In Defense of Craft
Forward: in my last blog post, I used the statement “we are all in this together” as a general comment on how we are all affected by the COVID-19 pandemic. I regret this choice of words. Although we will all presumably be affected, how we, as individuals, are participating is very unique. Some of us are at home, waiting it out, with time on our hands. Some of us are in high risk areas, with gloves on our hands. Some of us have limited (if any) health coverage. Some of us have jobs deemed essential, and are going to work, increasing our exposure. I strongly disagree that this pandemic is an equalizer, since it is quite clear that its effect will be remarkably different from one person to the next, from one community to the next, and from one demographic to the next. Although the sentiment of us all being in this together is comforting, personalIy, I don’t think it is appropriate. I apologize for my insensitivity with its use.
I want to make it clear that this post is a reflection on what many of you are doing now, given the increased amount of time you have at home. For those of you who are currently going about life in sever or adverse conditions, it’s hard to know what to say. Be proud of who you are and don’t give up. I hope you can find strength when needed and rely on grace when you you can’t. Please keep reading, since this post is about finding craft (and therefore, quality) in whatever we put our mind and efforts to.
Also, as a warning, this post indirectly references the use of the drug sugar. From 20 years of experience working with youth, it’s my firm belief that reducing sugar intake will positively affect our health more than any other single action. Time and time again, those who I coach and mentor who are more aware and more in control of their sugar consumption are more resilient, less moody, have more energy, more ambition, and are more responsibile. So please, read labels, do the math, and cut back.
There’s been a lot of baking going on.
I have incredibly limited internet where I’m currently living in rural Mexico, allowing me about 1 minute a week to swipe through Instagram stories (a massive departure from my normal average of 2 minutes). Roughly half of what I see are photos and videos of baked creations. It’s good to know that there isn’t much loafing around going on while many of you are spending so much time inside.
Climbers are drawn to baking. A countless number of climbing partners and athletes I’ve had have worked as bakers to some extent. I have many theories for the mutual agreement between climbing and baking, but my main hunch is that when we aren’t climbing, we knead to be creating things with our hands.
Robyn Ragins sourdough. I think I could live on this.
Puns aside, the main reason I think there is so much synonymity between baking and climbing has to do with one word: craft. As a noun, craft is tricky to define. It’s a thing we have and do consciously. It’s also a very visceral, nebulous classification of skill that defies intellect. In both climbing and baking, we might achieve greatness after countless hours, days, and years developing our craft. However, a majority of this time, and how it systematically works towards improvement, is lost to memory. It’s not a linear process - there is no way to reconstruct a chain of events that led to great craft. And quite paradoxically, we usually approach craft deliberately and with keen interest.
The title of this blog post, In Defense of Craft, uses a popular format “experts” might use when waxing about something they think is the missing link in your development of whatever they are an expert in. Examples such as In Defense of Donuts, In Defense of Weighted Pull-ups, In Defense of Eating Like a Cave Person, and, my favorite, In Defense of Wearing Italian Climbing Pants, all promise to take you to the next level so that you don’t have to experience the shame of not climbing as hard as you think you should be climbing. My problem with this format is that the things being defended are not absolutes. There is no guarantee that they will actually help you.
In master climbers and bakers, craft does absolutely exist. It is the foundation on which greatness is built. Mastery and greatness are being used as relative terms here, since these conditions have much to do with genetics, location, timing, resources, and more. I don’t use them to describe a specific level of ability, but as a way to imagine each individual’s performance potential, given the deck of cards they are dealt in life.
In order to achieve greatness (or mastery—I’ll use these terms interchangeably) in baking or climbing, craft must be present. I defend craft because I believe that inclusion of it while pursuing a passion will provide a more productive long-term experience and a better chance of achieving performance potential.
I also need to make it perfectly clear that I am not endorsing “greatness” as a defining or redeeming quality of life. Greatness is subjective. It need not be a motivator for every human being, nor should it be encouraged universally or held out like a carrot on a stick. It ought to be revered as a unique human quality.
What I am encouraging is to seek craft in whatever defines you, whether it be climbing, baking, your relationship with your friends and family, or other passions you have.
Defining Craft
Let’s define craft more, since if you’ve been climbing for a while, you might not see how craft has or hasn’t existed in your experience. In the context of learning how to bake, you’ll probably see it more specifically, with a beginner’s mind.
Craft is the process of intentionally and methodically developing skill, care, creative approach, style, et al., while simultaneously attempting to use these qualities towards a process, with production as an end goal.
Craft is the inclusion of specific qualities in production or doing that refine the process and production to a consistent and predictable outcome.
Here’s a climbing example:
A climber begins a route after thoroughly cleaning the soles of their shoes. The climber completes the route, and because of the clean shoes, has better contact with their feet, better recruitment of the lower body, and less polishing to the rock.
Another climber begins the same route with dirty shoes. The climber completes the route, but requires more energy due to their feet slipping and losing connection. The rock receives more polishing. A more complete example of these two climbers is at the end of this post.
And a baking example:
A baker bakes a batch of cookies, waiting for the oven to get to the correct temperature. The cookies bake evenly and similarly to the last batch.
Another baker bakes a batch of cookies using the same ingredients, preparation, and equipment. This baker fails to let the oven warm adequately, and inserts the cookies too soon. They take longer to cook and are too dry by comparison.
In both examples, the first scenario specifically contained more indication of craft. What’s really important to see in these examples is that either way could be looked at as being “successful,” or as achievement. The examples with less craft contain more ignorance and arrogance. From face value, it’s easy to say either way is fine — no big deal — but over time, there will more negative implications from the ignorance and arrogance shown. There will be more positive implications from the craft shown.
In the climbing example, failing to be aware of dirty shoes is ignorant in the sense that it’s wasteful of energy and limiting to potential. This is not hyperbolic, since we know that the coefficient of friction of dirty rubber is less clean rubber, i.e., more force (strength) is needed to keep the foot from slipping. It’s arrogant in that it fails to be aware that this habit makes it harder for others, by expediting the polishing of the rock, thereby making the rock more slippery.
In the baking example, the implications will most likely be in the bigger picture. In a personal situation, where the baker is making bread for themselves, this lack of attention might be indicative of other areas of life, but really, it’s a personal preference. In a professional situation, this could come as a loss of reputation or business.
These cookies, made by Belle Gibbs, show she knows exactly how to control her oven’s temperature. Perfect!
If you are an experienced climber and enjoy baking, let’s apply this developing definition of craft to climbing a 5.11 rated rock climb and baking cookies (not, of course, at the same time).
For many of us who develop passion for climbing or baking, these activities can be seen as having a similar relative difficulty — relative to easier and more advanced objectives of climbing or baking. Compared to the easier skills, they will seem more advanced and require more experience to master. In my defense of how craft is a critical component of achieving potential, I want you to see how these “intermediate” skills become an integrated part of mastery, not just a stepping-stone to the next level.
A 5.12 climb will always have difficulty elements characteristics of 5.11 rated climbing. A rating of 5.12 isn’t exclusively 5.12 movement. Disregarding the mastery of 5.11s will therefore have a direct effect on one’s ability to climb at the 5.12 level. To put it another way, a climber who has mastered 5.11 movement will climb a 5.12 with more ease than a climber who hasn’t mastered 5.11, given that they each execute the 5.12 movement with the same ease. Of course, the argument of “just train harder in order to have an excess of power” can be introduced at this point, but this misses the forest for the trees. Yes, you can do this. And it will possibly help you climb harder. But it will not necessarily improve your craft. Without craft, excess strength becomes waste. Furthermore, craft informs us how much strength we actually need to develop. We learn to do more with less.
Similarly, the skills needed to bake a good cookie will be required in something more advanced, such as a filled pastry. Mastering cookies is not a requirement to successfully bake a filled pastry, in the same way that mastering 5.11s isn’t a requirement to successfully climb a 5.12, but it’s important to see how the quality that develops while improving easier skills lends itself to greater craft, and therefore, greater potential to get closer to maximum ability.
Consistency Matters
No matter how you look at it, the fundamental characteristic of craft is consistency.
Consider this proposal: climb one hundred 5.11s without falling or taking. In doing so, the consistency established will load you with the experience needed to more efficiently climb the same level of difficulty contained within 5.12 climbing and beyond. Safety and risk management, effective communication with your partner, efficiency in lowering and cleaning quickdraws, rope handling skills, and hypothetical situations requiring an instinctual level of judgement will also improve. You will become more aware of your ignorance as you complete more and more climbs as limitations become obvious, either from your own observation, or externally. The care with which you approach climbing will increase, as you discover more about your own limitations and the limitations of the systems you use. You’ll be exposed to more judgement demands as you push your threshold, forcing decisions to be made more intuitively.
It should go without saying that the difficulty rating is relative to your strength and experience. And, the limit of your consistency is up to you to keep pushing. What you are trying to find, whatever your threshold of consistency, is ease and grace. If you struggle on every other 5.12a, what about 11d? Or 11c? Obviously, it’s hard to gauge this, since very few crags have such an abundance of the same difficulty. Look back over your past year or two of climbing to get a good assessment of what your threshold is.
As an aspiring baker, imagine what it would be like to flawlessly bake 100 batches of cookies. No burning. No wasted ingredients. No soggy mush. Just pure satisfaction and joy.
It’s pretty easy to see how craft in baking can lead to mastery. Now flip this perspective, attempting to see it from the experience of a master baker, being able to bake a perfect batch of cookies by practically waving your hand.
But climbing isn’t baking. Developing consistency as a climber is incredibly challenging for many reasons.
Free Climbing is Hard
For starters, free climbing is hard to begin with. -I’m using the actually definition of “free climbing” here, where ropes and other equipment are used for protection, but not to assist progress. This does not imply “free soloing,” which does not use safety equipment to prevent ground falls. Free climbing is not the same as free solo climbing. If you are not familiar with the difference in these terms, please take some time to conceptualize before reading further, or ask someone who knows to explain it. This is incredibly important to me, since misconceptions regarding these terms can have serious repercussions in how rock climbing is perceived by the non-climbing world, which will make it more difficult for the youth and young-adults who I’m trying to mentor to find their identities in this very complicated world of ours.
Moving on rock without the aid of artificial equipment is a tremendously difficult feat. As we move into harder grades, we come to rely more on our rope, quickdraws, and belayer to help us get up a climb. And sure, the goal is to send, or redpoint, or free climb — whatever you want to call it — but very little of the actual time spent on a hard project might be free of our aid. It becomes more taking, falling, pulling, and the rehearsal that eliminates uncertainty. We absolutely come to rely on the rope, our belayer, and quickdraws. We fail, a lot — not in the sense that we aren’t climbing, but that we aren’t truly free.
It’s like wanting to bake a pizza from scratch, and you keep burning it, or the dough doesn’t rise. Every time. But you want to bake a pizza so badly. All of your friends do it, and you think that you can do it to, but you’ve never even learned to knead dough and you always put the garlic in the sauce too early. Eventually, you make a decent pizza, but most of your time in the kitchen does not result in successful pizza production. You post pictures of your pizzas, not showing how badly badly burned they are on the bottom and soggy on the inside, because your social media handle includes “pizza_baker.”
Relying on our equipment and partners to take whenever we feel fear or doubt becomes a major burn to our dedication and commitment to training, as well as a significant impediment to realizing our free climbing potential. Hours upon hours of training in the gym, then when we get to the crag, it’s “take,” and our pizza is burned. It’s usually more like “you can take,” which has further implications regarding passivity and projection of personal insecurities, but I’ll digress and save this for another blog post. Feel free to roll your eyes right now.
Olivia Harmanos did not “take” on this amazing pizza. Full send!
Establishing Standards
Of course, every climber will construct a different narrative for their needs, in how they want to be satisfied with their own efforts. Your efforts and achievements should be defined by your satisfaction with your process and progress. What I implore you to ask is, “What is the quality of my results, my process, and how I impact the world around me?”
If you find yourself taking every time you climb; if you rarely do a route from start to finish without taking or falling, or refer to this type of climb as a “warmup” only; if you’re always looking for the next quickdraw or bolt hanger, instead of getting lost in the rock and the movement it provides; if you dismiss the possibility of a second try because you think you should have flashed it, or its rating is below your “project” level; and most significant, if you find yourself on the rope more than on the rock; I challenge you to bake a lot of cookies.
If you flawlessly bake 100 batches of cookies, you will be free from a recipe, free from calculations, free from waste, and free from having to say “take” in the kitchen. If baking cookies were your job, this would be expected. Consistency at whatever your position or pay grade would be expected. But climbing, for most of us, isn’t a job, so how can we define standards to create expectations that lead to greater craft?
If you want to develop more craft in your climbing, ask yourself as soberly as possible, “How much time do I actually spend free climbing?” To me, this is the ultimate determining factor.
The very thought of struggling on a route below our perceived “ability” can be terrifying. Falling, in general, can be terrifying. When our confidence doesn’t match our physical ability, fear or doubt diminishes our output. This is why I defend craft: it helps us overcomes fear and doubt. Through consistency, we rule out irrational thoughts. We learn to trust our systems, our partners, and our intuition. We learn when it’s safe to fall, and to be able to let go of fear in order to push our movement just a little bit farther. And, we establish standards.
The next time I hear the comment, “I don’t need to climb 5.11s,” or, “5.11s don’t do anything for my climbing,” or, “Climbing 5.11 is a waste of time,” or, “I’m a 5.13 climber. Climbing 5.11 is backtracking,” or, “Climbing 5.11 is boring,” I will not say anything, but simply show them a photo of Olivia Harmanos’s 5.11 Easter cookie masterpiece. This will surely put them in their place.
Olivia’s 5.11 rated Easter Cookies. I’m speechless.
But seriously, some real benchmarks exist for us to be able to check in with our craft in climbing. Just like if we burn a batch of cookies or a pizza, we get checked. See if you say “yes” to any the following:
I usually “take” on my warmups.
I have climbing days when I never free climb a single route.
I never redpoint a route on a second or third try. I either flash it or it becomes a project.
I never have “easy” or “mileage” days.
I never try a route a second time to improve on it.
I only climb when conditions are “good.”
I never downclimb.
Endurance is a major weakness.
I don’t always tie-in correctly.
I don’t usually brush holds.
I don’t clean anchors or quickdraws.
I get tired after a few climbs.
I never try routes unless there are quickdraws up.
I always do the same routes at my home crag.
I rarely try to onsight at my limit.
I have no idea what my free climbing threshold is (the level of difficulty you can climb consistently without taking, falling, or otherwise weighting the rope before getting to the anchors).
All of these bullet points point to an element of craft in climbing. They are all qualities, or the lack of quality, that inform our process. The more consistent you are, the more likelihood there is to eliminate elements of climbing like these. None of these are necessarily bad, but they all have some sort of limiting factor. They are all standards that can be changed to improve craft. Not all of these qualities need to be present in your climbing. And of course, this list could be continued for pages.
Excuses
And then, there are excuses. Climbers and bakers have plenty.
When developing craft, it’s easy to project our weakness on the limitations of our environment or on our emotions. In the kitchen, as at the crag, excuses abound.
It’s too hot.
It’s too cold.
It’s too humid.
This climb is stupid. (I’m not sure how a rock can be stupid, but I’ve heard it)
This is way harder than the 5.13c I did at the Red.
I didn’t train enough.
I trained too hard.
The flour is too dry.
The dough didn’t rise.
Some freak event caused me to mess up.
I don’t have enough time.
I’m just not feeling it.
This is boring.
I’m burned out.
I didn’t get enough sleep last night.
I’m scared.
The music isn’t getting me psyched.
My dog ate my lentils.
It’s not my style.
Excuses are a convenient way to build a facade around our shortcomings. As our identity develops, the vulnerability of having weakness exposed is risky. It can chip away at the self-esteem we’ve built by getting better at something.
The nice thing about the kitchen is that we can bake alone and devoid of judgement. It’s nearly impossible to do this in climbing. And, our ego gets involved, whether we like it or not.
What the development of craft also teaches us is how to be efficient, how to use our energy wisely, and that timing is critical. We learn that productivity doesn’t come exclusively from attempting limit-level difficulty, which typically results in plateauing, setbacks, frustration, injury, and eventually, abandonment, often accompanied by excuses.
What if we could abandon difficulty ratings altogether and allow ourselves to be inspired by what challenges us as individuals? What if we could approach any rock climb as if it were just another product of our craft? I’m getting a little John Lennon-y here, but imagine going to a crag with no ratings, just beautiful rock climbs awaiting us to grace them with our craft, just living for today. You might say I’m a dreamer.
But we do have ratings, and Instagram. So I’ll pinch myself and come back tp reality.
I was climbing at the gym with one of my mentors (now in his early 60s) in December. Much of our discussion (as per usual) was around current trends in climbing. He asked somewhat rhetorically, but with due seriousness, “doesn’t anyone just go climbing anymore?” He was referencing how climbing seems to be dominated by “projecting,” or the need to always be working towards something just out of reach. I’m not sure how he would classify mastery of climbing, but from my perspective, he achieved greatness through dedication and prolificacy. He’s been my role model because he dedicated so much of his life to climbing on his own terms and to what has satisfied him, as well as using his craft to give back to the climbing community.
If we had been talking about baking bread in France, this question might have been, “doesn’t anyone just bake baguettes anymore?”
I don’t know how many batches of baguettes get ruined in France every day, but I’d bet some serious dough that it rarely happens with master bakers. Their craft won’t allow it. This is the same reason why a master climber will rarely (if ever) fall or take at a grade a few levels below their max performance level.
My favorite bakery is in La Freissinouse, France. It is near one of the world’s greatest sport climbing crags, Ceüse (pictured here). There must be a connection.
When pursuing a high level of craft, we acknowledge and appreciate that basic skill informs our high level skill. In fact, it is a critical ingredient of our journey towards realizing our potential. Basic skill makes up the mass of how we build a pyramid to reach our potential.
Mastery in climbing can be hard to conceptualize. It’s much easier to appreciate the conquest of a thing than to understand how it can be mastered. In climbing, mastery is often seen as getting to the top of a climb, especially if it was difficult. Then it’s over. Furthermore, our egos are fed by having our struggle witnessed and validated. “Good job, you tried so hard on that climb.” The pain and aguish is more easily relatable as a human condition than grace, especially in the presence of struggle. Getting to the top of a rock climb in anguish makes more sense than getting to the top without difficulty. Our egos tell us, “That was too easy. Try something harder.”
Also, we want our effort to be acknowledged as a way to stand out and be an individual amongst a human population of 7.5 billion. We crave an identity. High level craft is often not remarkable. It can be beyond comprehension. Craft is something we learn to appreciate. If all you’ve ever had are grocery store baguettes, how would you even know what a masterfully crafted baguette smells, feels, and like?
Let’s acknowledge Olivia’s masterpiece, even if we can’t enjoy it.
Back in November, while in Greece with my crew of gap semester athletes, a particular day at the mega-crag Babala stands out strongly in my memory to highlight what I mean by high level craft in climbing. A small group of Spanish climbers were there, too, enjoying the brilliant tufa climbing along side us. One of their group members put on a truly great performance. He was a very unassuming figure, with a slight build, modest charisma, and quiet confidence. I’d put his age somewhere in his late 30s. There was nothing unique about his nature. He looked and acted the part of his peers — while on the ground. But each time he tied in, and stepped on to the rock, he transformed into one of the most skillful and poetic climbers I’ve ever seen.
At nearly any given point that day, he was to be seen floating another route, all of which were rated in the range of 7c+ to 8b (5.12d to 5.13d). My guess is that he flashed 7 or 8 climbs. His performance was nearly flawless. His manner was graceful. From an outward perspective, there was no ego involved in his intention. He didn’t need to attract attention to himself. I would be willing to bet a really good baguette that he didn’t rave about his performance on social media.
It was as if he were a pizza baker at a starred Michelin restaurant, showing up for a normal evening shift, clocking in, then proceeding to bake one perfect pizza after another. No crust burned. No flour spilled. No injuries inflicted. The kitchen saw no drama that night.
Escaping the ego can be difficult because our culture rewards heavily on good behavior, good grades, trying hard, over-achieving, and working our way to the top. There is little outward incentive to do a really good job at the mundane. Like climbing a 5.11 flawlessly. You’re not going to get a cookie. Probably not even a cookie emoji.
Olivia deserves a cookie for flawlessly climbing this 5.11.
We get lots of likes for showing our struggling on things that are hard. This boosts our ego. It makes us feel good and validates our efforts. It’s not all bad. It’s also motivating. Ego, or our sense of self-worth, helps feed our process. It gets us to the gym and helps us prioritize. As we become adults, we have to take on more life-tasks that are difficult. And be accountable for our actions.
We learn by doing hard things that boost our ego, but what really makes you more you: doing something well or doing something hard?
Craft goes beyond simply accomplishing a difficult task. It’s learning to do it well.
My 7th grade art teacher, when asked, “Is this good enough?” would respond, “Good enough, isn’t.” In making art, an important step of the learning process is the establishment of personal standards that are constantly evaluated. Self-critique builds resilience and the ability to respond to outward critique. This process hones our craft.
If you tell me, “I did a thing,” I will not give you a cookie, but instead, encourage you to describe how you did it. Are you satisfied with only having done it? Or are there improvements you can make?
To further this, in rock climbing, doing something that is hard without doing it well often indicates that it was done recklessly, irresponsibly — possibly increasing unnecessary risks. The care needed with craft includes attention to the details that keep us safe, and those around us. This enables longevity and consistence, further increasing our development and potential. Craft is an awareness of how our recklessness or irresponsibility could become a burden to others. Never before in climbing has this been more important, given the exponential amount of users taking to the rock. Collectively, if we (climbers, not bakers) don’t increase our craft, we will see more and more negative implications from our arrogance and ignorance. We will lose access to our privilege.
Doing really hard things is important in developing our potential as human beings. Overcoming difficulty is fundamental to the human condition. However, in our pursuit of more difficulty, are we wasting, destroying, or exploiting?
I’m not encouraging you to not try hard, or to take on difficulty. High level stress and stimulus are critical in our development as athletes. But human beings can only respond to a relatively small amount of stress before the dreaded plateau or burnout sets in, or we start fighting each other for more resources to overcome our situation. We are really good at enduring loads of low level stimulus with dusting of high level stimulus. Like a cake with a thin layer of frosting and a cherry on top. Too much high level stimulus exhausts our resources and potentially causes conflict. It can inflict trauma that affects us for the rest of our lives.
I’m sure you’ve been told, “you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it.” But this just isn’t true. Eventually, you’ll run out of resources or you’ll have to start a war to get more. In doing so, you’ve probably made life horrible for someone else.
Life is finite. Resources are precious. Learn to do well, and you’ll do a lot more with what you have. Craft informs us that our needs aren’t superior to everyone else’s. Reaching our potential is a balancing act with the rest of the earth’s population and with the limited resources it can provide.
Beyond the relative difficulty of skill, craft is also caring for our equipment, keeping it in good condition and working order. Craft is careful attention to ingredients — the substance of our work or being. Craft promotes thrift: saving money and using less. Care promotes sustainability. We can do more with less and extend our experience. Craft is stewardship for the places we need in order to be productive, like our climbing crags.
Craft promotes creativity. Establishing and maintaining a solid base of skill gives us a foundation from which to expand what is possible. Instead of getting stuck in plateaus, we develop solutions to move higher or further. We transcend our limitations by creating satisfying workarounds.
Finding craft is playing the long game. Many of you don’t want to hear this. You want hard, now. You want a ladder to climb, instead of a pyramid to build. Perhaps there’s a chance that you are a genetic outlier and can skip through the grades to reach a significant milestone in a relatively short period of time. Maybe you don’t have to work, or go to school, or have an incredible amount of time and money available. Chances are, this isn’t you. Statistically speaking, it’s not likely. The statistics also show that if you just go hard in pursuit of a lofty goal, things will come crashing down: injury, chronic fatigue, loss of friends, etc. These are very real risks. Is it worth it? How much do you love climbing? If you really love it, and aren’t just in it for the pursuit of an arbitrary grade, I have no doubt that your journey will adopt a high level of craft.
In the big picture, craft is how you maintain consistency in your efforts and productivity. You don’t need to bake 100 batches of cookies in a row. You need to bake a batch of cookies every few weeks. This consistent stimulus keeps the entire system engaged and ready. It keeps you prepared and organized. It’s not an ordeal, it’s your practice. In a given month of baking, don’t just go big every day, bake simple loafs, banana bread, and cookies. Spend a day whipping out pizzas. Keep returning to your craft so that you aren’t starting completely from scratch every time.
Bella Childre’s pumpkin sheet pancakes with spiced butter make me wish it were always breakfast.
Don’t deny your ambition to go big, just don’t let it distract from your “bread and butter” skills. It should be an application for your low level mastery — as a way for you to learn what you’re bad at, or what you’ve missed. And take on hard things consistently, just not with as much volume as the slightly easier (easier-not easy!) things that you are slowly perfecting. Be patient and believe that the harder things will start getting easier, and then you can work on perfecting them.
If you get told to clean your climbing shoes off, don’t take this advice as something you did wrong, understand why this skill might be beyond you, and appreciate that you’re getting taught with care, rather than finding out the hard way — the way that will force major setbacks. Seek partners or mentors who set a good example with their craft, and who live with consistency.
Look for humility in your pursuit of your passions. Accept your shortcomings and acknowledge the needs of others. And finally, use your craft to give and to help, rather than to just feed your ego with cookies.
Craft: A Tale of Two Climbers
You’re at the crag on a busy day super psyched for your mega-project, a super popular and photogenic 5.13d. You arrive a little late to see that there is already a group camped out at the base, playing reggae on a bluetooth speaker. Nothing else has draws on it except a 5.13a you’ve tried a few times before. There’s a chance you can redpoint it, even though you aren’t “feeling it.” It’s just another route at the crag — nothing special. But the conditions are decent so you might as well try it. You feel a bit flustered and anxious. Something doesn’t feel right in your stomach. But since it’s open, and it’s your turn, you decide to give it a go. “This route isn’t really my style, but someone is on my 5.13d project, so I guess I’ll just try it.” You proceed to tie in, and while distractedly looking over at the climber working on what was your project, miss threading your leg loops. After donning your shoes, you sigh and get on route. Fortunately, your belayer catches your oversight. As you retie your knot, you mutter, “my jacket was in the way,” as if your jacket intentionally sabotaged your knot tying.
Fumbling through the opening 5.11 slab, en route to the steep endurance section, you think to yourself, “I hate slab.” Most of the clips are just out of reach, forcing you to squirm up on your tip toes to desperately make the clip.
When you finally grab some deep pockets, you get distracted by a climber on another route, who is wildly screaming. Everyone at the crag seems to be cheering for them.
As you move through the route, you can’t remember any of the sequence, and quickly get pumped. “Just take,” you half-heartedly command your belayer as you grab a quickdraw. This continues as a pattern until you reach the top, hanging on each draw. While lowering, you look over to your project, now occupied by someone else. When you reach the ground, your belayer offers some support, “You look really strong.” Your response is a dismissive, “Thanks, I don’t think I can do this today. My feet really hurt from my new shoes and my skin is totally shredded. I shouldn’t have done that weighted hang board workout last night. And my core is weak.” You doubt that you’ll be able to try again since your blood sugar is low and didn’t get enough protein for breakfast. To make matters worse, your dog ate your lentils last night, increasing this deficiency.
During your rest time, you mope around lethargically, feeling sorry for yourself. You eat a Clif Bar, oblivious to the fact that it has more sugar than a Snickers. After sending your first 5.13c a few weeks ago, you are convinced you’re ready for 5.13d. You deserve it but now someone is on your project and you’ll have to settle for some unknown route with a rating below your Instagram difficulty threshold. You reassure yourself when you remind yourself you use the phrase “hopped on this little” in front of 5.13a in the caption if you get a decent photo to post. Even though you didn’t offer to belay your partners during your rest period, an hour has passed and you’ve given up hope of getting on your project. You decide to put in a second attempt on the 5.13a, of which you’ve never bothered to learn the name.
The slab is again a struggle, and you curse the route developer for putting the bolts too high for you. The steep section feels a little bit easier, though, and you start grunting as a way to harness your try-hard. “C’mon, you got this!” you hear from below. Setting up for a big move, you heave your body into it, and scream. Sticking the pocket, the rage starts flowing. Although you’ve forgotten where your feet should go for the crux move, you luckily find someone else’s tick marks, and desperate slap your swinging feet on the small edges. Your chalk bag is flapping around and keeps sliding out of the way because you forgot to tighten it.
You’ve attracted everyone’s attention and now they are all wrapped up in your struggle, cheering you on. “Don’t give up!” “Breathe!” “Dig deep!” With every last bit of energy, you explode through the crux move, grabbing the jug while your feet set sail. Your hand begins to squirt blood from a giant flapper of callous ripping off. Panting and grunting gets you through the 5.11a headwall to the anchors. As you clip the anchors, you let out a huge “whoop, whoop!” for all to hear. “Dirt me!” You are now filled with adrenaline, lowering to the ground while forgetting (or ignoring) the blood you’ve left on the rock. “Dude! You crushed it!” is overheard. Upon reaching the ground, you untie your knot and walk away, rejoicing in your victory while leaving your rope hanging as a reminder to all in attendance that you are a 5.13 climber. “Did you get a photo of me? Can you airdrop it now?”
Instead of this first scenario, imagine transporting to an alternate reality where you are the same climber, at the same crag, on the same day, but this is how it plays out instead:
You arrive to your home crag hoping to begin work on a coveted 5.13d project. Over the past 6 years, you’ve systematically worked your way around the crag, redpointing nearly everything at 5.13b or below and, you’ve redpointed four 5.13c routes at other crags. There are a few 5.12s you haven’t tried, but you are saving them for onsight attempts and they were getting roasted in the sun before you arrive, so it doesn’t seem wise to use today for these attempts. After a casual warm up with a few 5.11s and a familiar 12b, you head to the sector that contains your project. Conditions are a little on the warm side, but you’ll be in the shade and you’re with a good group of friends. There’s no pressure other than to climb and enjoy the beautiful day in nature. As you turn the corner to discover that your project is occupied, your heart sinks a bit, but accept that it’s your fault for hoping to try it on a weekend, when crowding could be an issue. Realizing that it would be rude, not to mention very efficient, to try to get into the mix, you scan the sector for other open routes. Slightly off to the side, there is a 5.13a that is open. You had tried it a few years ago but had let it go at the time. Although there are no draws hanging on it, you and your crew think it looks worthwhile. You don’t know its name, so you look in your guidebook to see that it was named after a wild flower that grows in the region. It’s your turn now, so you quickly let go of your previous intentions for your project, and turn your focus to this 5.13a named Purple Lupine. You’ve had a few 5.13a flashes earlier already this season, so before getting your shoes on and tying in, you do some inspection, scanning the route for cruxes, pitfalls, clipping positions, etc., hoping to improve your chance at doing it your first go, despite having been on it previously. You discuss the route with your partners, and agree on a belay stance to mitigate fall danger on the opening slab. Together, you scan the route for bolt hangers, making a careful guess as to how many quickdraws you’ll need. You then rack enough plus a few extras on your harness, including some longer ones that will be helpful in managing rope drag.
After sipping some water and eating half of a banana, you complete your tie in ritual, first beginning with the knot itself, then tightening your harness, and arranging your chalk bag. Once you slip on your rock shoes, you set your approach shoes aside, along with your jacket, so that they are completely out of the way of your belayer’s movement. You pull up coils of rope, then stack them carefully on the rope bag, ensuring that your belay won’t be impeded by kinks or knots. You check the end of the rope for a good knot. After a thorough review with your belayer, it’s confirmed that all is ready from both sides. Your belayer indicates that they are ready and with you. An inspection for clean shoes, and one last chalk up, and you lift off the ground, while indicating to your partner that you are climbing. Although the first bolt was out of the range of your stick clip, your precise and deliberate foot work floats you through the opening moves while your belayer spots you. The rock is sharp, so you carefully pick and choose what holds to grab to avoid losing skin.
Some of the clips seem out of reach but your rhythm carries you through the movement, and clipping while in sequence isn’t a problem. You also check each piece of hardware for excessive rust or any sign that its strength could be compromised.
Your breath reminds you that you are alive, and you are conscious to its demand. As you gain the steep pockets, the care and precision with how you engage your feet and legs rivals that of the grip you exert through your fingers. Your body is engaged as a system, from fingers to toes, and through space. Your progress to the crux section has only been interrupted by a few moments to chalk, and consistent mini-shakes to keep your blood flowing and to reduce the pump that is slowly building.
When you reach the suspected crux, you quickly set up for the move with what appears to be the ideal foot hold. Unfortunately, it proves to be a bit too high, pushing your hips outward, and away from the target. As soon as you hit the end of the rope from your fall, you begin to line up your swing so that you can grab the rope from your belayer, avoiding the need to boink. Grabbing the cord, you quickly pull down while your belayer is still weighting the other side. Using hand over hand to get to your highest clip, once you arrive, you grab a draw off your harness and clip in direct, allowing your belayer to relax. The foothold you should use, anticipating the level of fatigue at that point, becomes obvious. After brushing the holds, you get back on, and try the move a few times, ruling out any other possibilities. In itself, the crux is only 5.12c or so, but 25’ of pumpy 5.11+ pockets make up the lead in, with a good rest two moves before. The top headwall is little run out, but the space between bolts lets you enjoy the brilliant movement on bulletproof crimps. You enjoy a sense of peace after escaping the resistance below and continuing your vertical dance to the top. After installing your own quickdraws at the anchor, then commanding a simple “Take!“ followed by “Lower!” to avoid confusion at the base, you brush holds on the way down for your partner, stopping a few times to review moves, and to unclip the 2nd and 3rd draw so that the next climber can have the safety of the rope clipped through the first draw after it’s been pulled. After lowering to the ground, you quickly and completely untie from your harness, then let your belayer know it’s clear, so that the rope can be pulled and readied for the next climber. Once you get your approach shoes and jacket on, you review the route while finishing your banana, drinking some water, and preparing yourself to belay. You start your timer on your watch so that you can monitor your rest period.
After your partner flashes the route, it’s your turn again. You noticed a few things from their movement that you could use to refine your own on this climb. The drama emanating from your 5.13d project is a bit distracting, but it’s not your struggle today, so you let it go like a cloud floating across the sky. Completing your rituals again, everything has been done correctly, with care and reverence. The communication you share with your belayer eliminates any doubt that you have with their ability or readiness. After again waltzing up the slab, you launch into the steep section without hesitation. Your movement and instinct are relaxed and intuitive. It feels as if you’ve done these moves 1000 times. The rest before the crux comes easily, and after a short shake and chalk, you execute the move that previously caused failure, quickly finding the glorious crimps on the headwall. You hear a mellow but sincere “nice” from your belayer. The sun shines on your face, just beginning to heat up the wall. The warmth from the it mimics the joy you have from being alive, satisfied to have free climbed another beautiful piece of stone. You clip the permanent mussy hooks, grab your draws, and begin lowering while grabbing your brush to dust off the top — including a few holds that you didn’t use — recognizing that this section might be intimidating for others. While cleaning your draws, you brush holds and tick marks, putting forth the effort to minimize your presence.
Aside from your belayer, no one at the crag was giving you much attention. Your performance didn’t ask for it. It was effortless, graceful, and without drama. A member of another group walks over as you are pulling the rope.
“What’s this thing? It’s not on Mountain Project. I need to get a quick warmup in before it gets too hot,” he inquires.
“It’s called Purple Lupine. It’s really enjoyable.” you respond encouragingly. He obviously doesn’t care what the name is, and wants to know the difficulty rating. “Let me know if you want beta.”
“How hard is it?” he asks with a pinch of snark.
Your response of, “5.13a…maybe a little soft for the grade” confuses him. He hadn’t heard any screaming, and there’s no spray about it on the internet. You continue, “You should do it. Great climb. Holds are brushed. It’s named after a wild flower that grows in the area,” but this doesn’t give him any encouragement. Plus, the quickdraws are gone. It obvious that your ascent of it seemed to make it look like a 5.11 warmup. This route isn’t in his cards, and he’ll be forced to sit around, while his intended climb comes in to the mid-afternoon sun.
To you, it has become another enjoyable rock climb that has weaved itself as a thread into the fabric of your being. As you carefully pack up your rope and head to a shady sector to escape the crowds and heat, and finish the day with some maintenance 5.12s, you are grateful that someone put the time and money into bolting it, and keep your eye out for purple lupines, which might start popping up any day.