The Mountain With No Top


After several months without a single day of hard climbing, some friends took me out to a California crag called Owl Tor, named after the UK’s Raven Tor (home to Ben Moon’s great boulder problem on a rope, Hubble). Like its namesake, Owl Tor is steep and bouldery. There’s one gronky 5.11 on the left of the cliff band, a 5.11d in the middle, and it gets rapidly harder from there.

So, feeling out of shape and mentally unprepared, I tied in and spent the whole day working the 11d. I gave the beta-intensive 60-foot celebration of drilled pockets and glue four or five tries before admitting to myself and my companions that it just wasn’t going to happen. I had a good time, but felt demoralized; I used to run warm-up laps on routes of this grade, now I was projecting one.

But every time I start to get down on myself about such things—about my performance or lack thereof—I get a funny feeling. I’ve long harbored doubts about the validity of the underlying motivation that drives me and, from what I can tell, most members of the “type A” clan. I see a certain needfulness in it: to prove oneself, to put oneself above others, to feel the affirmation of success and excellence. When I look closely, it’s hard to see it as much more than an addiction. It’s an addiction that’s certainly reinforced by popular culture, that holds up select people as heroes for their athletic prowess or intellect or other skills and talents. The successful are addicted to their accolades while the masses dream of being successful one day, as if it might give their lives some rarefied meaning.

“Like drinking salt water to relieve our thirst, trying to satisfy momentary desires just leads to more desires.” It’s a quote I’ve seen around the web, usually attributed to Buddha. Though I can’t verify the source, the concept stands on its own. Many of us will dedicate our whole lives to satisfying momentary desires. The cynical might suggest that’s all there is, the accumulation of accomplishments like the constellation of brass plaques on The Big Lebowski’s wall. But it’s hard not to feel like we’re chasing our tails when we fall into that belief system.

Sure, I want to climb 5.13 again. But after that, I’ll also want to climb the next grade, and the next. There’s no ultimate satisfaction, only the passing affirmation that, yes, I can do that. I can run 10 miles or 13.1 or 26.2 or 100. I can climb route X or make salary Y. I did it. I can do it. I’m special goddamnit! Now onto the next thing.

And maybe that’s it. Maybe there’s nothing else but the eternal hamster wheel of accomplishment. But somehow it doesn’t feel right. After all, at some point we’ll all hit our peaks. Some day we won’t be on the upswing, no matter which key performance indicators we use to measure ourselves. And when that happens, no matter how high our point on the metaphorical mountain, we won’t have reached the top and we won’t have made a dent in the universe.

What then?

It seems like a silly question, but I think it’s one worth asking. And sooner rather than later.

While climbing at Owl Tor I felt that, with some effort, I’d likely regain my prior prowess. But I also saw someday that wouldn’t be the case. I looked out ahead and saw a life that, at its longest, would never be nearly long enough to satisfy my human obsession for more. I decided the only sane thing to do is work to drop the baggage that was weighing me down. I climbed with the pleasure of someone who might never climb any better than on that day… and it was enough.

One day. One climb. One blog post. One run. One moment. The past is a dream and the future isn’t guaranteed. There’s not much room in the middle to be overly concerned with bullshit.

Or at least, that’s how it seems to me these days.



I have a simple morning yoga routine I use to help get my blood moving. Every day, I unroll my cheap yoga mat (a Target special) and perform the sequence of 12 poses, my focus tuned to the rhythm of my breath. Lately when I roll the mat back up, I’ve noticed the damn thing is falling apart.

There’s not much to the mat. It’s made from some sort of spongy pinkish purple foam. The foam is textured into rows of tiny spheres about the size of peppercorns. My guess is that the spheres are supposed to approximate a woven texture and perhaps provide extra grip. Each time I use the mat, it breaks down a little more, spreading nodules of foam rubber across the living room, where they seem to disappear (I hypothesize my dog has been eating them).

My yoga mat’s decomposition causes a little twinge of discomfort, as I know I may have to retire the thing prematurely. The thought of putting the big roll of foam rubber in the trash and buying a new one makes me feel mottainai, which is an excellent Japanese phrase “conveying a sense of regret concerning waste.”

I’ve been stricken by the mottainai feeling a lot lately. I’m not sure why, but sometime in the last year I’ve grown increasingly uncomfortable with throwing away useful things or things not fully used up. For us Americans it’s a cultural norm to buy things we don’t need and “chuck” anything we don’t want. Many of us treat our discarded stuff as if it vanishes once it enters the trash can. Such blindness to the basic consequences of our actions is on sad display at fast food restaurants, where workers constantly empty massive bins of wrappers and napkins and cups throughout the day. That’s mottainai.

As climbers, a more conscious way of consuming is often forced upon us: by the limitations of what we can fit in our packs or our vans, or by what we can afford to buy when living on the road without steady jobs. Like monks of old, we’ve learned to make do with a single bowl (plus a cup, a pocket knife, a spork, and maybe a pot or a pan…). We eat every last nugget of granola or slice of bread. When the cheese gets moldy, we carve off the mold and eat on. The dirtbag’s aversion to waste and excess is born of necessity but holds a wider significance.

With that in mind, I’m going to keep using that old yoga mat until it fails to serve its role, after which I’ll consider getting a new, more durable one… or whether I even need a mat at all. I’ll resist the urge to upgrade the mat now, as the feeling of mottainai is far more troublesome than the aesthetic displeasure of a cheap and battered yoga mat.

I think everyone should be attuned to this sense of mottainai. While uncomfortable at first, it can lead to its own opposite: the feeling of satisfaction that comes from using something fully up and wasting as little as possible. I don’t know if there’s a word for this sense, but it’s one of life’s great satisfactions and worthy of diligent practice.


Climbing Gyms: The Saga Continues

A woman climbing on a steep wall in a gym in Colorado.
Robin M. climbing at one of the first American Mega Gyms, Movement Climbing + Fitness, in Boulder, Colorado.

When I started climbing a quarter century ago, there was really only one kind of indoor climbing experience. It involved simple plywood walls, mostly vertical, that were rarely more than 30 feet tall. These would be sparsely populated with a mix of homemade and “professionally made” handholds.

These first-generation gyms could be found in non-descript business centers, shoehorned into whatever space could be had on the cheap. As such, they were often dark, dusty, and/or drafty, full of exposed cinderblock, rubber chip, and stained old carpet.

Most gym owners in this era were themselves ex-dirtbag climbers who wanted a cool place to train in the off season and couldn’t stomach the idea of working for the man. Few of them could have foreseen the brave new world of plastic pulling that lay just ahead.

Sometime around the turn of the millennium, the boom of climbers who had taken to the walls thanks to those early gyms drove new economic opportunities, leading to more gyms, substantially bigger and nicer than before. Health clubs added walls to their banks of fitness machinery and universities constructed them in their rec centers.

Today the artificial climbing wall landscape is more varied and more professional than ever. It’s growing steadily, too, as evinced by the existence of outlets like the Climbing Business Journal (“news and advice for the indoor climbing industry”) and the non-profit Climbing Wall Association.

If you’re a climber in America looking to get inside, you’ll encounter a landscape packed with many great (and some not so great) places to climb. Among them, I’ve noticed the following major classes. Feel free to add others I’ve missed in the comments.

A climber on a wall at an old school gym
Climbing at an OG Gym.
  • OG Gyms – Basic, aesthetically uninteresting, and often found in windowless and poorly ventilated warehouses, these gyms were the trailblazers of their day. Now OG Gyms are phasing out—either closing down or modernizing in the face of increased competition and a more demanding clientele. Still, many persist. A good crew and a sense of humor are key to surviving if you’re stuck with an OG Gym.
  • Woodies – Home walls designed for the ultimate in easy-access training. Most people build woodies—so called due to their all-wood construction—in their garages, basements, or backyards. Unfortunately, the only way to access a woody is to have one at your place… or be buds with someone who does.
  • Co-ops – Co-ops are collectively supported gyms that operate for the good of the membership (read: sans profit). Typically a group of climbers will go in on a rental space and supplies to build a wall, and then others who want to join kick in a membership that grants them access and covers rent, setting, and maintenance costs. An advanced example of a co-op is Slo Op Climbing, in San Louis Obispo, California.
  • Bouldering Gyms – It wasn’t long ago that bouldering was considered practice for longer climbs, but these days it’s booming as a pursuit of its own, and the gyms are following suit.
  • Health Club Hangs – Health clubs can be pretty boring. In order to keep people excited about consistently going inside a space that feels like an office stocked with futuristic torture devices, management needs to constantly up the ante. New classes, new machines, and, when the budget’s there, a craggily new climbing wall. Quality in these places varies immensely based on the club’s level of dedication to climbing. One spot I used to frequent, the Manhattan Plaza Health Club, had a pretty solid climbing scene going.
  • Educlimbables – I was an early employee at my university’s wall in NYC. Built in the diminutive space of a converted racquetball court, it offered minimal diversity, but it was an early example of what would become a hot trend. Today, colleges and universities, high schools, and even elementary schools have taken up the climbing craze. As a part of their effort to get climbing into the Olympics, USA Climbing established the Collegiate Climbing Series. New Jersey Governor Chris Christie even took it on himself to criticize the so-called rock wall “epidemic” sweeping higher ed and wasting unsuspecting parents’ dollars.
  • Mega Gyms – In addition to huge amounts of climbing surface and professional-grade setters, mega gyms offer extensive fitness and wellness facilities. Pilates, yoga, full weights and cardio equipment, even day care—the mega gym is designed to operate as much like a high-end health club as a training center, albeit with the focus still squarely set on vertical activities. Mega Gyms are well lit, clean, and modern where it counts. Some have full service pro shops and a few even have cafés with wifi. The Climbing Business Journal put together a list of the biggest gyms in the country as of 2013. Most of these would fall into the Mega Gym category.
  • Urban Crags – This category has one standout player in it, but I think it’s significant enough to warrant mention. Brooklyn Boulders has four locations in major urban zones around the country and appears to be adding more. The Sommersville, Massachusetts, location was described in a Bloomberg news piece as “a rock-climbing gym designed to double as a co-working haven for entrepreneurs.” These gyms are catering to a different crowd than your typical spot in the midwest or mountain west. More diverse, more affluent, and more career oriented, BKB and other urban gyms are specifically targeting groups not traditionally associated with climbing, and they’re doing really well in the process. What will the climbing demographic look like in 20 years? Brooklyn Boulders may offer a preview…


Adrenaline Is a Fact

Chris Sharma falling at Psicocomp.

It’s always bothered me when folks characterize climbing as a thrill sport, painting climbers as adrenaline junkies seeking their next fix on the sharp end. I haven’t bothered to deal directly with this topic for a variety of reasons, but a recent public radio interview stoked the longsmoldering ember.

The show was To the Best of Our Knowledge, and producer Anne Strainchamps asked celebrated war photographer James Nachtwey about the stereotype of the thrill-seeking war journalist. “Adrenaline is a fact but it’s not a reason,” Nachtway responded, adding, “adrenaline is part of the job because it’s actually necessary to survive. But there are deeper reasons for pursuing the profession than adrenaline.” Great answer, James.

Likewise there are deeper reasons for climbing than the thrill. For example, I’ve seen climbing help rebuild confidence and connections for those traumatized in battle. I’ve built lifelong friendships on the shared foundation of climbing. Climbing can be a profound tool for reconnecting the modern, hyper-distracted consciousness with the all too often sedentary modern body. And climbing has long served as gateway to a personal connection with the natural world—a connection that, in turn, has spurred many to help protect our precious and ever-threatened wild places.

Yes, the tang of fear can add a heady complexity to climbing’s flavor profile, but the thrill-seeking component of climbing is, for the majority of us, seasoning and not the meat of the matter.

At the same time, it’s important to remember that climbing is about control. A little adrenaline can focus the mind, but when adrenaline surges, tunnel vision sets in and you’re more likely to overgrip, to make wild movements… to make a mistake.

Alex Honnold, whose forte is the long, difficult—and to most climbers, horrifying—ropeless climbs, isn’t down with adrenaline. “If I get a rush, it means that something has gone horribly wrong,” he said in a 60 Minutes interview. The rush that kicks in when we push too far into the danger zone is the climber’s enemy.

I’ve been climbing for a good quarter century and I’ve faced my share of hairy moments: run out over questionable cam placements, topping out highball boulders, sacrificing clips in favor of a redpoint go. But it was never the rush that drew me—it was the question posed by the challenge, of which fear and the attendant exhilaration were only components.

And in the end, learning to face and control fear can be an important journey. After all, to deal with this life, full of suffering and guaranteed to end in death, we must find a way to face the gravest possibilities with a modicum of composure, to not let ultimate consequences distract us from the task at hand.

As a climber, the adrenaline may in fact be there, and it may even heighten the experience so that it sticks in my memory like an iridescent shard, but the adrenaline is not the reason I climb. The reason, or reasons, are far bigger than that. Big enough to last for decades and serve as the cornerstone of a life. For some reason I feel that’s an important distinction to make.

Let My People Go Flailing

Wipeout - Lennox Head Surfers - 7 Mile Beach. Photo: Neerav Bhatt via Creative Commons
Wipeout – Lennox Head Surfers – 7 Mile Beach. Photo: Neerav Bhatt via Creative Commons

“So do I wear clothes under this thing or…?”

“Nah, you can just go buck. That’s what most people do,” said Jimmy, handing me a beach towel-poncho hybrid I was to don for coverage while changing into a borrowed wetsuit in the busy parking lot at Ventura’s hyper-popular C Street surf break.

I took off my glasses and immediately realized I’d be flying, or rather floating, blind during this exercise, my first foray into art of riding ocean waves. (“It’s the hardest thing ever,” my climbing buddy Alex had explained, perhaps in an effort to save me from underestimating the nature of the challenge.)

A short wrestling match later and I was in the wetsuit, feeling both comforted and constricted by its strange, rubbery embrace. I hoisted the huge, glaring white foam beginners board up under my arm, barley spanning its breadth. Down to the water we went, picking our way over waterround rocks and into the shallows, where I could not keep my footing on the slick bed of uneven cobbles obscured by recurring washes of whitewater.

It all started that morning in the office when, in true Patagonia Let My People Go Surfing fashion, my boss declared it was time to hit the waves. I closed my laptop and packed my bag, feeling excited, a little nervous, but hopeful. I ended up feeling like even more of a beginner than I imagined. A super beginner. A true gumby (or “jerry,” if you will). Alex estimated he was a 5.8 surfer. I’m not sure I’d even be able to locate myself in the fifth-class scale.

Just paddling was substantially harder than I’d expected, and I kept getting turned around or tipped off into the water. My shoulder muscles were depleted within minutes. I had to rest constantly and feared getting so tired I wouldn’t be able to slog my ass back to shore. The guys I’d started with were already long gone, fuzzy dots in a distant crowd to my uncorrected vision.

I floated around on the periphery of the lineup, trying to stay out of the way, then made a half-hearted effort to catch a wave. Really I was just hoping to get a boost in my landward quest. My arms were too tired to produce the necessary burst of speed to match pace with a cresting wave, much less pop me up onto my feet. I used up the rest of my reserve tank just returning to shore, belly firmly on board.

The concept of “beginner’s mind” is popular in Zen philosophy. The famous quote from Shunryu Suzuki goes “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few.” After my first experience with surfing though, I feel the urge to call bullshit.

While it’s true that I brought an unstructured approach to the matter, paddling into the ocean was so hard for me that I was almost completely occupied with basic survival. My “beginner’s mind” was rather narrow, in fact, focused as it was on not panicking or drowning. I felt none of the pliant openness a newbie supposedly brings to a task. I felt stiff and uncomfortable—flowless, if you will.

There’s a particular discomfort that comes when first trying something for which you have no aptitude. As a climber of 25 years, I’m accustomed to a certain level of comfort with vertical challenges, even ones that require serious effort to tackle. This makes starting at square one in the ocean all the more humbling.

So what’s the point?

The point is, I think, to face up to a new activity without needing to be good at it—in the near term… or maybe ever.  And because it’s not “my thing,” I look forward to using surfing as a way to practice an openness and humility that can be hard to bring to crafts with which I’m more familiar, like climbing.

Now that I think of it, maybe that’s the beginner’s mind Suzuki was talking about.

Waking up In the Dark

A dark room in the night

I wake and it’s dark and I don’t know where I am. I look around for something familiar in the arrangement of half-light and shadow but there’s nothing to anchor me to solid reality. Is this Utah or England? California or Colorado? House or hotel or… . I’m floating in an obscure space. How I got here and why—such facts have yet to resolve themselves, and therefore who I am is still in the process of coming into focus, too. It’s a scary feeling at first, disorienting and tinged with panic.

As my reflex response starts to fade into semi-wakefulness, I take a moment to breathe and except the not-knowing. It’s a strange feeling at first, to be OK with the uncertainty of everything. My mind has already constructed multiple monstrous universes to fill this darkness. I let them all fade and focus on the other, more peaceful side of losing one’s self. Here, in an unexpected moment, I can enter a state of no-mind. I lie back down and go with it, focusing only on my breath and the sensations of being in bed, half covered by sheets, a cool breeze blowing over me. Soon I fade back into sleep.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately, and my wife and I are in the midst of the disruptive process of pulling up stakes and moving to another state. It’s thrown my system a little out of alignment and stirred up reality-scrambling moments like the one above. As I write this, I’m on the second floor of a motel, in a room overlooking a Burger King in the southern Utah desert. We’ve just finished cleaning out our old house and are on our way to a new, unfamiliar one. Literally and metaphorically, things feel very “in-between.”

The thing that can make moving and travel so stressful, I think, is the loss of the identity we form in a place over time. Our home and friends, our job and favorite places, the routine of it all—we build stories around these things, with ourselves at the center. When we leave the familiar behind, it can feel like we’re leaving ourselves behind, too. When we go towards the unfamiliar, the future is obscure, a dark wall on which we project the magic lantern of our mind.

But when we hold our sense of self lightly, and let go of the expectations we’ve been trained to apply to the future, things become less troubling. We can relax into the simplicity of the unending present and live life as it comes. We can look at the unfamiliar without fear and rest easier, if only for this night.


Where Surf Meets Stone

Surfers at a point break in Ventura, California.

The sun was setting on the Pacific Ocean as my wife and I took our first walk together along the beach in Ventura, California. We passed drifters talking in manic monologues, slowed to a crawl behind shuffles of retirees, and were passed by joggers hustling to make it home before the sun’s light fully faded. We strolled the paved promenade upcoast until we saw them: schools of waveriders undulating in the water at Surfer’s Point Park.

There we leaned on a fence railing and watched them for a while. Scattered unevenly outside the foamy chaos of the break, the surfers watched the horizon intently. Whenever a promising swell approached, a few would rotate and begin to paddle towards shore. One or two would find himself caught up in the lip of a cresting wave, at which point he’d kip up onto his feet and, depending on skill level and luck, catch a ride along shore. The repetitive dance of it was hypnotic.

In the parking lot behind us were old Winnebagos, Sprinter vans, station wagons, SUVs, and minivans, all converted in one way or another for surf life, with racks on top and livable (depending on your standards) quarters inside. There was even a bike leaned up against the rail that some dedicated soul had modified with an improvised surfboard carrier on the side, all plastic piping and foam and duct tape.

A couple of guys jogged up off the beach with boards under arm. At their vehicles, they began the process of peeling back wetsuits and rinsing off sea water. Chatting to each other about the conditions and the rides of the afternoon, they seemed so similar to the climbers I normally found myself with—the lifestyle of it, identities intermeshed with the activity itself, jobs and possessions carefully crafted to enable as much time in pursuit of the passion as possible…

Surfing and climbing have long invited comparison. Both are, despite wavelike peaks in mainstream popularity, largely countercultural, particularly when held up beside big-money sports like football, basketball, soccer, etc. Both are one-player games (the partnership aspect of roped climbing not withstanding). Both take place in natural settings and thereby encourage a certain environmentalist mindset. Both feature a heavy focus on flow states bordering on mysticism. Both inspire questing, dirtbag lifestyles, as acolytes seek out the next great spot—ideally one the crowds haven’t yet discovered.

Of course, there are many differences too, but the similarities are too numerous to dismiss. On the whole, those who live to surf and those who live to climb seem cut from a similar cloth.

I’ve been reading a book called Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life, by William Finnegan. The author is a lifelong surfer and a staff writer at The New Yorker, and his book is an extensive memoir structured around the surf spots that were both backdrop to and integral part of his personal development. Throughout the book, there are passages that could as well be describing the experiences of a climber as a surfer. A few examples:

  • “I did not consider even passingly, that I had a choice when it came to surfing. My enchantment would take me where it would.”
  • “Waves were the playing field. They were the goal. They were the object of your deepest desire and adoration. At the same time they were your adversary, your nemesis, even your mortal enemy.”
  • “I did love the water, and even saw it, from an early age, as my own medium of escape from dull striving, from landlocked drudgery.”
  • “Chasing waves in a dedicated way was both profoundly egocentric and selfless, dynamic and ascetic, radical in its rejection of the values of duty and conventional achievement.”
  • “Being rich white Americans in dirt-poor places where many people, especially the young, yearned openly for the life, the comforts, the very opportunities that we, at least for the seemingly endless moment, had turned our backs on — well, it would simply never be O.K.” [This one is particularly interesting.]

I suppose my thesis is that climbing and surfing share a certain essential nucleus, even if their specific expressions are quite different. Living here in surf-centric Ventura, less than a half-day’s drive from Joshua Tree and Yosemite, I’m looking forward to testing this hypothesis on a more intimate level.

Would love to hear your thoughts on the matter, too.

The Blind Men and the Elephant

An illustration entitled "Blind monks examining an elephant", an ukiyo-e print by Hanabusa Itchō (1652–1724).

Have you ever heard the story of the blind men and the elephant? There are many variations, but it can be traced back to Asia, where it became a part of Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist teachings, among others. In essence, it is as follows:

A king asks a group of blind men to come to his palace and identify the object before them (it’s an elephant). Each man feels a part of the great beast and then exclaims he knows what it is: one says it’s clearly a pillar, another other suggests a plow, yet another says he is holding a brush… . But the first was responding only to the shape of the elephant’s leg, the second its trunk, the third the tip of its tail, and so on.

Each of the metaphorical blind men claim to have a hold on the whole truth based on the limited slice of reality they have before them, but the king sees clearly this is not the case.

Setting aside the strange behavior of the king (was he just trying to give these blind guys a hard time? Having a courtly laugh at their expense?!), I think this little scenario contains some important ideas. Like the blind men, each of us brings his or her own prejudices and perspectives to bear. Each offers judgements based solely on a little piece of a bigger picture. But the problem is that we tend to give our own perspectives too much weight and expound on them as if they be true with a capital “T.”

In some versions of the story, the men fall on each other in violence, as if to demonstrate that all of humanity’s great differences spring from blindness, self-certainty, and the inability to see the much grander reality. We fight over doctrine and ideology, the story whispers from beneath its farcical exterior, but really we’re all talking about the same thing.

Even if the king were to explain the elephant to the blind men, they would be unable to see it as he saw it. Which maybe is the point after all: even the king had only a partial understanding of the elephant—he couldn’t see from the elephant’s perspective, he would never know how the elephant lived in the wild with the rest of its parade, nor could he understand the inner biological processes that made the elephant’s life possible.

None of us will ever see the whole elephant, as it were, so the best we can do is admit that there’s much more to the world than we can understand, and accept that from other angles things might appear quite different.

The Book of Changes

A flaming log in a campfire.

“Blaming life for changing is like blaming fire for being hot.” I wrote this in my freshman year of college, in an email to my good friend Mike. We were attending schools in different states and had sought out a correspondence to deal with the newness of it all. Both of us were facing what felt like overwhelming changes at the time. We were out from under the watch of our parental units and confronted with all manner of unfamiliar responsibilities and scenarios.

I don’t recall what my point was exactly with that platitude about fire; it was the kind of thing I’d spout in a moment of poetic reverie without fully understanding why. Now though, nearly two decades on, it makes a certain kind of sense to me. Heat can cause problems—it can burn—but it is essential to the thing we call fire, inseparable, and also what makes it useful. Likewise, the mercurial natural of this ride we call life… let’s just say it’s pointless to take offense at such things.

These remembrances of things past come easily to mind of late, I think, because change looms large on my horizon. In a week, my wife and I will leave behind our little blue bungalow in Salt Lake City and move to the California coast, just a few hours north of Los Angeles. I’ll be moving on from Petzl, where I’ve worked happily for almost six years, to Patagonia, a company whose story I’ve been following with interest for over a decade. My wife and our dog will stand as constants, along with some furnishings and sundry books and artifacts, but not much else. Just life doing that change thing again. The funny thing about change is, even when you recognize its inevitability, it’s bound to catch you off guard.

The first response most of us have to change is fear. Change is scary in the same way darkness is—we can’t see what lies ahead, and so we fill in the blanks with phantasms of our own making. But it’s important to remember that there’s no real alternative to change. The things we identify with and attach ourselves to are bound to shift, evolve, and eventually fade away, one way or another. (In Buddhism, this concept is known as anicca, or impermanence, and it’s one of the three marks of existence.) A static world in which we can hold on to anything, even ourselves, exists only as a philosophical concept. Change, ironically, is the one constant we can count on.

So, with that in mind, I’m working to let go of the dualities my brain is trying to bring to this latest set of changes—the pros and cons, the fears and desires. Instead I try to focus on each step in the process and let the change happen, as it will whether I welcome it or not. The past is a memory and the future is a dream—what happens in between is an infinitesimal point that flickers and dances like a flame. The truth of this condition can only be experienced, not intellectually understood nor directly expressed. Some things never change.

If You Want to Be Good at Something

Woman sitting on a bench overlooking Boulder, Colorado

Most people want to be good at something. They want to be like the characters they see on TV: doctors, fighter pilots, FBI agents, writers, musicians… all at the top of their game. Our social order is built around this type of obvious success. Wealth, influence, virtuosic skill that draws the attention of the many. A good number of us want to be good at making money, as this is a proxy for many other types of success. If you’re reading this blog, you probably dream of being a great climber, and choose to center your life around this goal.

But it has been my experience that people who are very good at things, the type of people who most of us look up to and admire for their excellence, are not necessarily the happiest people. Often the focus and determination required to be the best spring from a sort of restlessness, a dissatisfaction with oneself or one’s position in life. It is all too common for a person rich in possessions or achievements to suffer from a certain paucity of spirit. The major religions of the world tend to agree on this point, which is why they like to remind us that the king and the peasant are equal in the eyes of God or gods.

I have met few people who would say they strive first to be good at life. What do I mean by being good at life? I mean to be generally happy, to live by one’s own moral code as closely as possible, to be accepting of the world as it is and people as they are, to be comfortable in one’s own skin, to be balanced and stable yet not stubborn, to be honest with oneself and others, to see with eyes unclouded by fear and desire, etc. I think of a person who is good at life as one who, for no obvious reason, makes others feel at ease; a person who has a certain naturalness and realness. It’s a vague concept, I’ll admit. Like most things of true value, you can’t fully define it or directly measure it.

She who seeks to be good at life cultivates certain skills, I think: patience, self-awareness, the art of putting things in perspective. She should have empathy, without being easily swayed by others. Help others without neglecting herself. She must be flexible, fluid, adaptable. She must strive to improve without succumbing to the delusion of perfection (even the most finely crafted blade is a jagged mess when viewed under magnification). She seeks to learn when to hold fast and when to let go, and how to carry the profoundest things lightly in her heart.

When one endeavors to be good at life first, and good at everything else second, much becomes clear. (Although in practice they are typically parallel, and even interwoven, pursuits.) The world’s greatest baseball player might also abuse his spouse, seek competitive advantage through illegal drugs, or suffer from great egotism or rage. We would say this person excels in his sport, but not in his life. This seems like the most absurd of scenarios, but it is common, perhaps because there’s no organization dedicated to identifying and rewarding those who are skilled in the art of life. Scientists have the Nobel Prize, writers the Pulitzer. There are Emmys and Grammys and all manner of lifetime achievement award. But to win any of these is no guarantee at all of one’s aptitude for living.

It is a bit of common wisdom that one should set his own house in order before trying to change the world. Likewise that a person who does not love herself is handicapped when it comes to loving others. So it is with those who care only about being the best at some external thing while neglecting the internal—they have it backwards. How long should a person wait before turning attention to the real root of their problems? In Buddhism, it is said that our conscious understanding of this world is like a house on fire. As soon as we realize it’s on fire, we need to turn our efforts to getting out. There is nothing lasting for us there.

Academically rigorous minds will likely see these words as fluff… and maybe they are. It is only a sense I get; something I’ve noticed in my decades on this planet, trying to make sense of things. Still, it seems clear that if you want to be good at something, you should first aspire to be good at life, after which everything else will probably make more sense.

9 Reasons to Not Wear Your Helmet

A damaged rock climbing helmet.
This helmet has seen some action.

These days I wear my helmet while cragging, mostly because I’ve been around long enough to hear and see firsthand what can happen when you don’t. I’ve witnessed climbers who hooked the rope behind their heel, flipped upside down, and swung into the wall back first. I’ve heard of belayers dropping their climbers into melon-splitting talus. I’ve watched as climbers dislodged chunks of rock down onto their belayers with bloody results. I’ve seen cobbles spontaneously drop from the roofs of caves as unsuspecting climbers strolled through the landing zone.

All of the above took place at sport crags, where most climbers consciously opt out of cranial protection. Horror stories abound, and yet legion are the climbers who will go to the mats over their belief that helmets need not be standard-issue equipment. Following are just some of the common arguments I’ve heard against helmet use, along with a brief response. I’m happy to hear your thoughts on the matter in the comments section.

Not all Cases

“If you get hit by a big-ass rock, a helmet’s not going to do anything anyway.”

The Stone Mind responds: Yes, and if a semi rolls over your car, your airbag isn’t going to help, either. But in many cases helmets will help, so it’s better to wear one (and also to have an airbag) than not.

Pick and Choose

“I only wear a helmet in high-risk scenarios: on multi-pitch routes, crags with known rock fall problems, in the mountains, or on ice climbs.”

The Stone Mind responds: I think of a helmet like health insurance: hopefully you never have to use it, but when you need it you’ll be very glad to have it. Add to that the fact that few of us have the Sherlock-like perspicacity to safely judge when and where we truly need a helmet, anyway. Particularly ill-equipped to make such judgements are all the new climbers flocking from gym to crag. Hence, you’re not only protecting your own dome when you helmet up, but you’re setting an example for all those innocent n00bs.

Born Free

“Climbing is about freedom, and helmets detract from that experience.”

The Stone Mind responds: Motorcyclists make this argument, too. It holds up really well until an accident happens. Then all that freedom is goes the window and you find yourself in a hospital bed, relearning how to use a fork and knife. Plus, how much freedom does a lightweight helmet really suck from your experience on the rock? More than your harness and rope?

Slippery Slope

“Next you’ll say we should be wearing helmets in the car or walking down the street!”

The Stone Mind responds: Probably not. I mean, the car analogy doesn’t hold up because in any modern vehicle you’re already surrounded by multiple layers of safety, like antilock brakes, airbags, impact zones, seat belts, and more. And clearly, walking on a sidewalk and scaling a wall of friable stone with nothing but a strand of rope for protection exist on different ends of the risk spectrum when it comes to the likelihood of head injury. But you know who does wear helmets? Cyclists, skateboarders (in parks, anyway), snowboarders, football players, (most) motorcyclists, race car drivers, and many other user groups who run a significant risk of cranial impact.

Hot Headed

“Helmets make me sweat, are heavy, chafe, and in general aren’t comfy.”

The Stone Mind responds: Maybe back in the day, but modern helmet technology has come a long way. Most major brands now offer well ventilated, ultralight options that weigh half a pound or even less… not much more than that  beanie you insist on wearing even when it’s hot enough to take your shirt off.

Pay to Play

“I can’t afford a helmet; I spent all my money on cams.”

The Stone Mind responds: That is a good point. Can’t skimp on those cams. Still, I bet you can find a brain bucket on sale somewhere for under fifty simoleons. Or your buddy who works in the industry can probably hook you with a bro deal, amiright??!

The Catch

“I heard someone once got a carabiner hooked on their chin strap and then fell and ended up getting hung.”

The Stone Mind responds: This kind of reasoning is often trotted out by seatbelt haters, who suggest buckling up is actually dangerous because it could trap you in a flaming car. I’m sure such tragedies have occurred in the history of the world, but I think we should be more concerned about the scenario likely to happen 99.9% of the time versus the one that happens 0.1% of the time, don’t you? Like the scenario where your helmet prevents injury and doesn’t cause it…

Peer Pressure

“No one else at the crag is wearing one!”

The Stone Mind responds: The standard mom response works pretty well here: if everyone decided to jump off a bridge, would you?! (Don’t answer that, BASE jumpers.) Luckily, helmets appear to be more and more common at the crags, perhaps as a result of a younger generation accustomed to wearing protection on bikes, boards, and skis.

I Do What I Want

“I don’t care what you say—you’re not the helmet police and no one can make me wear one.”

The Stone Mind responds: This is absolutely correct. If you understand that a helmet might help save you from serious pain and suffering, and that wearing one needn’t be a great burden in terms weight or comfort or financial cost, and you still choose not to wear one, then there’s not much to be said. You can also choose to climb without a rope, live without health insurance, and drive without a seatbelt (though the latter is illegal in most states). It is your life and your health—may the force be with you!


Disclaimer: I work for Petzl, a company that manufactures helmets. However, as a climber of more than two decades, the views in this post are entirely my own and informed by my own experiences. This blog is in no way intended to advocate the use of any particular brand of helmet over another. Add to that the fact that helmets are not designed for nor capable of preventing all the dangers of climbing. Educate yourself, read the manufacturer’s technical information provided with your helmet, and decide for yourself when and how to use your helmet.

The Climber’s Religion

Devil's Tower at sunrise. Photo by Bradley Davis: BackpackPhotography (via Creative Commons)
Devil’s Tower at sunrise. Photo by Bradley Davis: BackpackPhotography.

“Climbing is my religion.” I’ve heard it many times, often in an effort to express the depth of feeling the speaker holds for climbing. Other times it’s been a response to the diminution of climbing as “recreation,” a “pastime,” or a “sport,” or to conflicts between more commonly accepted religions and climbing,

Typically, such conflicts have arisen in the mountain West, between Native American tribes and climbers, who by dint of public land use statutes have been allowed to climb on rock formations that various tribes deem sacred. Perhaps the best known such site is Devil’s Tower, where over a dozen tribes claim religious or ancestral ties. Many climbers claim a religious connection of their own in the act of climbing the 1,200-foot igneous intrusion.

I lean towards skepticism when it comes to such claims of climbing’s deeper significance. Just because we love rock climbing and dedicate our time, money, and energy to it, doesn’t mean it’s our religion. A religion has so much more to it, doesn’t it? There’s ritual and context, history and culture. Us climbers, we were just fooling around—albeit in a pretty serious way—right?

But for some reason the idea of climbing as religion stuck with me, maybe because I’ve never been entirely clear on what a religion is or isn’t, anyway. Is a holy book required? Millions of followers? A thousand-year-old history? The Internal Revenue Service defines a “church” for the purposes of taxation or lack thereof, listing attributes such as: definite and distinct ecclesiastical government, established places of worship, schools for the preparation of its members, literature of its own, and more. It would be hard to see climbing fitting this admittedly loose definition… And yet…

In his book The Varieties of Religious Experience, the famed late-nineteenth century philosopher and psychologist William James reviews an assortment of specific cases of religious believers. He concludes that there is “a common nucleus to which they bear their testimony unanimously,” and that it consists of two parts: “1. An uneasiness; and 2. Its solution.” The first is an uneasiness about ourselves, that we are fallen from grace or under the spell of a delusion. The second is the belief that “we are saved from the wrongness by making proper connection with the higher powers.”

A connection with higher powers, in the religious context, is often described as an overwhelming sense of oneness with something greater than oneself and a disconnection from the day-to-day struggles and worries that consume our conscious minds. A Christian might call this a direct connection with God. A Buddhist would say it’s a taste of Nirvana. Plenty of climbers have felt such connection high above the earth, moving over rock faces and mountain slopes.

In an attempt to further unyoke such connection from any specific belief system, the contemporary philosopher Sam Harris writes, “Spirituality must be distinguished from religion—because people of every faith, and of none, have had the same sorts of spiritual experiences.” In his book Waking Up, he defines spirituality simply as “repeatedly cutting through the illusion of the self.”

With all this in mind, I might suggest that many climbers (though certainly not all) share this essential human experience that is so often tied to religion but, depending on who you ask, need not be. Many climbers experience an uneasiness with the world as it is and life as it is commonly lived. We also believe we have found a solution in the act of climbing, which helps us connect with something bigger than our day-to-day selves.

Neither the IRS nor practitioners of the world’s many recognized religions are likely to buy climbing’s holy claims. Where is our good book? Our ordained ministers? Our formal code of doctrine? In the end, the only thing we have is our direct experience of the sublime, those moments where the self dissolves into pure being and acting, often in the original and most primal place of human worship: nature.

It may not be enough to garner any official designation, but I think this is the experiential underpinning on which all religions are built, and without which all the hallowed traditions and rituals of the world would seem as flat as filling out a tax form.

Bodhi’s Final Lessons

Bodhi the dog out camping in City of Rocks, Idaho.

If you’ve been reading this blog for long enough, you might have noticed a post or two about a dog named Bodhi, who my wife and I adopted from an animal shelter back in 2010. Bodhi was a blue heeler, a particularly intelligent, energetic breed of canine designed to tirelessly herd livestock. Heelers are popular among rock climbers, probably for their toughness, obedience, and ability to go almost anywhere. (Dean Potter had one named Whisper, who even joined him on some of his wing suit flights.)

My wife and I picked Bodhi from a row of caged dogs in varying states of distress. He was meek, his tail wrapped tightly under his body, mouth shut and ears back. In the little open air zone where we were allowed to interact with him, he shrank from our touch and cowered at the excited sniffings of a puppy a fraction of his size. Looking back, I think maybe we could have seen that Bodhi had issues, but it was our first time adopting and we assumed shelter life was to blame for his timidity. He would relax, we figured, once he got used to his new home with us.

In those early days, I was excited to take Bodhi to the crag and on hikes in the mountains, a red bandana tied around his neck a la Mad Max. And while he did enjoy hiking, our trips to the crag didn’t go as planned. The first time I brought him out, he got into fights with any dog who came near for a sniff. He growled at people who tried to pet him. At home, he didn’t fare much better, showing his teeth at any prolonged physical contact and choosing to segregate himself from us when possible.

We tried several trainings, consulted books and websites, talked to our friends who worked with dogs for a living, and spent endless hours trying to exercise Bodhi into a better mindset, but his issues only worsened over time. We spent considerably on a training operation that specialized in problem dogs. We boarded him there when we traveled, and brought him there many weekend mornings for “dog socialization,” where we walked around in circles in a large room with other dogs and owners, in an effort to help them grow accustomed to each other and to other humans. All to little effect.

Bodhi was at his worst around his water. He drew blood on more than one occasion when my wife or I put down or picked up his bowl. We spent hours sitting passively by the water bowl, encouraging him simply to come and drink with us in proximity. It never worked. Increasingly he behaved as if everything around him was a threat, and no amount of evidence to the contrary could change that.

“This isn’t normal,” my wife told me. She had a dog growing up who was loving and snuggly and brought joy to the family. I never had a dog, so wasn’t sure how much work and training it was supposed to require. I was willing to put in the effort with Bodhi, and felt responsible for his behavior. When he growled or snapped at friends and strangers, I felt I had failed. Once my friend put his foot close to Bodhi’s food bowl and Bodhi bit it hard. I thought I was mad at my friend for antagonizing our problem dog, or at Bodhi for being so troubled… but really I was mad at myself for not being able to fix what was wrong.

His behavior only worsened. We tried a stricter program at the urging of a trainer. We put Bodhi in his crate and only took him out for structured periods of training, exercise, or feeding. It was hours a day of work, and it seemed only to agitate Bodhi rather than help him. He grew possessive of his crate and would bite at us when we opened or closed the door.

One night during a training session involving food, he bit my wife on the arm and held on, leaving a large, dark bruise. It was the first time I was willing to admit we might be out of options.

We asked the trainer we’d been working with for her opinion in light of everything that had happened. “Every once in a while, you just get a dog with a screw loose,” she admitted.

I spent several evenings after work calling around to other trainers, asking if they might know of specialized shelters or organizations who could take a dog like Bodhi. Maybe a farmer could use him as a work dog, I offered. Everyone said no. Most said it would be irresponsible to re-home a potentially dangerous animal. One women reminded me that many friendly, healthy dogs are put down in shelters every day, simply because there aren’t enough people to adopt them. Bodhi would only live on if we were willing to continue with him, it seemed.

It’s a strange thing, humanity’s companionship with dogs. Through millennia of breeding, we’ve created animals that can exist within our homes and our society, serve as helpers or even members of the family. We’ve created a narrow niche for them to live in our culture, but if a particular dog’s behavior doesn’t fit in that niche, there’s really not much of a place for them.

After almost three years, we chose to euthanize Bodhi. Despite all of the frustration, it was still one of the hardest choices I’ve made in my life. We’d worked for years to avoid the decision and discussed it—argued about it—for months. When the day came, we walked up and down the street out front of the veterinary clinic while they performed the procedure, crying uncontrollably as we paced through the morning light. And it was a funny feeling that came after: a mix of guilt and grief, but also of relief.

I figured we’d never get another dog. I felt like I’d blown it, and that life would be easier without the complication, anyway. But after six months, my wife started bringing up the idea of trying with another pup. I resisted for months more, feeling cold to the idea. Over time though, the friendly dogs we saw on our regular walks started to warm me.

Eventually, our friend tipped us to a brindle-patterned pug with bad allergies that was up for adoption. We went to meet the strange little beast, adopted her, and named her Pebble. She is an amazing being that brings us joy every day and melts hearts wherever she goes. She is happy to be a part of our pack and we’re happy to have her.

It’s been a year since we adopted Pebble, and I see now that my wife was right: our relationship with Bodhi wasn’t normal. There was little love; mostly anxiety and pain. There were moments when we could pretend things were normal—when he was playing fetch or running along side us in the foothills—but reality would snap back with the speed of an unprovoked bite in the car afterwards.

I’ll always harbor a sliver of doubt that we did everything we could have with Bodhi, but that is the nature of decisions in this life. In the theoretical world, there are infinitely many ways things can go. In the real world, we can walk just one path at a time. This tells me two things: 1) that we should always try in earnest to make the best, most informed, decisions we can every step of the way, and 2) that there’s no value in dwelling on what might have been; take the results of past decisions into consideration and refer to number 1.

Out of Office

Gone fishing sign. © anujraj

To be honest, I’m not planning to do any fishing, but I am on a little vacation. I leave you with this story called “The Real Miracle,”* about the 17th century Zen teacher Bankei:

When Bankei was preaching at Ryumon temple, a Shinshu priest, who believed in salvation through the repetition of the name of the Buddha of Love, was jealous of his large audience and wanted to debate with him.

Bankei was in the midst of a talk when the priest appeared, but the fellow made such a disturbance that Bankei stopped his discourse and asked about the noise.

“The founder of our sect,” boasted the priest, “had such miraculous power that he held a brush in his hand on one bank of the river, his attendant held up a paper on the other bank, and the teacher wrote the holy name of Amida through air. Can you do such a wonderful thing?”

Bankei replied lightly: “Perhaps your fox can perform that trick, but that is not the manner of Zen. My miracle is that when I feel hungry I eat, and when I feel thirsty I drink.”

See you next week.


*From the highly recommended Zen Flesh, Zen Bones.

You Are Here

You Are Here. The Stone Mind

One of climbing’s greatest benefits is the travel it entails. Most of my friends have been all over in search of great stone: France, Spain, Mexico, Turkey, Thailand, Australia, etc.

It’s not uncommon to grow addicted to this peripatetic lifestyle. We make new friends wherever we roam and depart before the inevitable complications begin to surface. We chase new vistas, sunsets over unfamiliar seas and mountains, the freedom of being untethered. Travel, for many of us, is an escape from the stultifying responsibilities (or at least, they can feel stultifying) of a life lived anchored in place—by job, family, financial obligations…

So it is that we lust after the latest destination. And while great experiences may indeed await us abroad, they are ultimately most valuable as channels into our inner geography.

All places we love are, in a sense, different doors to the inside. Each has a specific feel, a particular ambience, but really the place you end up loving is in your mind more than it is out there. (Consider how easily a place is colored by some joyous or disastrous event—a dull hospital façade’s radiance as the place where your child was born, or the haunted feel of a beautiful meadow where a plane once crashed). In short, much is available to us even when we’re sitting still. In fact, Zen practitioners view the seated position as ideal for accessing the sublime.

In one of his lectures, delivered in the 1969, the Sōtō Zen monk Shunryu Suzuki commented dismissively on the lunar landing, still fresh in the news: “If you [want to] find out something very interesting,” he said, “only way is—instead of hopping around the universe … —to enjoy our life in every minute … to observe things which we have now. … To live in the surrounding in its true sense.” To him, the wildly expensive and time consuming mission to the moon did not bring humanity one step closer to the type of understanding that mattered.

I think Suzuki was perhaps being a bit strict in his reaction, but I guess he didn’t want people getting distracted from the fact that the most important realizations don’t exist out there in the world (or on other celestial bodies)—they cannot be accessed by boat or car or space shuttle.

Still, I think traveling, like pondering zen koans or sitting in meditation, actually can help us better access the internal, if approached with the proper mindset. To focus only on achieving some goal, proving your superiority or escaping some unpleasantness, this is the mistake. But to follow our interests and inspiration to far away places with a love of each step in the process—here I think you can hardly go wrong.

Three Elements of Climbing: Balance, Timing, and Power

Three elements of climbing: balance, power, and timing

As a student, I worked at the university climbing gym with an odd character I’ll refer to as KP. This fellow claimed a disorder that somehow linked his left and right hand; when he gripped with one, the other was compelled to contract sympathetically. To adapt his climbing to his condition, KP developed a unique approach to climbing. He needed to execute moves very efficiently to be able to climb at all.

This approach, in turn, formed the basis of his teaching technique. Balance, timing, and power—these three elements were the building blocks of all climbing movement, KP believed. By mixing and matching them in various degrees, once could achieve the highest level of ability. And like the “four humors” of medical history, an imbalance of any of these elements would impede one’s development as a climber.

I’m not sure I ever fully bought in to KP’s philosophy. Still, there was something to it. It encapsulated some useful truths about climbing and allowed people an entrance into the subtle art of vertical movement. Here, a few thoughts on the three elements, based only vaguely on the ideas KP espoused those many years ago.

Balance – The most fundamental element of climbing is balance. Without balance, we would be flailing and straining constantly. It is the foundation on which everything is built.

Balance is the art of using our skeletons to support our weight under the pull of gravity. When we stand over foot holds on a vertical or slabby wall, we can hold ourselves easily on the smallest of pockets and edges. Our muscles can relax, almost as if we were standing on flat ground. This changes with the angle and shape of the wall, but the basic concept still holds, even if that means we’re balancing the pull of opposing holds against one another on an overhang.

The problem with balance is that moving the center of gravity requires us to exit perfect balance, in which case power and timing come into play. For example, when you go from standing to walking, you immediately begin to fall forward, swinging your leg out to catch yourself before going too far out of balance. In such a case, timing is critical to not falling on one’s face. Which leads us to our next point…

Timing – On a climb, timing allows us to move without relying only on power (strength, muscular exertion) to stay on the wall. A deadpoint is a moment that takes full advantage of timing. At the top of an upward movement, our bodies experience a brief moment of respite from gravity’s pull. Before our mass begins accelerating down, there’s a chance to grab a hold and control it. This is the deadpoint. Grab too soon or too late, and the movement becomes significantly harder to execute. Timing is the thing.

The points in a climbing movement that free us up to move our feet and hands are often fleeting, and a kinetic sensibility and general practice allow us to make the most of them. This is the art of timing. Paired with balance and power, it makes for that effortless style that the best climbers exhibit.

Power  I put power last not because it’s the least important, but because it’s the flashiest of the three elements and therefore can distract from the development of a well-rounded style. Most climbers think the best way to improve is to do pull-ups, lift weight, and hangboard, ignoring the development of balance and timing skills. Strength is the first attribute we cite when describing an impressive climber: “Oh, she’s strong,” or, “He’s a beast.”

One would be well served to focus on the development of balance and timing solely for much of one’s early climbing days, in an effort to become more efficient and controlled. Muscular fortitude will come somewhat naturally as a result of practice, and can then be augmented as needed through training after such good techniques are in place.

The three elements of balance, timing, and power are really inseparable. To develop one without developing the others at all is nearly impossible. But it is certainly possible to rely too much on one at the expense of the others.

A climber who leans on balance too much is often afraid to attempt dynamics, and thus get stumped by anything he can’t reach with a relatively static motion.

A timing-reliant climber will move too quickly, often putting herself out of balance and relying on fast reflexes to stay on the wall—the problem here is that the slightest misfire will result in a sudden descent.

And power climbers, while able to lock off or campus through moves impressively, can easily find themselves in situations where a simple balance shift or a deft dynamic snatch would have yielded the same result with half the exertion, leaving more fuel in the tank for later.

KP’s theory of balance, power, and timing, provides a pretty good framework for addressing individual moves, and I’ve found that martial arts practitioners, baseball pitchers, and golfers, among others, break movement down similarly.

I also feel that one could apply these three elements metaphorically to life as a whole:

Balance is the ability to find one’s center no matter the orientation, to remain relaxed even in challenging contexts.

Timing is needed to move from one balance state to the next. In these periods we are vulnerable to disruption, but we must use timing to our advantage to move in the desired direction. It is often the most efficient way to move from one circumstance to another.

Finally, extreme reliance on power should be used as a last resort. Balance and timing typically allow us to move with greater efficiency, but when we meet a cruxy moment in life and there’s no way around but through, power becomes a necessity.

Even then, the sparing, and wise exertion of power is required, and this understanding is best had when moving from a position of balance.

True Rock Climbing Facts

Here at The Stone Mind, one of our core missions is to shine the unwavering light of scientific research into the darkest corners of the climbing universe. We wish to show things that perhaps would not be evident to the untrained eye. Here, we’ve used the most current sociological methods and also recent exciting developments in big data mining to create new insights and bring them to you in the form of these handy infographics…

What are we doing at the climbing gym?

happening-at-climbing-gymIn a five-year longitudinal study following over 10,000 climbers who frequent the gym one or more times per week, and whose ages, genders, and socioeconomic status run the gamut, we found that the most common climbing gym activity, by a large margin, is socializing, and that a wide variety of non-climbing activities account for the lion’s share of the average individual’s time.

Relative likelihood of dropping a piece of climbing gear

climbing-gear-drop-chancesAdding nuance to Murphy’s Law, which states “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” we present this near-perfect linear relationship between the critical nature of a piece of climbing gear and the likelihood that said piece of gear will be dropped. Therefore, if you will need to perform many rappels, you are likely to drop your belay device. If you are facing a long section of technical ice on your summit bid, chances are good that you’ll bobble one or both ice tools. On the other hand, virtually no one will ever drop their Nipple Portable Bluetooth™ Speaker.

Trends in climbing fashion over time

climbing-fashion-trends-chartThe style trends of the modern climber have changed considerably since the 1970s, but as this chart shows, certain items (Spandex pants, headbands or bandanas, and tank tops, for example) are making a strong return to favor. For those who want to stay ahead of the fashion curve, these figures also indicate it might be time to get those work pants and rugby shirts out at the crag again.

The 10-Fold Path to Blogging

A man holding a laptop computer. The Stone Mind.

There are all manner of blog posts on the web written by people who’d have you believe that blogging is easy. And maybe that’s true for some, but thus far I haven’t found it to be the case. Writing, on any regular basis, something that entertains or enlightens more than just oneself is in fact a constant travail for all but the rarest among us. That said, there are a few basic approaches I’ve developed in my three or four years of weekly publishing that you, too, might find to be useful and conducive to greater and easier productivity.

1. The middle way

When starting a blog, a lot of people think they need to post every day. This is totally doable if you are independently wealthy and have beaucoup free time… or perhaps also if you choose to be an aggregator, re-sharing content that has already been created by others. On the other hand, perhaps you want to blog but don’t want to commit too much time, so you settle on a monthly posting schedule. Unfortunately, posting less than once a week will make it hard to keep your blog top of mind for readers. For me, posting weekly was the best balance between time constraints and the requirements of the modern media landscape. Depending on your particular content, pick a schedule that’s not too aggressive and not too lax—the Middle Way, if you will.

2. Become a collector

To come up with interesting, fun, or funny ideas regularly, you must always be ready to catch a passing spark and jar it for later. I use an app called Evernote for this. It has a version for the computer and for mobile devices, and it keeps everything synced nicely in the “the cloud” so I can access it pretty much anywhere. Evernote also has a nice web clipper plug-in for the Chrome browser, which allows me to easily save articles and images to a research folder. For most blog posts, I read or reference multiple web-based sources, so being a collector is key to having raw material at hand when it’s time to write.

3. Keep it real

I have this friend named Brendan. He writes blog that I link to quite a lot. I can’t remember how it happened, but one day he and I ended up at the Whole Foods near my house. “Not a lot of people know it,” he said, “but most Whole Foods locations have good coffee, a good breakfast buffet, and free WiFi; they’re great places to work when you’re living and working on the road.” Our conversation that day, the first time we met IRL I believe, help set me on the path to the blog I write now. The point? Real stories help make your ideas concrete and help readers connect.

4. Rhythm and ritual

Everyone does it differently, but it’s important to find a timing and approach to writing that jives with your life. I work a desk job, so I tend to collect ideas and inspiration throughout the week, then I spend a half day every weekend writing, and usually wrap up the writing and editing on Monday night so I can publish on Tuesday morning. I also have a ritual, which involves sitting at my dining room table with my laptop, a glass of whiskey, and some headphones for those occasions when my wife is watching something on Netflix. I’m not religious about this approach, however, and have written a few posts entirely on my iPhone while at the crag. As with all things, stay flexible.

5. Simplify, simplify

It can be tempting to write long blog posts that encompass many complex ideas. But when it comes to leaving a strong impression, it’s better to pick one concept and focus on it. Cut away anything that doesn’t fit. That said, save the pieces that end up on the cutting room floor, as they well may become seeds for future posts (see point no. 2).

6. Write stuff you’d want to read

This is a standard writer’s credo, but it’s too good not to touch on. There’s a difference between writing about things that interest you as an individual and writing the type of stuff you’d want to read if someone else had written it. In the former, your internal goals, problems, and worries are the focus; in the latter, there’s some idea that someone who isn’t you and doesn’t share your particular perspective can relate to. An example: you care about writing a cool blog and being popular. Potential readers, however, don’t care much about you. They care about how they can write a cool blog. Figure out how to make the two overlap in you’ll be in good shape.

7. When you’re stuck

…and you will be, you can trying mixing up your pattern. If you typically write at home, go to a coffee shop (did you know Whole Foods has good coffee and free WiFi?!), meditate first to clear your head, or try writing with pen and paper instead of your computer. I wrote this post with a pen. It was nice to cut out the digital distractions… but my right hand did cramp up a bit from lack of practice.

8. Write fearlessly

It’s tempting to self-edit as you write. Don’t. It stanches the free flow of ideas on the page. Instead, roll with whatever comes to you. Get it all down. Let yourself get caught up in the act of writing.

9. Edit ruthlessly

You’ve written your heart out, got everything down… now’s the time to start slashing! Read what you’ve written with the eye of an outsider (see point no. 6), a person who gives no shits about you or your precious blog. Does it still pass muster? If not, cut. How many ideas are you trying to get across? More than one? It’s probably time to do some cutting. A writing professor of mine used to refer to the long, background-heavy intro paragraphs that most of us write before ever getting to any damn point as “the on-ramp.” Feel free to strap some dynamite to your on-ramp’s pylons and blow the thing into smithereens.

10. Don’t get attached

My dad is an artist and he once told me about his days as a student in New York. His teacher asked the class to produce a self-portrait. They worked on it over the course of days, striving to capture something essential with brush and paint. After these new students had poured their artistic souls into their work, what do you suppose the teacher did? He told them to crumple up their cherished paintings and throw them in the trash. The lesson was clear: don’t get too attached. We need to focus on what we’re working on now. In fact, the concept of letting go of our attachments is perfect fodder for another post, but this one doesn’t require any more on the topic—this post is done.

The Path of Most Resistance

A climber bouldering in Little Cottonwood Canyon

The hardest thing I ever climbed took me probably 50 tries to finish. It was a boulder problem in the woods of New York, and from start to finish it couldn’t have been more than 15 feet long. Each hold was so small and each move so strenuous that I would frequently spend a whole afternoon just trying to puzzle out one little section.

The irony wasn’t lost on me when, after finishing this climb at the very outer limit of my skill level, I turned and walked down to ground level via the boulder’s sloping backside.

I could have easily walked up this backside in sneakers and ended up in the same spot I got to through weeks of concerted effort directed at the overhanging face. A non-climber might see this and think I had wasted my time, and from a practical standpoint, he’d be right.

But really, the thing that makes any climb worth the time has got to be the challenge. The challenge itself, often viewed as an obstacle, is the source of something deeper. It’s the tool we use to dig into ourselves and find that beating, luminous core.

Things that don’t challenge us often bore us. Art that’s merely pretty is decoration; art that challenges can transform. A job that challenges us is engaging; while one that requires little thought or special effort is monotonous.

Luckily, as with that boulder problem I tangled with, we can find challenges almost anywhere, even where easier paths already exist. The challenge isn’t necessarily inherent to a thing or an act, but is something we create for ourselves.

In the book Flow, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi talks about an assembly line worker who sets challenges for himself that allow deep engagement in his very repetitive job. In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow master chef Jiro Ono, who has dedicated his every breath to the perfection, tiny step by tiny step, of the art of sushi making. Both used the challenge of continuous improvement to generate a deeper sense of significance in what could also be seen as workaday employment.

We climbers are sometimes criticized for our obsession with quantifiable improvement, also known as number chasing—indeed, I think a grasping mindset can easily become detrimental to balance and happiness—but most of us are just looking for a well-matched challenge. It’s that feeling of total focus that takes us out of ourselves and while teaching us about ourselves… that fully engages us with the act of living.

As climbers, we choose the hard way not because we’re masochists, but because the path of most resistance is often the fastest route to our true objectives.

Arrive With Every Step

Hikers walking along a trail in Wild Iris, Wyoming. The Stone Mind.
Hikers walking to the crag at Wild Iris, Wyoming.

My wife hadn’t been in the mountains much before she moved to Colorado from Philadelphia eight years ago. So the first time she came out with me and my climbing buddies on the long, steep approach to Chaos Canyon in Rocky Mountain National Park, she got frustrated. “Why are you guys hiking so fast?” She asked. “The boulders will still be there if we slow down, I bet.”

At the time, I attributed her comments to the suffering of a sea-level dweller struggling at altitude, but looking back, I see it differently. What were we hurrying for, after all? I still find myself doing it: hustling to the crag like it was some sort of a race, with competitors hot on my tail. But now I try to slow down and make more of the process.

I’ve been listening to a Zen monk named Thich Nhat Hanh on Spotify. His soft, accented voice and halting cadence are mesmerizing. In one of his lectures he talks about hiking up a mountain—Mount Wǔtái, a Buddhist sacred site in northern China:

There was a tourist guide to lead us and she was holding a little flag. … But we did not follow her—but we did not follow her way—so we made a strange group who climbed very, very slowly. And after having made 10 steps like that we sit down and enjoy looking around. And then we stood up and continue for another 10 steps. We had plenty of time—nothing to do, nowhere to go. Just enjoy. The means become the end. We want to arrive with every step.

His words reminded me of that early hike with my wife. She wanted to look around, take in the mountains and the plants and the little alpine critters skittering and fluttering around us. Up in Rocky Mountain National park, things are always changing: clouds rush in and soften the daylight, storms boom lighting down around the high lakes, winds stir fallen leaves, huge snowflakes fill the air like sudden moths…

But me? I just wanted to be sure to get to my project 15 minutes faster. I guess I thought it could mean the difference between sending and not sending.

“Mindfulness” always struck me as a word tainted with the scent of new-age cheese. It conjured images of dreadlocked kids in Boulder sipping yerba mate from dried gourds and wishing namaste to all the passers by. But again, I’ve come to see things differently.

At root, mindfulness isn’t about ideology but about discovering for ourselves: what are we thinking and feeling, what are our motivations, what are the effects of our actions? To act mindfully is simply to act with deeper awareness and honesty. Rushing towards goals is rarely an act of mindfulness but is instead a result of our desires or fears.

It’s a little much for me to walk quite so slowly as Thich Nhat Hanh suggests, but I do remind myself to be more mindful on my hikes: to bring intention to every step, to be aware of the breath in my nose, to let my skin tell me little stories about the direction of the wind, humidity, the energy of the sun… .

Even when climbing a route, I think most of us could do better to direct focus away from the burning in our forearms, the distance to the next clip, or visions of success or failure. Instead, return focus to the moment, breathe and inhabit the heartbeat. Feel what it is to hang from a sheer wall of rock, which muscles can be relaxed and which should remain tight, and so on.

In short, really experience the climb rather that rush to finish it. The climb itself becomes a joy. The means become the end. With each move, you arrive at the destination.