In some ways, traveling acts as a litmus test for the strength and purity of your love for climbing. With more exposure to people, places, and pitches, the majority of us realize this solemn truth - we are small fish in a VERY big pond.
Yours truly climbing in the "big pond" that is Rifle, June 2021 Simply Read (13d/8b) Photo: John Heidbreder
You see, I'd venture to say the majority of climbers (certainly of those I've met), started climbing before they were adults. As kids or teenagers, we have a natural inclination to prove ourselves, to best others, and to use these acts as a way of fitting in. It feels good to be good. This mentality evolves, and eventually trickles into our relationship with climbing as adults. As it becomes harder to stay relevant, or at least, feel relevant, a lot of people shove climbing aside. School, career, family, injury - these are all reasons cited to excuse people's drop in commitment. And it makes sense. When we are young, we have so little with which to define ourselves. We go to school, and we sometimes have one or two other things we do (i.e. climbing). As we grow older, those same reasons for leaving or declining in climbing are indeed very significant things with which to define oneself.
I am 26 years old, and I've been climbing for ten years now. In hindsight, what I think always set me apart was my commitment. My commitment to climbing sometimes came in drastic forms. I abandoned finding a job when I graduated, in lieu of a life spent traveling - a life sponsored by my own manual labor, some naivete, and most of my meager savings. My deified passion guided the next minute, hour, day, week, month, and year of my life.
Four or so months of this would pay for the rest of my year to be spent climbing and traveling. Backbreaking work in the midwestern wind farms.
Has that changed?
Well, it's starting to. What I'm realizing in my "old age", is that I have spent a great deal of my time subscribed to the paradigm that climbing is a zero sum game. Every choice favoring climbing over normalcy, over a career, over financial security, over a stable relationship, over other interests, over my own health even - every one of these choices I made was under the pretense that it left me with more to gain from climbing. After all, by definition of "zero-sum", every sacrifice ought to leave me with as much to gain.
And whether or not this is true, I find myself favoring, even hoping, this paradigm might hold truth. It would grant more control, and we climbers certainly crave control. And yet, desire alone doesn't beget outcome. To climb at our best, desire must be accompanied by both discipline and privilege. I wouldn't give myself top marks in any of these categories, but I do think I rank pretty high in each - especially desire and privilege.
Climbing on this wall is itself one of life's greatest privileges...though not what I mean when I mention privilege.
So what if it were true? Would that bring me closer to climbing 9a? Closer to being a lifelong climber? Closer to helping others understand and build their relationship with climbing? Closer to chasing novel experiences at home and abroad? Closer to others with whom to share those experiences?
And what if it's not true? Are my "sacrifices" in vain? Or would climbing not being zero sum simply mean I get to have my cake and eat it? Get to prioritize others and myself. Prioritize myself and my climbing. Even as I write this out, I agree with both sides. To be our best in something requires sacrifice. But to be our best in something often requires us to rely on others as much as ourselves.
So yes, I do want to climb 9a, be a lifelong climber, help and coach others...and these aspirations may not all work in conjunction. Can I coach, travel, and peak in my climbing? Can I effectively share my experience/knowledge without being rooted in one place? Neither question is as simple as "yes" or "no", but trying to exemplify "yes" to the best of my ability seems to be what occupies most of my foreseeable future. Let's see...
Five years ago, I had the trip of my life. Fresh out of college, I came to Flatanger, Norway, for 3 months. I had no experience climbing full-time, and it really changed the course of my life. I learned what can be achieved when a smart approach, a patient mind, and the right people are with you. I showed up with a single 8b/+ in my book, and walked away with my first two 8c's and my first 8c+, as well as a radically different outlook on climbing.
2018 Lohan nearing the top of Odin's Eye 8c+. Photo: John Heidbreder
Towards the end of that trip, I spent a few days exploring the moves on Thor's Hammer. The route was bolted by Magnus Mitbo, and FA'd by Adam Ondra. Magnus originally thought it landed in the 9b realm, and Adam proposed 9a+ after doing the FA. Subsequent ascents confirmed the grade until new kneebars were found, and Seb Bouin proposed a downgrade to 9a as a result.
My first ventures on the route were with the support of my friend Josh, who had just spent ~2 months projecting, and eventually sending, the route. It was really incredible to climb on. Most of the moves I could do - just BARELY, and just one at a time. The crux admittedly was beyond me, and I could never stick the final, hardest move. It took everything to hold onto the wall, and there was no chance of actually pulling through the holds in the crux section. But I could hold the holds...those perfect, fine-grain granite pinches and tiny incuts. They stuck with me for 5 years, like a dream marinating into an obsession. Those holds became my phone and laptop backgrounds. That crux would come to mind anytime I had a breakthrough. I just sent my hardest boulder. I wonder how I'd fare on the Thor's crux now...
With my two close friends from the Southeast, Braxton and Billy, I'm back in Flatanger. I've got roughly 6 weeks this time to recon the route, get to know its intricacies, its pace, its demands, its beauty. I knew my biggest limiting factor on the route would be strength, so I spent 2 months bouldering in Rocklands before coming here. It was a phenomenal trip, with a few breakthroughs in its own right. I flashed V10 for the first time, and sent a pretty daunting and brand new grade of V13 with the ultra-classic "Vice" in my final week there. I'm feeling stronger and smarter than ever, and it's showing dividends already.
I've had 3 days on Thor's Hammer so far. It's been brutally hot most days, but we've carried on anyway. It felt a bit surreal to revisit those moves 5 years later. So much has happened.... I moved into a van and for the first 3 years, I worked a bit of rope access jobs and climbed a LOT. The last two years I began working at The Climbing Academy - something which has changed my life in more ways than I can list here. And now I'm back where this dream-seed was planted.
In these 3 days I've managed to do all of the moves in the first half of the route (the hardest part). There's plenty still to learn and explore, and it's certainly the biggest project I've undertaken. But first impressions are that 1) the route is, 5 years later, still among the best I've ever tried, 2) going to be very VERY difficult, and 3) is worth it.
Each day on the route needs to be committed to a specific part. It's 65 meters of steep cave climbing, so it's impossible to just go up the route 2 or 3 times a day. Instead, I choose to work the first quarter (Q1), second quarter (Q2), or second pitch (P2 - the second half of the route after a rope swap). Q1 is the hardest, and in reality, the route would still hold its grade at 9a if the anchors were at the 7th bolt (end of Q1). However, you get about 30 more bolts of climbing until it counts for anything ;), and those 30 bolts are far from a victory haul.
Each of the above vids are the hardest moves on the route, around bolt 6. These are the moves I couldn't do in 2018...and the whole boulder is about V10. I'll add in more context about each part in the coming days/weeks. For now, I just wanted to journal and share a few thoughts about how psyched I am to feel this dream sprouting.
Eight months ago (February), I had plans to spend my summer in Norway. When I injured my finger, I decided it wouldn't be worth it, so I rehabbed until the beginning of summer. This meant one month of little to no climbing - only light hangboarding. At this point I was in Kalymnos, and I started climbing slowly. 2 pitches a day, mostly easier 7s. By the end of my trip my finger was finally beginning to feel healthy. I pushed a little bit, and was able to end my time in Greece with a couple of classic 8b's - Rakomelo and Gaia.
Sunset in Kalymnos
Summer came, and I devoted myself to training and coaching. Except for some weird hours in June, I would usually train from 12 to 4pm, have some food and a shower, and coach from 5-8pm. It was very structured, though all by my own choosing.
"What are you training for?" everyone asked.
"Spain," I'd reply.
Those that knew me well enough knew I had more specific goals than that, and prodded, "anything specific?"
"Yeah, I think I'd like to try Victimes del Passat".
And this idea gave me both focus and comfort. For an entire summer, I felt no pressure. I showed up, trained, coached, and went home. No expectations to battle, no conditions to fret over, and no mental gymnastics that always accompany a big project. If people were climbing outside, I'd usually pass without much envy. Spain, I'd think.
When I left for Europe at the beginning of August, I felt the same focus and comfort. I struggled a bit to acclimate to rock and gain endurance, but it came within 2-3 weeks. I climbed in so many new areas - Gimmelwald, Ceuse, Gorge du Verdon, Gorges du Loup. By the end of August, I found myself back in Barcelona, ready to kick off the school year.
First Europe destination was here: Gimmelwald
Amidst our few days of staff training in Spain, we were able to have some half days at Margalef and Siurana. The temps were reaching into the 90's. Being the only staff member that had arrived in Europe early, I wasn't jet lagged. I was likely the most psyched on the team, perhaps to a point of annoyance for the others. My first day in Margalef, I tried a super short nemesis 8a called Dando Brea. I sorted out each sequence with great desperation, and with even more desperation, I sent it next go. If not for some summer sessions at the Concave, I'd say this was the hottest I've ever sent 8a in.
The next day we came to Margalef, I tried Victimes del Passat. I wasn't sure whether it was a good idea, because it was again in the 90's. I knew it would feel horrible and hard, and didn't want to get too discouraged. Psych and curiosity pushed my apprehension aside, and I went up. It was a long journey to feel every hold, brainstorm sequences, and play on the moves. I could barely do a single move at a time, and some of them felt too hard altogether. I came down having done maybe 70% of the moves, and of that 70%, each of them had been JUST barely.
Typical day in the cave
An hour later, I went back up with the intention of only focusing on the 30% of moves I hadn't yet done. After another long catch, I had done every move on the route. Some of them felt like they were at my physical limit, and they were halfway up the 50 degree wall with no rest before them. But this 50 degree wall is the reason I trained all summer. I wanted to feel worthy of climbing in this cave - one of the most inspiring caves I've ever seen.
I thank my experience with travelling, climbing, and especially projecting, for the ability to stay the course when things seem beyond reach. It's funny how we often train for months with a goal in mind, and when it doesn't feel easy, we are upset. If you pick the right goal, training makes it possible, not easy. It being hard is the whole point, and I knew I had my work cut out for me.
Once our students arrived, we actually kicked off with 3 weeks in Gorges du Tarn, in southern France. This was a challenging start to the year because a quarter of the school got Covid, which forced all of us to quarantine. No climbing, no classes, and some difficult living situations. Again, though, I felt focused and comfortable in regards to my own climbing. France is neat, but I've just been climbing here for a month already, and quarantine is a nice way to top off my strength on the hangboard. Quarantine here doesn't affect the goal. It doesn't affect my ability to show up ready for the real goal. Spain.
The classic Tennessee Wall in Gorges du Tarn
And after 3 long weeks, we had arrived. Spain. Our first couple of days were the best weather we had for the next 5 weeks. I spent the first week playing with different sequences and footholds. Everything still felt hard, but after a few days I had begun transitioning from "doing moves" to "optimizing moves". By week two, I had done the route in 3 parts.
The route is called Victimes del Passat. Ramon Julian made the first ascent in 2008, calling it 8c+ to the second anchor. There is a first anchor at the end of a long resistance section, which is 8c on its own, and this was my goal. For context, I've always excelled at steep, complex climbing, with kneebars, crimps, and rests. This route was steep, straightforward, and had nothing but 2 and 3 finger pockets on it. It was incredibly inspiring, but a bit outside of my wheelhouse. I knew this long before, and this is why I spent a summer trying to build adaptations to prepare for this style. I consider my training a success, because I never felt close to being injured, and was able to climb confidently on every move the route had.
The route begins with a juggy flake system for about 5 bolts or so. This is steep but easy climbing (maybe 7a?), and ends with a no hands kneebar to rest in. From here, the route really begins. You have 39 moves between this flake and the anchor clipping pocket. In these 39 moves, there is nowhere to rest, and there are no spots good enough for me to chalk either hand. It is the most resistant climbing I've ever tried to link.
As for the difficulty of the moves, it's hard the entire way. The first ten moves end with a really hard stab off of a shallow 2 finger pocket and into a narrow 3 finger slot (which makes for a tenuous but necessary clip). The next ten moves mostly traverse leftwards, on better pockets, but really bad feet which require a lot of tension. The hold you grab after move 20 is the best one you've had since the flake, and the first moment you can take a deep breath. To get here is surely 8b+. You have no rest, and continue into the most heroic sequence of the route, and the redpoint crux. You leave the pockets for a few moves, and begin a compression sequence on decent cobbles, one of which you can kneescum against to gain the next two pockets. It requires a lot of tension to release the kneescum, and as soon as you do, you jump far above to a 3 finger jug pocket, taking a heroic swing at the peak of your pump. Once you reestablish your feet, you clip the final draw, and launch into the last 7 moves, which clock in around V5/6? These moves are on the best holds of the route so far, but have no intermediates, and require a lot of power to move between. The final move is a pogo jump into a 3 finger bucket. Absolutely heroic!
Go to 2:35 to see a few of the moves on Victimes del Passat
I spent 3 weeks trying the route with the school, and got to a point where I was consistently one-hanging. I was falling in the leftward traverse. Until this point, I had seen no one try the route. There were always people climbing in the cave, but they were on other routes. Alex Megos was trying to FA an extension to "The Journey" bolted by Tom Bolger, called "The Full Journey". Nika Potopova was trying Victimes del Futur. Anghelo Bernal was trying Gancho Perfecto. Will Smith was trying Perfecto Passat. The point is, energy was high in the cave, but there was no one to share my route with, learn from, or exchange ideas with.
And then one day, a strong Spanish climber named Martin Urrutia visited Margalef and sent Victimes del Passat on his second try. I was really psyched to see someone link together this beast, even if it's relatively easy for them. He watched me give a go that day, and fall once again in the traverse. He told me my beta was more powerful in that section than his, and so I played with his beta instead. His beta used more holds but required a ton of tension on a particularly high, slick cobble foot. I decided I'd try it once on redpoint, because in isolation it's hard to tell which beta is most efficient.
And from then on, I started climbing through this crux! I remember the first time I climbed through it, I was so pumped that I grabbed one of the best holds on the route (after move 20), and was too gassed to clip. I felt a funny combination of ecstasy for having broke through this crux, and embarrassment that I couldn't even clip from the "jug" - I had to grab the draw despite having Mr. Megos cheering "come on!" from below.
All in all, I was pretty psyched. There was definitely a part of me that thought, "Wow, that was utterly limit to get there, and there's still about twenty hard moves to go...I'm out of my league!" However, I have enough experience at this point in my climbing to understand quite well what I'm capable of. And this was possible. AND, if it wasn't, it was going to be one of my most epic fights to come close.
Time started to fly by at this point, as I was climbing 1 on 1 off, usually having 2 good attempts each day. The cave wrecked everything - skin, shoulders, back, core, fingers. My routine was to stretch for 15 minutes at home, then go to the crag and hangboard for about 20 minutes. Then I'd climb a short, maybe 15m, 7c+ called Aeroplastica which is characterized by steep pockets and pump. After this, I'd rest until I felt fresh, and go amuerte for 2 attempts. In those last two weeks, I started needing 2 days of rest between redpoints. In the last week, I was climbing consistently through the traverse, solidly through the 8b+ section. I was pumping off in the compression/kneescum sequence. My kneescum would slide out because I was too gassed to hold tension.
While I was in this "peak" mode, in which I was resting FAR more than I was climbing, I was reading Jerry Moffat's book, "Revelations". It was full of riveting stories of a lad climbing harder than I might ever climb, and doing so while sleeping in the dirt, eating next to nothing, and all in the years before I was even born. I felt like the younger me could relate to how badly he wanted to be the best, and to his belief that if he tried harder than everyone else, he would be. It made me wonder if I still loved climbing as much. Growing up, coaching, and teaching have forced me to take a step back in some ways. I usually can't go out and have the day that will serve me best. Instead, I facilitate a day that will serve others best, and have the best day I can given those parameters. Jerry would never have done that, and I must admit I really miss the freedom I once had to be fully committed to my own climbing. I think that climbing is still the most important thing in my life, but a few years ago, that statement didn't begin with "I think".
As the days went by, I realized I wasn't going to get a good conditions day before leaving. My last day trying the route was warm, still, and a bit humid. Despite all of that, I had one of the best mindsets I've ever had going in. There was one piercing passage from Revelations that I couldn't shake. It was about how board training had revolutionized the scene in the UK, but did little to prepare climbers for the mental difficulties of redpointing. Here's the concluding paragraph:
"It was never that I found things easy. I would fight like crazy, almost falling off every move, feet slipping, pumped stupid, fingers uncurling, skin bleeding, all the way to the end. But I have always believed I could do it and that's the hardest thing. People can train and work and get stronger, and lots of people do, but to arrive at that level of self-belief is much harder. And I worked on that for twenty years." -Jerry Moffat
I was SO fired up to go amuerte on the final day. I didn't let the warmth bother me. I showed up with confidence in myself and respect for the route. I felt thankful for my friend Braxton's support. The walk to Finestra felt similar to the walk I'd taken to the Concave many times. I was walking to a crag that feels like home, laughing a bit at the conditions, and excited to fight.
In my five weeks of effort, my two best goes I'd ever given were on this last day. My first try, I climbed through the kneescum crux, stuck the heroic jump move to the last bolt, and then fell. There were 7 moves left. I was beside myself with pride. It was some of the best climbing I've ever done. Near perfection - the breathing, the pace, the mindset, the fight. OH MY GOD THIS IS WHY I CLIMB.
Here's the clip of my final try on the final day.
On the previous try I stuck the jump I fall on here, and fall just after.
My next attempt, I got almost as far, falling on the heroic jump move. This time, the emotions were a lot different. I had the same mindset going in. I climbed just as well. But as soon as I hit the end of the rope, it was like the compartment I had shoved all the pressure, expectations, doubt, and negativity into was unlocked, and poured over me. I wasn't expecting it, because truly, I had left the ground with an incredibly motivated and healthy mindset. But hanging on the rope...I had to just sit there. I stared at the footholds, which looked different through watery eyes. Suddenly the mind takes over. I trained all summer for this. Damn. I keep JUST missing. Fell on the last move of an 8a+ flash in the Verdon. Fell on the last move of the 8b project in Tarn. 5 weeks of focused effort here, and fell at the last bolt. You commit everything to climbing and have only a long list of "almosts" to show for it.
Even as I write this, it stings a bit to reflect on these failures. But I have the maturity - at least most days - to understand that uncertain outcomes are the hallmark of our biggest goals. And I've also got the privilege to come back to all of these routes I've left undone in the future.
So that was it. I left Margalef, flew to the Red River Gorge for the next 4 weeks, and had a wildly successful time utilizing all of the gains I had made climbing on Victimes del Passat. In those 4 weeks, I sent Angry Birds (8a+) in 2 tries, Zookeeper and The Nothing (both 8b+) in the same week, and Loverface and Eternal Fire (8b and 8a+) in the same day. I also tried an old nemesis - Southern Pump (8b+/c) - and felt better than ever on it.
A link I made on Zookeeper, sending shortly after.
Quite different from Spain!
Every time I think about what it will feel like to stick that heroic jump on VdP again, my heart rate increases and I feel giddy/nervous. I'm confident I'll be back, but I've plenty to look forward to between now and then - including the end of this school year in Slovenia and Italy, a couple of months in Rocklands, and then my long-awaited return trip to FLATANGER.
The school year kicked off last month, which means I got to host the first day of Calculus class for a new round of eager students. One of the biggest ideas in Calculus, and really mathematics, is the notion of a "limit". I start by posing the question - what is a limit? In everyday life, in climbing, in objective or subjective terms?
The answers usually ring back as "the maximum you could reach" or "something you push to get closer and closer to". The climbers might blurt out "15d!" And then they list examples - speed limits, rules (limit 5 per person), world records (sub-2 hour marathon). I then follow up with, "Ok, let's take your definitions, and say a limit is the maximum value a person or thing could reach. Does whether or not you actually reach the limit change its value?"
Mathematically speaking - no, it doesn't. Whether a limit is "realized" or simply approached closer and closer, it's value remains the same. This is because limits "exist" as a quantifiable idea. They are specific, measurable, yet intangible. And while there are many lessons to be learned from Sharma and Gullich, this notion of a limit from Newton and Leibniz is as foundational in deriving fulfillment as it is deriving functions.
Two legends whose approaches to limits changed the world.
Process.
A lot of math boils down to taking an input, applying a process, and then getting an output. Climbing parallels this quite well.
Input a goal, route, number, trip, etc.
Apply training, tactics, psychology, etc.
Do or don't reach the desired output.
A lot of people won't "vibe" with this. I understand it is an oversimplification to condense someone's entire life focus/love into a 3-step scientific method. Climbing can be such an organic thing, influenced by hundreds of ethereal variables - relationships, weather, mood, and mental health, to name a few.
My aim here isn't to give a formula. My aim is to highlight the satisfaction one could have from understanding projecting the same way we understand limits mathematically. When I am projecting a route, my process always begins with uncertainty. If I am certain I can do a route from the beginning, it is not at my limit. It usually takes a few days to even think I could do it. That is the first shift, and it's pretty exciting. It's the first nip at the dangling carrot. The second shift usually comes between 2 weeks and 2 seasons/years/life-crises later. And this one is sometimes AS, IF NOT MORE, spectacular of a feeling than sending. This shift is the breakthrough moment when something indicates you can do the route. It's no longer a thought, it's simply and certainly attainable. You've put in a sufficient amount of time, training, tactics, sacrifice (and self-loathing?) to reach a point where the send is a possible outcome.
People think that things like training, effort, and devotion are supposed to increase your odds of success on a route. They believe they start the projecting process with a 100-sided "send die". With every tie-in, they roll the die, fall, and the number of sides on the die decreases. The more they try, the fewer sides there are. After some weeks, it's a 20-sided die. In other words, odds of sending increase.
If we assume your project is at your limit, this is a faulty view. You're not starting with any odds of sending. For many, many days, there is no die to roll, or if there is, it's got infinitely many sides (aka a sphere, and will never land). You have no chance. If you had a chance to send in the first couple of weeks, you wouldn't be climbing at your limit.
What we are actually training and sacrificing for is a probability of sending to even exist. This is the feeling. This is the moment after weeks/months/seasons of effort when you have a go where all of a sudden, you are hit with the rush of possibility. You had the "freshness" in the last crux. The razor felt big for the first time. You held the swing to its apex. You actually got something back at that joke of a rest. It's all circumstantial, but there is something which indicates now, you get to roll the die. Now, your chances are nonzero.
In my experience, this is a very exact moment in every project. The reason this feeling is so powerful and often more gratifying than the moment I send, is that it often takes me MUCH longer to get to this point, than to go from this point to sending. For example, my proudest achievement in climbing is sending Southern Comfort Right, a hard 14a at my home crag in Alabama. I spent 3 seasons trying this route, and on my third year, I spent ~2 months trying to link the 4th bolt to the top. Once I had done this, I knew I was capable of sending, and sure enough, I did send just a few sessions later.
If you skip to around 2:57, you'll see me stick the move I fell on for 3 years. This is from the 4th bolt, not the ground, but it's the "moment" I knew I was finally capable. Keep sound on and you'll hear me say "I'm so happy" between breaths and smiles...again, this link was 3 years in the making.
While this anecdote is one of "success", there are a few routes I've felt this sensation of possibility with, yet left without the send. This brings me back to the notion of a limit I mentioned earlier. Mathematically speaking, a limit is the value a function approaches as your input approaches a value. In the context of climbing/projecting, a limit is perhaps the goal, number, route, etc. that you are CAPABLE of reaching, but whether or not you actually reach it is moot.
I understand as well, if not better, than most that sending is not moot. Sending matters. Sending is exhilarating. Sending marks tangible progression. When we give nearly everything and don't send, it hurts. We feel robbed, unworthy, and inferior. However, if there is any solace to be found in this mathematical nerd-jargon of a blog post, it's that equating what we are capable of doing with what we actually do does hold value. To feel capable is fulfilling. It's not the desired outcome, but it is infinitely close. And mathematically speaking, that is no different.
Spain. SPAIN. Spain. That's what is on my mind. My first time climbing in Spain, in 2018, I climbed for 3 days and then injured my ring finger severely enough that I couldn't crimp for 3 months. I flew home, got my rope access cert, and began a 3 year cycle of working summers and climbing the rest of the year, mostly while living in my van.
Classic van vibe in Rifle 2021
I returned to Spain in the late summer and fall of 2021. This time, I understood a little bit better what to expect, and even succeeded in climbing an 8b+ called Via del Quim on the same wall that hosted the 8a+ (El Fustigador) I'd hurt myself on years ago.
And now, I'm returning to Spain for a 3rd time. It's been on my calendar since May, and the trip will take place in September/October. Unlike the previous trips, which happened without much advance and resulted in me sorta just "showing up" (and I wonder why I got injured...), I've got 3 months to prepare. I wrote myself a plan back in May, and I've been pretty good at sticking to it.
My focus for the summer revolved around 2 things.
1. Injury rehab/prevention: In February I injured my ring finger on Fire in the Mountains, a crimpy V12 at Rocktown, and it has taken a long time to heal. My first focus this summer was getting it back to 100%, which involved consistent rehab hangs and exercises designed for me by P.T. Tyler Nelson. As far as prevention goes, that means continuing some of these hangs/exercises each session as part of my warmup, as well as supplementing some strength training (presses, deadlifts, etc.)
2. Pockets: My goals in Spain are in the pocket paradise of Margalef, and I know how specific and intense the style is there - it's steep, core-intensive, bouldery-yet-resistant pocket pulling. So that's how I've structured my training.
My training plan during my 3 week strength block.
Now I'm on the other end of it all. I trained at Stone Summit in Atlanta for a total of 11 weeks, and I only climbed outside 3 days in total - although on one of these days I was really psyched to FA an incredible DWS line in Alabama, which I ended up calling "Headcase" and suggesting 13+. The point is, for the first time in ~9 years of climbing, I focused entirely on training rather than performing. Until now, I had always balanced training with performance. But, let's be honest, Lohan hasn't had a breakthrough in a minute...it was time to shock the system.
Did it work?
Quantitatively, I'm stronger. I have the stats to prove it. Left column was in May, and the right has my PB's by the end of July.
I'm most proud of (and still can't quite believe...) my improvement on the pocket hangs.
Qualitatively? That's a harder one to gauge. I've now been sport climbing in Europe for 2 weeks, spending first a week in Gimmelwald, Switzerland, and now a week in Ceuse, France. Overall, I've felt pretty strong. The glaring oversight has been endurance. I focused on endurance the last 3 weeks in Atlanta, but I didn't structure it effectively enough.
Me climbing Surfer's Paradise 8a+ in Gimmelwald, Switzerland Photo by the homie - Jon Shen
The good news is that I have 6 more weeks until I am in Margalef, and a LOT of amazing rock climbing to do between now and then. I'm hoping a focus on volume until then will set me up to have a bit more resistance by the time I show up to one of the best crags in the world...FINESTRA. After Ceuse, I'll be spending time in the Verdon, Gorges du Loup, and Gorges de Tarn, none of which I've ever visited. So even if I'm not mutated, it would be difficult not to enjoy myself in each of these new-to-me paradises.
Community is a nebulous term. It's a "thing" we all engage with, but each define in a way that is subjective to our own experience. For a new climber in the gym, community might mean the regulars that he/she sessions with every Tuesday night. For the climber living in their van the last decade, community likely has more to do with the network of friends/partners acquired by climbing over the years. For many of us that live on the road, community is subject to change according to the area we are presently in. There is a community for everything. A sport climbing community, a bouldering community, competition community, vanlife, vegan, southeast, northeast, front range, SoCal, blah blah blah. These communities change, grow, and fade. But our identities as climbers are tied to the communities we belong to, and our relationships with these communities are also subject to change, grow, and fade.
Community is generally regarded with a positive connotation. How many times have we uttered or heard the words "sense of community", "the community really showed up", "community is everything". I've heard iterations of these for as long as I've been climbing, but rarely hear the flip side. And this begs the question - is EVERY community unanimously uplifting, welcoming, and/or generally supportive?
Consider our perspective. I suspect most climbers log more hours scrolling social media than log time at the gym or crag. Whether we realize it or not, our sense of community is far more developed by media consumption than by firsthand engagement. The result is a distorion of what it means for the community to "show up". Reposts, double-taps, and hashtags are not signs of solidarity. I don't mean to deny the connections that can be made on social media, but we should consider the repercussions of platforms engineered to monopolize our attention.
As far as climbing goes, the first community I was ever part of was "The Rock Room" community. It was a grungy gym characterized by short walls, polished holds, horrible hours, and match-hands-match-feet style setting. I knew nothing better, nor did I need anything better - I loved it so dearly. Climbing didn't define me at the time, nor did it define anyone that frequented The Rock Room (I'm fairly certain), but several of us have since gone on to center our lives around climbing. That's a hell of an influence for a facility that was open 9 hours a week and catered towards summer campers moreso than athletes.
The Rock Room
As I progressed, I visited more and more areas - Chattanooga, Sand Rock, and Little River Canyon most often. As I broke into 5.12 and began frequenting "harder" crags, I started noticing regulars. However, I was always the outsider. I was from Rome, GA, and by the time I was climbing 5.12 consistently and 5.13 here and there, I was a student at Young Harris College, nearly 3 hours from any of these areas. When I showed up at a crag, I was CRAZY psyched. I had a million questions in my head for all of the locals and especially the individuals that were climbing harder than me - it was from them that I figured I had the most to learn. I usually tried to eek out some small talk or ask a generic question about a route or crag. Most often, I was given a quick and dismissive answer. The classic "cold shoulder". I desperately wanted to lose the label of "outsider", but I didn't want to be a poser. There was always a "tryout" mentality lurking in my mind - how to I get on their team? I wanted to earn my stripes. I wanted to show my worth.
And sure enough, after a couple of years, I was no longer getting the cold shoulder. What bothered me about this was that the only thing to change between these couple of years was my ticklist. The moment I was climbing as hard or harder than the "gatekeepers", I no longer received the cold shoulder. My questions were answered - I was told about "secret" crags, cruxes were described as more than just "soft", and people actually cared to answer "what have you been up to".
A story comes to mind here: This fall I was living at Miguel's Pizza, and climbing full time in the Red River Gorge. I had been visiting this place for 7 years at this point, and one of the routes I was interested in checking out was a 14a called "The Tube". There's a great video of Adam Taylor doing the FA on YouTube, and I'd seen several pics of some pros repeating it. Point is - it wasn't a secret. One night as I was asking for directions, someone said, "oh so and so would know where it's at, let me find him". So I meet this blonde kid, and he says something like, "Yeah well the access is weird for The Tube, you probably shouldn't be going there if you're not actually gonna do it, ya know?" In that moment, all of the beef and sour vibes that peppered my upbringing as a SE climber rushed back, and I rolled my eyes. I was pretty irked. At this point, I was confident enough in both my climbing and in my place in the community to know I didn't need to prove myself in exchange for directions.
Ultimately, me and this punk are great friends now, despite this first encounter. But I'll always give him a hard time about this exchange, even if he gives a mean bluepoint ;)
This was a pretty specific story, but here are a few common questions I found myself asking more experienced/stronger climbers when I was more novice at these "harder" crags. I've paired them with their respective answers, as I most commonly heard.
"How is that route? It looks sick!"
>"Oh yeah it's really not too bad, felt more like *gives lower grade* than *gives consensus grade*."
"Oh I've heard of that crag, what's it like?"
>"Oh it's awesome, really great routes. Probably one of the best in the area. You should probably climb here though, people are picky about who gets to go there."
"You've climbed out west?! How is it?"
>"I've climbed that western choss! It's funny, I think climbers out west avoid the south because our grades are too honest and they just bitch about the weather"
"Isn't that crux so so cool?"
>"It felt so chill, I actually didn't find it too hard."
These answers are twofold. They vaguely answer the question on the front end, and then digress to make some statement that qualifies the person rather than the answer they just gave. It took me a long time to recognize what was happening, and I'm really not sure if people know what they are doing when they make these remarks. In their digression, they are saying "I know things you don't/I've done things you can't". Essentially, they want you to know "I am smarter/better/stronger than you".
Here's the thing, I know you are. That's why I asked the question, dude. Can you imagine if every time a student asked a teacher a question, they responded with, "oh that problem? I actually learned that when I was younger, and I didn't struggle very much." Obviously. That's why we are asking you...
Professional climbers rarely come to the deep south, and those that have don't often return. Locals like to speculate its because our climbing is sooooo sandbagged and they can't handle a little humidity. I'm not going to deny that our conditions are fickle at times (certainly would never encourage anyone to come in the summer), but are we really so naïve as to think a sandbagged 13d is stopping professionals from coming here? It's because they aren't welcomed. The sport's elite are treated with the same "outsider" treatment as I had as a novice. Not to mention a major reason we don't have routes worth their time is because they get chipped down to our level. Hence the 14- plateau.
Chris Sharma, Jonathan Siegrist, Alex Megos, Joe Kinder - they've been to our crags and boulders. Years ago, Sharma was at HP40 trying the classic V11, God Module. He tried for a bit with his pad, and a crowd of others watched from a distance as he struggled in the Alabama heat. They all watched, yet offered no encouragement, no pads, and no spot. Given the stale vibe, Chris left - and the conclusion these onlookers drew and passed on was that the legendary Chris Sharma couldn't do "their" boulder. Obviously he could, but who would want to put the time in given the scenario? Maybe if the holds had been half as cold as their shoulders...
Ok, gripe complete. I think.
Despite these experiences, I consider this community family. Family isn't perfect, and neither am I. Much of what I've said may be a dramatization of what is most often casual conversation. And of course, to be complaining about climbing at all is quite a silly privilege. I much prefer expressing gratitude than voicing criticism. To this end, I must acknowledge that my deepest friendships, experiences, and climbs have resulted from my time there. My home is more or less on the road year round now, but I feel most at home waking up to some humidity, the sound of a train on Lookout Mountain, and that first glance down at my throbbing tips wondering how much skin I'm going to lose again today.
Anyone who has been climbing long enough experiences "full circle" moments - instances where nostalgia and achievement intersect. I can think of several such moments. They are often sends - Southern Comfort, Silence Between the Violence, The Jackal. These are some of my most treasured sends because they are the hardest routes at my dearest crags. Clipping each of their anchors felt like closing a chapter in my career as a southeastern climber.
Finishing up the easy top section of Silence Between the Violence (13d) Photo: Caleb Timmerman
In January of 2020, I went out to Laurel with visiting friends and crushers Jon and Solveig. They were fresh off a sending spree at the Red, and I was psyched to share the BEST crag in the Chatt area with them. The Jackal remains, to this day, the best route I've ever climbed. The only place I've ever seen host as good of rock is the New, and even still, the movement, holds, setting, and beauty of this line remain unmatched IMO.
The brilliant headwall of The Jackal (13d) Photo: John Heidbreder
With this in mind, I had always eyed the bolts that split left off the beginning of The Jackal. This visit was the first time I had seen draws and tick marks on this undone project. I was instantly curious. Something about the chalk and draws made it seem more possible - perhaps the mere implication that another person had done or at least tried the moves. If I remember correctly, I sent the 13a to the left that day, a nice line called Cyclops. Sub-par compared to others on the wall, but brilliant were it at any other crag on its own. Having wrapped up one of the last worthwhile pitches at the crag, I decided to check out the project.
Until this point, I had rarely tried anything undone. The bottom compression V6 is shared with The Jackal, but you clip a different bolt. This is the only shared section. From here, I quested into new holds. I was able to get to the 2nd bolt pretty easily, and then found myself at what was obviously the blankest, hardest section. This was the same shield of rock that hosts the dyno on The Jackal. Unlike the dyno, this section had a couple of features, albeit abysmal ones. Given the feet and the placement of the ticks, the obvious sequence revolved around a flat gaston for your left hand and a shit 2 finger pocket edge for your right hand. It was relatively doable to get matched on these two, but to bump your right hand into a slot under the next roof seemed both difficult and low percentage due to the precision required on such a large move.
Setting up for the dyno on The Jackal, where the project breaks left (note the bolt down and left of my foot - this is the 1st bolt for Injective). Photo: John Heidbreder
After some contemplation, I began experimenting with a finnicky left heel-toe, which allowed me to grab the gaston as a sidepull with my right hand. Miraculously, there was a tiny knob-like feature I could reach up to with my left hand, just at the apex of my lock off ability (it would be too shitty to go to dynamically, so it really was perfectly placed). From here, I tried bumping the left hand into the precise slot that was too difficult to get with the alternate sequence.
That day, I didn't stick the bump, but I knew it was possible. I aided past this section and found the moves off of this slot to be just as hard! There was a slopey dish above a small roof, and it felt like a solid v8 sequence to throw from it into another jug above. Oof. I sussed one final hard section above this jug, but it was pretty reasonable. Again, the perfect feet appeared, and a gritty crimp at the apex of my reach allowed this section to go at maybe hard v5ish. Certainly a hard enough sequence to make you nervous from the ground, yet easy enough to qualify as a "punt" if you biffed it here on point.
From here, you get your first rest, and a really good one at that. The route splits two ways from here, with one line of bolts angling slightly up and left, and the other angling slightly right. I tried both, and although both were roughly 12a/b in terms of difficulty, it was obvious that going right was both better quality and better movement.
At the rest, above the crux, from here is roughly 12a/b. Photo: Nathalie Dupree
I returned several times in the next couple of weeks. I struggle to remember how many visits, but I think perhaps 4 or 5 in total. The next visit I did the couple of moves in the crux that I hadn't been able to do previously, and from then on I was more or less in redpoint mode. I struggled with conditions despite it being winter, as I distinctly remember having a day on it where the crux sidepull was in the sun. I couldn't even hold onto the wall, much less do the moves, and redpointing was a pipedream.
However, I came back on a pretty cold day after some rain with Lu, Nik, and Nathalie. Nik was there to do Jackal, and to be honest I felt mixed emotions about him trying the project. I really wanted to see him on it, because he's so damn good and I draw a lot of motivation from watching others. Conversely, the selfish part of me wanted to be the one to send it first. I knew he would do it in a couple of goes, and I felt really close myself.
That was a rollercoaster of a day, because the bulk of the 12- section through the top was running with water. Most problematic, however, was that the crimp in the v5 just after the crux was wet. That day, I climbed through the crux from the ground 3 times in a row, only to fall off of this wet crimp. I was a bit bummed, but Lu reminded me that had it been dry, I would've just sent the route 3 times in a row.
The left hand in this photo is the wet hold. I fell here 3 times in a row from the ground, this photo is from one of those 3 attempts! Photo: Nathalie Dupree
The next day back, the whole bottom was dry, and the only bit of water was at the final bolt in the12- section. I sent on my first try, and the entire second half of the route (from the rest after the crux until the chains) I was climbing with sheer joy, gratitude, and just a hint of nerves for the last wet bit. I stayed at the chains for a moment before getting lowered, taking in the whole of my surroundings.
I originally had a long winded bit here explaining how this route's personal significance stretched beyond its FA status, but I have to consider what this route would have meant for me had I not been the first. Frankly, it would have meant less. For almost as long as I had been a climber, The Jackal had been my dream. It had tested me for years. To this day, I can still recite most of Tyler Willcut's words on the Vimeo short film about his first ascent. Climbing this undone project felt like walking the same path. In the days leading up to and including the send, I got the chance to hear from legends in the Southeast - Jerry Roberts, Tyler, Lu, JB. These guys have had my respect for a long time, and because Chattanooga is a community that demands you earn your stripes, I couldn't help but feel I'd proven myself to some degree.
Earning my stripes on Injective. This is the last move of the crux v8 or so. Photo: Nathalie Dupree
All that was left was to name and grade this route. For the first time in my life, my opinion on the grade would actually mean something! I knew this route was a bit harder than The Jackal, which had been my first 13d. The breakdown was essentially a mirror image - v6, v5,v8, 12a/b. The difference was that the new route didn't have the good rests between cruxes. Compared to a lot of 13ds in and around Chatt, such as Apes on Acid, Oracle, Man Show, and Prodigal - it seemed harder. However, it was certainly easier than the couple of 14as I had been on, such as Southern Comfort and Tears of Unfathomable Sadness. I decided to pay homage to the unspoken rule of Chattown - no route shall be graded greater than 13d! Haha (but really 13d in Chatt can range from 13c-14b).
As for the name, Sean Kearney had named it "Datura" when he bolted it, but gave permission for me to rename it as I saw fit. I almost named it "Secret Stuff", as a sort of double entendre to the fact that I had used the Friction Labs liquid chalk for the first time with this route, and as a slight to the Chattanooga community for being way too secretive about many of "their" crags.
Ultimately the nerd in me saw too perfect a chance when I described the breakdown. "Injective" is a math term for functions for which every element of the codomain is an image of exactly one element of its domain, and this route is like an injective mapping of The Jackal, if you consider the boulder problems as elements of the domain/codomain of each route/function. Basically they both have 3 crux boulders, and they are all v6, v5, and v8.
As I publish this, the route has yet to see a second ascent! Too many people hike out to do The Jackal and never return. Every route on this cliffline is a gem, and I KNOW there are plenty of people stronger than me going out there. Sack up and try it guys, you won't be disappointed.
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