.
Doug
Robinson
As
a champion of 1972's “clean
climbing revolution,” Doug's climbing style
and philosophy have had a profound impact on the
climbing world. Often referred to as a “modern
John Muir,” Doug has single-handedly helped
to lessen the impact of climbers on the rock and
along the way has become the first President of the
American Mountain Guides Association. Today, Doug
calls his home Santa Cruz, California where the climbing
and skiing of the High Sierras are just a short jaunt
away.
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Thirty
Years Beyond Tom
Frost
During the thirty years since the 1972 clean climbing
catalog, climbing has come of age. We climb a lot
less by ourselves; enjoy much less of a never-ending
resource, and no longer use only nuts and runners
for protection. In 2002 the opportunity has once
again arisen for us to diligently become aware of
the impact our individual and collective actions
have on natural resources, climbers, resource managers
and citizens. Integrity, responsibility, accountability
and respect must become the climbers credo.
Integrity
involves the individual’s values. Responsibility
is how your individual values relate to the circumstances
and to other people. Accountability is having the
courage to step up to the plate and do your part
(plus a little extra to cover those who don’t).
Respect is bending your will to the requirements
of the many rules and regulations incumbent through
our citizenship in the climbing community, and
doing it with a good attitude in spite of personal
preference or need.
Conversely,
entitlement means you are above the laws of nature
and man. It believes that your one action has no
effect. When man is impatient, and does not adjust
himself to the confines of nature, nature suffers.
And man loses.
The
spirit of the rock can be seen in every climber
for, like the rock, they are steady and strong
in pursuit of their dreams. Climbers are
one of the greatest resources in the outdoor
industry. They are good natured, focused,
industrious, team players, and most of all they are friends. Climbers are
natural leaders and ambassadors throughout the world.
This
is appropriate. The pioneers who set the height
of the bar were the cleanest of all climbers. They
plumbed the high country for nature’s secrets
for days, carrying just tea and a crust of bread.
They ventured up Yosemite’s
most fearsome walls with little gear or water, removing every piton and
minimizing expansion bolting, so the second ascent
party could enjoy as pure an interface with nature
as they had.
I
liken their legacy to our national heritage as
climbers. It is a heritage that empowers. The cleanest
climbers of all are still those who leave no trace.
Tom
Frost
Tom
Frost's accomplishments speak for themselves: The
first 5.10 in America; the second ascent of the Nose
in 1960; the first ascent of the famed Salathé wall
in 1961; the second ascent of Ama Dablam... the list
goes on and on. Tom was also the mastermind behind
Chouinard Stoppers, Hexes, RURPs, Knifeblades and
Lost Arrows—all of which remain relevant (and
essential) equipment today. Not to be hindered by
time, in 1997 he climbed the North American Wall
(among other classic lines) with his son Ryan Frost.
Today, at over age 60, Tom is still at it and is
still climbing hard.
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The
Pioneer Tradition Ryan
Frost
Climbing
with tom frost is an experience. Having endured
this experience numerous times, I am convinced
that this persona—the whole purity through
suffering thing—is not an act. He walks his
own walk. He is the living embodiment of our climbing
heritage, which is perhaps a compliment. To him,
the style of the attempt shows respect for the creation.
He uses the clean, fast technology of modern equipment
but is immune to the cowardice and sleight of hand
afforded by modern ethics. Risk of failure should
be considerable. Rewards are personal. Take a minimum
of gear. Retreat is not an option (we mildly disagree
on this one point.) Go up for the right reasons.
That last one is hard.
In
September 2001, despite an almost utter lack of
preparation, he and I started up the Salathé Wall.
It seemed like a good idea at the time—a
quick jaunt up the Big Stone to commemorate the
40th anniversary of the first ascent. Problem
was, our ability to do the climbing was borderline.
We struggled past each pitch, then feared the next.
The barriers were mostly inside ourselves—that’s
the whole point, I suppose. It became irrelevant that others had climbed this
route, in better style or faster or whatever—when you’re wedged
in the Hollow Flake there are other things to think about. The ideal is there—fast,
light, clean.
On
the Salathé, we made it together—he
climbed the pitches I could not, and vice versa.
The outcome was in doubt to the last pitch, as
it should be. More water and more wide gear would
have been nice. The style of the climb was, I think,
in the finest tradition of the pioneers. For him,
the pioneers are Salathé and Muir. For me,
it’s him.
Ryan
Frost
In
the years that Ryan Frost has been climbing he’s
repeated several old classics on El Cap—the
Nose, the Salathé, the North American Wall.
He’s also soloed Zenyatta Mondatta, done the
Regular Route on Half Dome in a day, and spent some
time in Patagonia. Ryan got his start climbing with
his dad in Eldorado and eventually moved onto Yosemite’s
granite walls. As a traditional/big wall enthusiast
through and through, he says his old-school blood
must “run in the genes.” He currently
lives in Fresno, California with his wife Belinda
and daughter Hannah.
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Grossman
Mouths Off Steve
Grossman
Climbing was just starting to hook me in 1972. Two
years into it and I had already glimpsed a wondrous
world of limitless adventure and spellbinding beauty
that I could experience as a dedicated climber. When
Chouinard Equipment published the clean climbing
catalog and offered an ethical philosophy and approach
to climbing that made this inner fantasy world sustainable
in the face of the mounting external pressures, the
psyche of North American climbing took a quantum
leap. Collectively, our consciousness was raised
as awareness of our surroundings grew to meet the
demands of hammer-less climbing. Each climber was
challenged to examine the relationship between adventure
and technology to develop a personal style.
Much
of the concern over route degradation focused on
big wall routes on El Cap due to the gear intensive
nature of aid climbing. “Pitons have been a great
equalizer in American climbing. By liberally using them it was possible to
get in over ones head and by more liberally using them,
to get out again.”*
Largely because they turned out to be easier to use once mastered, nuts quickly
replaced pitons as the preferred means of protection on free climbs. Oddly
enough, few people embraced hammer-less aid climbing
and big walls became the backwater of the American
clean climbing movement. Despite the luxury and security
offered by aid slings climbers could not be bothered
to slow down and push the limits of the new gear and
themselves, preferring the well-worn path of least
resistance.
Three
decades later, with our numbers growing yearly
and a staggering array of tools at our disposal,
the same lackadaisical attitude prevails when it
comes to hammered protection. Wall climbing is
in the midst of a renaissance but internally we
remain in the Dark Ages. Pause and consider the
damage to the vertical environment that we would
now be enduring had clean climbing not taken
hold. The manifest destiny of hammer, drill
and chisel is woeful at best and we must
face the reality that unless we collectively
reduce the impact of each and every placement,
each and every ascent, a dismal future awaits
us. Hammer-less aid climbing is one of the wildest and most demanding games
that climbing has to offer. We must take pride in our heritage as climbers
and continue to insist that ingenuity and skill take precedence over expedience
and force. Only then can the adventure and trial by fire that has historically
made big wall climbing uniquely rich not become lost to us. “Remember the
rock, the other climber—climb clean.”* Right
on.
*Doug Robinson, The Whole Art of Natural Protection,
Chouinard Equipment Catalog, 1972
Steve
Grossman
Low
impact trad and aid climbing has been the focus of
Steve's climbing carreer. His accomplishments
include the first hammer-less ascent of the Muir
Wall and the first ascent of the Jolly Roger on El
Cap. Always one to encourage others to honor the
rock and their own experience on the rock, Steve
climbed without chalk for years and remains a trad
climbing loyalist today. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
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Lesson
Learned Tim
O'Neil
My relationship with climbing began when I summited
the maple tree in my backyard at age six. The values
I had then are more or less the same today: experience
the moment on my terms, delve into the unknown with
a sense of respect and adventure, and commit myself
completely in spite of fear, inability, or the reprimands
from my mother.
The
maple tree of my youth has mutated into sandstone
towers, granite monoliths and far flung locales.
My climbing partners have transformed from my six
snot-nosed siblings into an infinite array of friends
of all abilities, passions, and runny noses. The
reproaches have changed slightly from my mom’s, “Timmy
get down from that tree you fool” to my girlfriend’s, “Timmy
put some more pro in you wing nut.”
I
refer to the ideals I learned as a child when considering
my current climbing pursuits: clean up your own
mess, don’t be a poor loser when you fail,
pay attention to your teachers and make friends at school.
The
clean up idea is a no-brainer. I cherish the beauty
and wildness of the places where I climb and strive
to preserve that unadulterated essence. As for
failure and climbing, it is an intrinsic part of
the equation that forces you to learn from your
mistakes, a type of adventure-driven Darwinism—either
adapt to the lesson or perish. The further I have
fallen the more I have learned. My teachers have
ranged from the wizened craggy lifer to the manicured,
deliberate bolt clipper from the rope burn behind
my knee to the hundred footer on Trango Tower.
These insights and experiences have provided me
with a broad base to launch my own endeavors into
the unknown. I search now for the knowledge only
obtainable without instruction. School is always
in, as I’ve become the pupil, professor and
disciplinarian and the classroom has become El Cap, the first Flatiron
and the Rostrum high-line.
The
maple tree remains my model of what climbing life
is about, its roots run deep into the sustaining
soil of those who have come before me, its branches
continue to grow upwards, attaining new heights
and the leaf buds appearing each spring promise
future growth and health.
Tim
O'Neil
Tim
has climbed extensively in both Yosemite and
Patagonia. Most notably, Tim has set several speed
records in the Valley and done several first ascents
of world-class routes in Patagonia, including the Compressor
Route (VI 5.11 WI 4 A1, 28 pitches). At age 32, he's
been climbing for over twelve years and lives life
based on a philosophy of freedom, laughter and natural
beauty.
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The
Vertical Dance Abby
Watkins
Leaving the ground is a risk. This is the premise
of climbing. Risk is what makes it the interesting,
challenging, rich and complex sport that it is. What
we risk varies with the style of climbing we take
on. Within each specialization, we take on the unique
responsibility each version of risk requires.
Leaving
the ground creates potential energy between our
bodies and the earth. The challenge lies in solving
the puzzle of upward progress under the constant
coercion of gravity. Time and weather sculpt weaknesses
in stone that we follow or form the intricate chaos
of a frozen waterfall or glacier. The choreography
of climbing demands that we understand the medium, ourselves and how our bodies
correspond to the vertical dance. Climbing is not easy. In our everyday lives,
the element of risk is minimized through convenience and technology. Instant
gratification is the norm. We wrap ourselves in safe cocoons. Climbing gives
us the gift of danger. Climbing puts us face to face with risk, demanding from
us honesty, humility and full responsibility for our actions. Because of this,
success really is our own. Yet failure is also our own. If we approach climbing
expecting instant gratification, it will quietly and soundly put us in our
place. Go back to the drawing board, it tells
us, learn more about yourself and the medium
before you come back to the challenge.
Leaving
the ground has always been a risk. Each generation
of climbers accepts and interprets that risk in
different ways. Climbing has exploded into many
sub-categories in the last 30 years; bouldering,
rock climbing, alpinism, ice climbing, indoor climbing,
competition climbing, mountaineering, big
wall climbing, modern winter mixed climbing,
expedition climbing, speed ascents, free
soloing and even crossovers such as aerial
dance or using climbing as a teaching climbing
as a metaphor to build self esteem. We can choose our level of risk. We can
take it all apart, practice each piece then put it all back together for
big committing climbs. Or if we choose, we
can specialize into one aspect and delve
deeply into what that form of climbing has
to teach us.
Leaving
the ground will always be a risk. In our ever more
populated world, the challenge now lies in not
killing what we love. The many specialized forms
of climbing complete a rich tapestry of people
and lifestyles. Each one of these needs space and
recognition. Leaving the ground is a risk. Leaving
enough room for each manifestation of risk is the
challenge for the future.
Abby
Watkins
Since
Abby began
climbing in 1988, this native
Australian has
redpointed 5.13, consistently onsighted 5.12 and in
1996 set the women's speed record on the Nose. Also
a competitive ice climber and mountain guide, she spends
her “spare
time” sharing her
alpine expertise and savvy with other women in her
Ascending Women clinics.
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Looking
Up to Find Our Way Geoff
Powter
More
than a few times over my climbing years, I’ve
had an experience that reminds me that we enjoy a
very unique privilege of our climbing game: I’ll
be hanging around some crag when a woman walks up,
ties in and effortlessly cruises some sick-looking
line. And the base starts buzzing: “Hey, isn’t
that so-and-so?” And so-and-so turns out to
be willing to chat about her climb just like everyone
else. Or I’ll be sitting in some backwater
Himalayan tea-house, when some vaguely familiar,
gaunt wire of a man sits down, spots you for a climber
and starts yakking about the desperate peak he’s
just done.
Take
a look at a hundred other sports—football,
car racing, golf—and
you’ll realize just how unusual that experience is. Even if you play
golf pretty damn well, you’re not too likely to get anywhere near that
Tiger guy, let alone have him make a stroke suggestion; even if you love Formula
One more than anyone else, the closest you’ll ever get to having a beer
with Michael Schumacher is drinking some brew that sponsors him.
But
in climbing, we’ve always had access to our
heroes. The biggest names in the game come to our
town, give a slide show and go to your little local
crag the next day. The superstar who put up the
most desperate line in the world will actually
take your phone call and give you all the beta
you need on a mere mortal route on the next face
over. The heroes who inspired your own entry into
climbing ten years ago open their doors—and
often their hearts—mentoring you
on your own path. Climbing has hundreds of stories like this.
Yet
I worry about the future of this remarkable privilege
as we grow in number and some of climbing’s
core values change. As our magazines slide increasingly
under the thrall of the culture of current celebrity, the names some of us
know best are the flavors of the month instead
of the great climbers of history. And as our literature
is increasingly infatuated by anti-hero deconstructionism,
(insisting that worshipping heroes smacks of elitism), I worry that some
of the truly great people in the game won’t
be showing up at my crags anymore just because
they aren’t today’s best-selling names.
And I think we’ll all be worse off for the
change.
So
a plea: to understand our game, understand where
we were, not just where we are. Make that call
to that guy who you think is above talking to you
and get your beta. Insist on keeping this special
thing going.
Geoff
Powter
Geoff
has summitted thirteen peaks over the 7000-meter
mark in the Himalaya, including the third ascent of
Manaslu North Peak. Additionally, he has put up
over 30 routes in the Canadian Rockies, including
The Terror of Babel. He's been the editor of the Canadian
Alpine Journal for ten years, and the president of
the Canadian Himalayan Foundation for six. Currently
he lives in Canmore, Alberta, where he can enjoy the
great limestone right out his back door.
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