Rafi Vargas is working on cleanly climbing a 5.13 route in his hometown of Monteverde, Costa Rica. He’s named it El Duro Duro, “The Hard Hard” in Spanish, as a nod to Chris Sharma’s famous route La Dura Dura (5.15c). But unlike Sharma, Vargas is barefoot. And his project is a tree.

It’s a very specific species of tree known as the strangler fig, which is basically a crack climb growing out of the ground.

“These humongous trees, they’re so alive, they’re so full of life,” Vargas tells me. “When we are climbing these trees, it feels like an energy transfer because it’s two beings sharing a moment in time, and sharing energies.”

I met Vargas in Costa Rica in April, when he took me into the rainforest so I could try my own hand at climbing strangler fig trees. Instead of bending down to squeeze my toes into climbing shoes, I pulled off my shoes and socks and started working my way up barefoot.

The crack climbs of the rainforest

The closest sibling in the rock world to ascending strangler figs is crack climbing. Tree climbers wedge feet, hands, and even full bodies into the cracks created by the tree. Noah Kane, a climbing photographer who climbs rock and trees, compared it to tufa climbing: “not delicate … more powerful.”

Like many days in Costa Rica, it rained earlier in the morning on the day I climbed in Monteverde. When I tried to smear my toes against the tree, they slipped and slid off the wet bark. After a few minutes of battling, I was able to work my way up the first few moves, finally slotting my feet into a fissure. At the top, I was surrounded by a lush canopy. I could feel the tree branch underneath me swaying in the wind. Red bruises and scratches began to appear on my feet—something I’m used to seeing on my hands while climbing.

Strangler fig trees grow in tropical climates like Costa Rica, Central America, and Southeast Asia. As hemiepiphytes, they begin their life cycle on top of other trees in the canopy. In the fork created by the branches of another tree, the fig seed sprouts and shoots vines downward. True to its name, the strangler fig encircles the host tree as it makes its way to the forest floor. When it reaches the ground, those vines become thicker, creating a trunk.

As the strangler fig grows and begins producing fruit, the host tree inside, deprived of nutrition and sunlight, dies, then slowly decomposes. This leaves behind a hollow center surrounded by skeletal webbing. The hollows and crevices left behind are perfect for climbing and attaching protection.

“Extreme connection with nature”

Vargas and Kane are leaders within the tiny niche community pioneering this entirely new style of recreational free climbing. Kane estimates that the core tree-climbing community consists of only about 10 people. They both grew up in Monteverde, the birthplace of tree climbing. As kids, they climbed the trees without any knowledge of the sport of rock climbing. But when climber Matthew “Mash” Alexander came to Monteverde in 2016 to teach math at Vargas’ high school, he exposed them to the world of ropes and gear. Soon, they started applying trad climbing techniques to push tree climbing from a childhood hobby into a full sport. 

For protection, they use soft gear like slings girth-hitched around branches and monkey fist knots wedged into cracks, similar to nut placement. This protects them as they ascend into the canopy, without damaging the tree. This is also why they climb barefoot.

“It was an amazing feeling,” pro climber Anna Hazelnutt says when I ask her about her tree-climbing experience with Vargas in Monteverde this past March. “Being barefoot and just touching the tree—it’s an extreme connection with nature.”

Even taking a whipper on a tree is a more intimate encounter with nature than traditional rock climbing. What counts as a “clean” fall is very different for tree climbers, because no matter what, they’re likely to land in the surrounding canopy.

“You do need to be a bit more cautious and more aware of our surroundings during a fall, potentially getting stabbed by branches,” Vargas explains. “It requires a really deep connection to the tree and the understanding of the whole ecosystem.”

Vargas and Kane are confident their techniques minimize any impact on the trees. Yet they also avoid climbing trees that support a lot of other plant life, like mosses, lichen, and orchids.

In 2022, Kane produced a documentary on tree climbing called Climbing Giants, back when “nobody had any clue about [tree climbing] whatsoever,” he wrote to me in an email. According to Kane, because tree climbing infrastructure doesn’t yet exist, the sport hasn’t really exploded. The local Costa Rican climbers form handshake agreements with private landowners so they can climb these trees.

“I find that tree climbing feels a little bit less official,” Kane says in comparing it to rock climbing. “More like play.”

What’s it like to climb a 5.13 tree?

Trees are living organisms, which makes it challenging to give them a standard grade. Rock formations are usually pretty permanent. If they do change, it happens very slowly on a geological timeline, or very suddenly when a hold gets ripped off. Strangler figs live and grow for hundreds of years, consistently and quickly changing.

“The older the trees are, the harder they become [to climb]. The more blank they become,” Kane says. “There’s more space between good holds, and the more creative you have to be. As those trees mature, your technique has to mature as well.”

According to Vargas, El Duro Duro is a true endurance climb that requires jamming your body in weird ways similar to offwidth climbing. The difficulty comes from the 45-degree overhang roof section, where he must cram his entire chest and two chicken-winged arms into the crack. This crux comes after a technical hand crack up the first half of the tree.

“You’re really fighting for every little inch,” Vargas said. “By the time you’re done with the first crux, which is like the hand crack roof, the body is already pretty pumped. It’s a numbing pain in the hands, because you’re hand jamming, and it’s also a pump of the forearm.”

So what makes this tree a 5.13 on the Yosemite Decimal System? Vargas told me that he has only ever felt that kind of pump on rock climbs in the 5.13 range. And he should know. Vargas is also an accomplished rock climber. He spent summers in Squamish and the Bugaboos to get his guide certification from the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides. And he’s climbed big walls in Mexico, sent 5.13s on rock, and developed routes across Costa Rica.

In December, Vargas pinkpointed El Duro Duro, meaning he has climbed the route with pre-placed protection. Since then, he has attempted to redpoint it (climb it while placing the gear as he goes) three times, unsuccessfully.

Attaching an objective grade to something as subjective as climbing has always been fraught within the climbing world. It becomes even more complicated when a route might grow a new hold over the course of a decade.

“Holds that used to feel like a jug become a crimp,” Vargas explained. “Because they’re beings, they’re alive, they morph, they change, they move.”

The post Sending Strangler Figs: Rafi Vargas and His 5.13 Tree Project appeared first on Climbing.

By now you’ve surely seen the headlines: On May 22, a seven-year-old boy made it to the top of El Capitan in Yosemite. In the past week, various news outlets, including People and FOX, have reported on Joey Danger Evermore, who spent five days jugging up El Cap alongside his dad, Joe, and his 11-year-old brother, Sylvan. When the group summited the Nose (5.9 C2; 3,000ft) around 1 a.m. that Friday, Joey became the youngest person in history to ascend El Cap—breaking a record set by eight-year-old Jackson Houlding in November 2024, after he jugged the Muir Wall (5.10 C3; 2,900ft) with his parents and siblings. On May 23, the most-watched newscast in the world, ABC World News with David Muir, dedicated its kicker segment to Joey.

“I’m going to the moon!” shouted Joey on camera, pushing off from the wall.

Typically, when climbing records are broken, Climbing reporters like me are quick to celebrate and share the details. But this one felt different. From my view in Yosemite, where I’m based for the season, most of the climbers I know regard the ascent—and specifically the dad in the equation—with dismissal or disdain.

Soon I heard the rumors: “It’s all for publicity.” “It’s such a junk show.” “The kids were crying the whole time.” “The dad’s got this weird, conservative agenda.” Climbers accused Joe Evermore of various crimes: hiring illegal and unqualified guides, getting in the way of a search and rescue operation, dragging up children who didn’t want to be there. Over breakfast tables and birthday dinners, I watched my friends and former colleagues debate whether the seven-year-old deserved to say he’d “climbed” El Cap: After all, neither he nor his dad led or even cleaned any of the pitches. Yet while many members of the climbing community condemned the Evermores, the world of non-climbers could not stop celebrating.

To suss out some truth from these clashing versions of the story, I spoke with Joe Evermore himself, one of his hired guides (who agreed to be interviewed in exchange for anonymity), the director of the Yosemite Mountaineering School, and two Yosemite Search and Rescue (YOSAR) members who encountered the Evermores at the summit. What I found was a complicated picture of media, climbing achievement, and parenting—and a much bigger story than what’s been told.

Kids on El Cap

Joe Evermore is not the first person to decide that a child is ready to shuffle-crunch their body up a thousand-foot mound of granite. In 1987, Mike Caldwell brought his son, Tommy Caldwell, up Lost Arrow Spire (1,400ft) at just six years old. Brands often tout Tommy’s early experience as foreshadowing for his legendary career in Yosemite big wall climbing.

Yet for most “El Cap kids,” jugging lines at younger and younger ages does not necessarily make them Caldwell-esque prodigies. In 2001, the now-grown Tommy joined Beth Rodden, Steve Schneider, and Hans Florine in fixing lines on the Nose for 11-year-old Scott Cory to jug over three days. Later, in 2012, big wall aficionado Andy Kirkpatrick climbed Tangerine Trip (5.7 A3; 2,300ft), another El Cap classic, fixing lines for his 13-year-old daughter, Ella Kirkpatrick. Seven years later, in June 2019, longtime American Mountain Guide Association (AMGA)-certified guide Mike Schneiter brought his 10-year-old daughter, Selah Schneiter, up the Nose to take the official “youngest rope ascent” record on the mountain. That autumn, the record fell to nine-year-old Pearl Johnson, who jugged up Triple Direct with her mother, Janet Johnson, and YOSAR’s own Nick Sullens. Neither Scott, Ella, Selah, nor Pearl are household “pro climber” names today.

Then there were the Hersons. In contrast to other parents, Jim and Anne Herson encouraged their offspring to actually climb the routes as much as possible, whether on toprope or lead. At age five, Connor Herson followed Snake Dike (5.7; 900ft) on Half Dome, while his sister Kara Herson completed a jumar-less NIAD (Nose In a Day) at just 14 years old. When he was 15, Connor became the youngest person ever to free the Nose (5.14a; 3,000ft), the first of his many historic climbs.

But unlike the parents before him, when Joe Evermore decided to train his children to jug El Cap, he had not yet climbed it successfully himself. In his twenties, Joe tried at least twice to aid Triple Direct (5.9 C2; 3,200ft) on El Cap and also attempted to aid up the West Face (5.7 C2; 1,000ft) of Leaning Tower. Each time, he ended up bailing.

“I’m not super stoked on my record, to be honest, of failed big walls,” he admitted, in a video interview from his home in Colorado Springs. “I didn’t have the right team.”

In late October 2022, Joe, his oldest son, Sam Adventure Evermore, and a camera crew jugged behind aid climbers on a shortened variation to Triple Direct. In order to skip the first 10 pitches of the route, they started atop fixed lines on Mammoth Terrace. To make hauling easier, the Evermores arranged for friends to rappel in from the top and leave extra food and water at two different bivy spots. Joe nicknamed his son the “El Cap Kid” and posted dozens of photos of their time on the wall. When Sam reached the summit, at eight years old, he became the youngest child to jug the 3,000-foot monolith.

From there, Joe launched his son into a press tour, including appearances on Good Morning America, CNN, and various local news stations. “This ascent gained international attention,” Joe wrote on the Instagram account named for Sam in the caption for a year-old video of Sam flaking a rope at the base of the mountain. “Over 1,600 news outlets picked it up.” The preteen appeared on international broadcasts and in several short documentaries. The family began selling merch emblazoned with “Adventure is My Middle Name.” They formed brand sponsorships over Instagram, posting constant throwbacks to the ascent. At one point, they informed the public that Sam was available for speaking gigs, and some voices in the climbing community began to criticize the ascent. “How could you possibly believe that your child, at that age, is the one who’s motivating this and not you?” said Chris Kalous on The Runout podcast. “It just all adds up to ick.”

Last fall, Joe repeated the El Cap jugging experience with his second son, Sylvan Lightyear, who was also eight years old at the time. At this point, their style of claiming highly publicized records based on jugging alone provoked more backlash from climbing’s biggest heroes. Tommy Caldwell told the San Francisco Chronicle that he found the Evermores’ ascent “slightly cringeworthy.” Longtime El Cap photographer Tom Evans had harsher words. “I see that the same people who perpetrated the scam of having a child supposedly ‘climb El Cap’ are back at it again,” Evans wrote on Facebook, where, until late 2023, he published his regular El Cap Report. “The brother of the child who was dragged up by guides a few years ago is now to be dragged up like his brother was … Ascending ropes hung by guides is not ‘rock climbing.’ It is rope climbing and not in any way a climb of El Cap.” (Evermore confirmed to Climbing that his children were never hauled up the routes.)

But the backlash did not deter Joe from preparing his third son, Joey, to break the “youngest ascent” record once more—and this time, he started the preparation at age five. “It’s really hard to teach a five-year-old how to jug,” Joe said. “When I worked with Joey, he would hold the ascender and I would tape it to his shoes, and then together we’d march around the house. That was how he began to get his coordination to a place where he could then jug a line … You only have a limited time to teach these handful of skills if you’re going to try to do it when they’re younger.”

When I asked why there was a time limit to learn jugging, Joe responded, “Joey’s had two older brothers who have set a bunch of records.” Beyond jugging El Cap and climbing other mountains, such as the Matterhorn, Sam has also experienced success in USA Climbing youth competitions. “Joey saw [Sam] get all these accolades,” Joe explains. “He’s seen all of that, and now he wants to follow Sylvan and Sam.”

I understood what he was implying. If Joey waited too long, he’d lose the chance to become a record-breaker, too.

Inside Joey Danger Evermore’s ascent

One of the strangest parts of the Evermores’ recent El Cap ascent is the fact that two-thirds of their team—the ones who actually led pitches, fixed lines, and hauled the bags—have been scrubbed from any mention in social or traditional media. They’re not acknowledged in the headlines, captions, or photos. In fact, not a single one of the Evermores’ Instagram posts about Joey’s ascent, including the final summit photo, mentions their existence.

The obvious reason for erasing them is that Joe hired at least some of his team illegally, as neither party wants prosecution to ensue. In Yosemite, the only people who can be legally paid for climbing services are AMGA-certified guides from the Yosemite Mountaineering School (YMS), who possess insurance and a commercial use license within the park. Sometimes, Yosemite climbing rangers turn a blind eye to dirtbags taking paid gigs, like portering water to the base of routes or bringing a haul bag off the summit, because they are discreet and victimless. A highly publicized ascent, however, invites more scrutiny.

“I did look into that,” says Joe of hiring a certified YMS guide to lead him and his sons up El Cap. “That was never going to happen. If you do hire a guide, everybody has to be on belay, even when they’re jugging, so it’s a very complex, cumbersome process … I talked to YMS about it; they told me that if I sent them an email last November, they’d reply in February. And then they began to tell us it was likely just never going to happen. I just felt like that was not going to work for us, so I put together my own people, friends and family.”

YMS director Josh Helling declined to speak in detail on communication between the organization and the Evermores, but he did confirm that YMS guides were not involved in the Evermore family ascent. He also confirmed the school’s standard policy for El Cap clients to remain on a backup belay while jugging. “We always have a second rope in case an edge cuts a rope,” he said. Helling added that any YMS guide who takes clients up El Cap not only must be a fully certified AMGA Rock Guide, but also an experienced El Cap climber. “El Cap is complicated,” he said. “A lot can happen up there.”

For Joey’s ascent, the full team consisted of nine people: Joe, his two sons, a pair of experienced “rope guns” who led every pitch, one dedicated cameraman, a chief hauler, and two friends who helped with both shooting and hauling. Unlike Andy Kirkpatrick and the other parents who’d brought their children up the wall, Joe did not fix lines or haul any loads himself; he never wanted to leave Joey without direct supervision.

When I spoke with Joe, he originally listed eight people in the group. Then I counted them out, and he agreed that there were nine. This was a problem: Having nine people invalidated his wilderness permit and made his documentary footage unlawfully filmed. A single wilderness climbing permit only covers eight people for overnight camping on Yosemite big walls. In addition, any filming conducted in a group larger than eight requires applying for a commercial filming permit from NPS. When I advised him to look into this, he asked me for the website with the rules.

One pirate guide’s side of the story

Paul Smith (a fake name), who spoke to Climbing under the condition of anonymity, made $4,000 over five days as one of the “pirate” laborers that Joe hired. A relatively new dirtbag to the Valley, Paul came to the fixed lines on Heart Ledges to practice jugging on Sunday, May 17. There he got recruited to haul a few bags up to Mammoth Terraces for the group. He’d never hauled in real life before, but he managed to get the bags up.

“That was a day of work,” he said. “I thought I would never talk to these people again.”

However, when he ran into the family the next day, Joe asked Paul how much it would cost for him to join them on the rest of the mountain.

“I threw out some ridiculous number: $800 a day,” said Paul. “He goes, ‘Yeah, sure.’ Then I had this ‘Oh, shit,’ moment where I had to figure out how to actually make this happen.”

Paul cancelled his plans and joined the team to haul the Evermores’ bags up the mountain. He’d never done a big wall before, let alone El Cap, but he knew how to 1-to-1 haul from videos he’d watched online. For those unfamiliar, 1-to-1 hauling is a simple technique reserved for the lightest loads. It can be downright miserable if the haul bag’s weight exceeds your body weight, as it requires enormous force to push yourself off the wall. To support the Evermores, Paul 1-to-1 hauled up to 300 pounds at a time, starting with two hauls per pitch and later condensing to one. During the ascent, another member of the team tried to teach him an easier technique—the 2-to-1 haul—but he didn’t want to experiment so far off the ground. “I was scared trying to learn that on the wall,” he admitted. A mistake could mean dropping the bags and potentially killing someone below.

“The fact that this team was able to summit in the first place is a miracle,” he said. “All the cards were against them … At least one of [the children] cried on every single pitch. The kids obviously have intrinsic motivation to be on this wall, but they’re kids. Their blood sugar starts crashing even the slightest, they’re going to freeze up and cry.”

The kids’ physical capabilities, Paul said, were sufficient: “Joey and Sylvan can both get their jugs on a fixed line with a Micro Traxion backup. When they’re not crying, they can jug with relative efficiency.” But where Paul grew most frustrated was with Joe’s requests. “Every day at camp, there was always at least an hour-long photo shoot of these kids on a ledge,” he said. “[Joe] made me wait almost two hours to take down one of the ledges because he wanted to get shots of the kids playing around on them, playing checkers … They had all these little props to get a perfect Instagram moment.”

At one point, while hauling the bags in the dark to their fourth bivy spot at Camp 5, Paul finally snapped. “They had all been up there for almost an hour,” he said, “and they were asking for layers and food and different camp supplies. I was just trying to get the bags secured. At one point I had taken a tumble; I was moving around on the ledge and my foot slipped. I fell upside down—that shook things up a bit. I was a little frazzled. I said, ‘You guys have to start taking this shit seriously. We’re on a fucking mountain.’ Then I saw the red light in my face from the camera. I was like ‘Turn that goddamn camera off. You guys are making a mockery of this shit.’ Nobody had anything to say after that, but it didn’t change anything.”

The next day, the team moved out of Camp 5. At some point, Joey’s helmet had come unbuckled, and when he started jugging, it flopped off behind him, falling 2,500 feet to the ground. “It went right past my head,” said Paul. “As soon as that happened, Joe’s first thought was, ‘Shit. The media’s going to chew us up. Better find this kid a helmet.” For the rest of the climb, according to Paul, Joe traded helmets with one of the cameramen, making sure to wear it when he was in the shot.

The fifth and final night did not go as planned. From the summit, Yosemite Search and Rescue (YOSAR) had begun a lifesaving operation that involved lowering ropes down the mountain; they ordered all nearby parties to halt their progress. The Evermores were one pitch from the top, shivering on a sloping ledge. After a brief debate, YOSAR temporarily paused their operation to let the children jug the final pitch; they were crying and could not withstand the cold for much longer.

One of the YOSAR members remarked that the Evermore brothers appeared to be dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted. At the top, the rescuers shared their own food, jackets, and sleeping bags with the children.

Two pitches below, Paul waited until YOSAR completed their operation and gave him the go-ahead to proceed. At the summit he found Joe Evermore and his sons sound asleep. Late into the night, Paul continued to haul their bags, dragging them over the final gully until he could lean them against the tree that marked the end of the Nose. At 5:30 a.m., as sunlight burst over the horizon, he finally walked over to a flat spot and closed his eyes.

When I came down from my first Nose ascent, I remember floating around the Valley, buoyed by euphoria. My two teammates and I had climbed a 3,000-foot cliff; we’d done the impossible thing. We were bonded forever by the Stove Legs, the King Swing, the Great Roof—all of these Nose pitches we’d navigated in turns and hauled together, working beyond the point of exhaustion to give each other a few more moments to breathe.

When Paul was finished relaying his story to me, he sat alone in a cafeteria chair with his head in his hands. He’d gotten paid and could now continue to dirtbag in the Valley for longer than he’d originally planned. Yet it came at a price. “I’m definitely sick of the stuff I’m seeing on mainstream news,” he said finally. “Nobody knows what has to go on in the back end to make jugging happen.”

Climbing, parenthood, and asterisks

During our interview, Joe Evermore acknowledged that he and his family face criticism from the climbing community. “I imagine this piece will be a bit controversial,” he told me. “I’ve watched the venom and anger with people online.” After Sam’s original El Cap ascent, he said the mainstream media often misquoted him, implying that Sam aided, free climbed, or even free soloed El Cap. “I’ve never once said that Sam was doing something anywhere near the level of unbelievable climbers that are freeing El Cap routes,” he said. “And I’ve always said that, but it’s not always gotten through.”

I’ve covered enough climbing news to understand how inaccurate some mainstream outlets can be. ABC’s May 22 article about Joey’s El Cap ascent, for example, lists El Cap’s elevation (7,573 feet) instead of its base-to-summit height (3,000ft), describes the difficulty of the El Cap hiking trail (which they did not take), and labels a photo of Lost Arrow Spire (an unrelated formation) as El Capitan. That’s not Joe’s fault. But from the beginning, Joe’s decision to hire illegal guides and porters for an ascent that he intentionally publicized set him up to tell a dishonest story—one in which a father shows his sons what it’s like to take on big objectives, lead, fix lines, haul, and manage risk as a self-sufficient unit. It’s not necessary to say that they climbed the big wall themselves; removing their six team members from the narrative implies that no one else could have.

Over the next year, assuming they can resolve permitting issues with the NPS, the Evermores will oversee post-production for a feature-length documentary centered around their “adventurous” parenting and their boys’ outdoor accomplishments. “This isn’t just about adventure,” their fundraising website says. “It’s about restoring what our culture has lost: real fathers raising real men.” To date, the project has raised more than $450,000.

The challenge of parenthood—of how to raise a young adventurer—is certainly one worthy of study. In a powerful 2024 essay for Outside, climber and father Daniel Duane reflected on the ethical decisions that tormented him while climbing in Yosemite with his 14-year-old daughter, Hannah. At one point, Duane’s friend, the climbing legend Steve Schneider, offered to take Hannah up the Washington Column for her first big wall. She wasn’t ready to lead the pitches herself, but she could jug the fixed lines set by Schneider and still get the experience of reaching the top, just like the Evermore children did on El Cap. Should Duane allow that?

He agonized over it for months. “[M]y father taught me to climb in a methodical progression from easier routes through steadily harder ones over many years,” Duane wrote. “It was slow and I was no wunderkind, but every rung of that ladder felt precious precisely because I’d earned it and owned it. Every big climb I ever did—Washington Column included—I did as an equal partner of a team … Hannah and I were not yet ready for Washington Column, but if we kept plugging away at our current rate of progression—if we kept following the Path of the Yosemite Climber, as I understood it—we could be ready within a season. If we skipped all these intermediate steps and went up on Washington Column with Schneider, we would be grabbing a brass ring that wasn’t rightfully ours yet … if Hannah came home afterward and said, ‘Yeah, I did a big wall,’ she would be, in my view, the privileged kid who doesn’t realize that Daddy just gifted her an accomplishment.”

In the end, Duane politely declined Schneider’s offer. Hannah would wait a little longer to build up the skills she needed to climb the Column. But once she did, it would be as a climber who understood the price of the summit—and who made it happen herself.

Editor’s note (June 4, 1:15pm MT): An earlier version of this story included the names of the YOSAR members whom the author interviewed. At their request, we have removed their names and direct quotes from our coverage.

The post The True Story Behind the “El Cap Kindergartener” Ascent appeared first on Climbing.

One of my first sport-climbing mentors was Jean Delataillade, a French ex-pat living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, who’d imported his country’s top-down bolting tactics to our desert state’s welded tuff. Jean was tall and lean, with fingers of steel and balletic footwork; his wife was an artist and drove a retired hearse. Jean was the coolest, and teenage me wanted to be just like him.

So when Jean, who’d put up New Mexico’s first 5.13—the pockety tweakfest Touch Monkey at Cochiti Mesa—started wearing the all-black La Sportiva Tao, with their sleek Lorica uppers, I naturally went out and bought a pair. The shoes were long, narrow, and tightly fitted, without much wiggle room—like the cabin of a Ferrari. But, man, did they toe into the Mesa’s small pockets and stand on thin edges. La Sportiva’s new Skwama Lite, with its all-black motif and fleet, narrow build, looks and feels like a modern-day Tao—with a few notable differences.

The Skwama Lite has been pitched as a “bridge” from intermediate climbing into the world of advanced footwork, with the idea that it has a straighter, more forgiving last and is less built up than its higher-end progenitor. Both shoes have a reliable, adjustable single-strap hook-and-loop closure and a split outsole, but the Lite’s is comprised of semi-stiff 4mm FriXion Black rubber (La Sportiva’s compound) versus Vibram’s softest compound, XS Grip 2. Both shoes have a Vibram rand. Notable also are the Lite’s pared-down heel, which is less of a bulb than on the regular Skwama or other shoes built on the P3 last (e.g., the Solution); a toe-scumming patch that’s smaller and less texturized; and a narrower fit with a longer, pointier toe but also a more elastic Microfiber upper to let fatter feet spread out. Finally, the Lite has a less downturned toe, though about the same amount of downcamber in the arch.

Field testing

I dug the Skwama Lite, but my fellow tester, Mary Andino, a longtime Skwama fan, felt that it didn’t share enough DNA with the original. Andino—who tested on the Tension Board 1 and 2; on the vert, slab, and overhanging sandstone, of the Holy Boulders, Illinois; and indoors at ClimbIowa in Des Moines and Climb SoiLL in St. Louis—primarily lamented a “clunky” toebox and a lack of breathability. “I wore these often when I was doing long auto-belay workouts to get endurance for sport (20 min on/10 min off, 3 sets, 3x a week for three months),” she wrote. “These shoes are not breathable whatsoever; I don’t tend to sweat a lot in shoes, but these had my feet cooking.” She, like me, also was not a fan of the FrXion Black outsole, a departure from the sticky Vibram 2 used on the regular Skwama and a compound that, while perhaps harder wearing and good for edging, we both found to be slick on smears—for me, the worst were those downsloping, little waffle-pattern smedge jibs indoors.

I tested on the TB2 and Kilter Board, gym boulders, routes, and auto-belays, and on granite sport and bouldering in the Colorado Rockies mid-country, climbing up to 5.13- on plastic but not much beyond V4/5 and 5.12 outside, given that I’m still recovering from hand surgery. My overall impression was not as grim as Andino’s, and I in fact came to like the Skwama Lite a lot the more I understood how to use it—that is, how to put the “clunky” toe to use.

For me, a short climber who likes to get balled up over wicked-high feet, rocking over with my toe against the wall and hips sucked in, the pointy Skwama Lite made me re-evaluate my footwork: Because the long toebox pressed me off the wall in my default position, I instead started climbing “tall,” just like my hero Jean. That is, I kept my feet low and drove down hard into smaller footholds, versus getting greedy and going for big-drama highsteps—in other words, I learned to use ticky-tacky tall-person footwork.

It was here that the Skwama Lite shone, with a reassuring blend of supportive precision (I guess that harder FriXion rubber did come in handy after all) and lightness on the foot, at sub-1-pound per pair, that let me point, flex, and dig into low footholds with surprising agility. This much I noticed on a V4 highball near Estes Park that felt a little unsteady in a smearier pair of old shoes but much easier—standing tall on nubbins, crystals, and crimps—in the Skwama Lite, with reduced foot fatigue. Given that climbers breaking into ninja footwork need greater foot support, I’d say the Skwama Lite does its stated job well. (I also took them twice up a 5.13- thin-face auto-belay at the Boulder Rock Club, three weeks apart. And with more break-in and fluency with the shoe, I trusted them much more the second time: better smearing, and I’d learned to toe in at the “correct” angle.)

I also loved the minimalist heel, with just enough stiffness in the rand but “squish” on the sides—comprised of Microfiber and sticky rubber—to lock in on almost all hooks. They were a treat to wear on indoor compression problems.

Sizing/fit

These shoes reminded me a lot of Ocun’s new bouldering slipper the Jett S, another long, narrow shoe with similar lateral give to accommodate wide or high-volume feet. The Lites are clearly best for Egyptian feet, and might smear better for those who have them, but were elastic enough across the mid-foot to still let my Roman feet slide in, with no dead space in the heel.

I wore size 41 (I’m street shoe 43), the same size I wear in almost all other La Sportivas, and it felt correct; Andino wore 39 (she’s street shoe 41), her usual Sportiva size, and noted some initial tightness but then proper sizing after a multi-day break-in. The shoes, with their synthetic uppers, can be expected to stretch about a quarter size, but not much more. In their marketing La Sportiva says the Lites are meant to be comfy for all-day use, but with fatter feet I was still eager to take them off between routes and boulders.

Edging and smearing

The Skwama Lite really shines in vertical edging terrain; its relatively flat, mildly asymmetrical last and just-stiff-enough toebox bit into crimps and even micro-crimps. The 1.1mm full-length LaSpoFlex midsole also imparted decent rigidity across the entire shoe, though it is flexier front-to-back than the regular Skwama. To me, these are a great pair of lightweight face, moderate crack, and edging shoes for climbers who like to keep their feet low, and were also amazing in finger pockets, with a low-profile toe that flossed deep into tight bidoigts.

Smearing, we already talked about, and I’ve just learned to adjust my expectations—if I resole these, I’ll probably go with XS Grip or XS Grip 2 for better glom on ramps, slopers, and volumes.

Durability

I have not had any issues with durability, though Andino noted delamination at the toebox-rand juncture on the outside of the shoe, and tiny holes punching through the toe-scumming patch near its union with the uppers. The unlined footbed has stayed nice and cozy, with no annoying liner to come unstitched and then get in the way or soak up “stank.” And, as noted above, even with lots of use, the shoes have held their last. The 4mm outsole may be a hair thin for climbers who drag their feet on roughly textured gym walls, but given the FriXion compound’s overall hardness, the sole should last a good while.

Pros

• Light on the feet at 14.4 oz per pair, but still stiff enough for flat/incut jibs and edging
• Relatively affordable at $159
• Simple, pared-down heel is more intuitive to use than on regular Skwama
• Vegan and machine washable
• Stretchy uppers and long, pointy last make for a versatile fit (albeit one best suited to narrower feet)
• Long hook-and-loop strap gives good play/fit adjustment

Cons

• Did not love the semi-stiff, propriety FriXion Black outsole for smearing
• One tester noted delamination along the rand/toebox area and small performations on the toe-scumming patch near the Microfiber upper; I did not experience this
• Pointy toebox, if you have wide Hobbit feet, may feel “clunky” and/or push you off the wall on highsteps
• Shoes are all black, which is cool looking but not ideal for sunny rocks; coupled with the Skwama Lite’s minimal breathability, this meant hot, sweaty feet for one tester

Shop for $159 at La Sportiva

The post Our Testers Are Divided on La Sportiva’s Beginner-Friendly Take on an Elite Shoe appeared first on Climbing.

As the lights dim, the glow of multi-colored LEDs from 14 Kilter Boards illuminates the room. With the music bumping, a coach counts down through her headset: 3-2-1. Two other climbers and I hop off the Kilter Boards, as the next group of three jumps on.

This might sound like climbing competition meets nightclub, but in fact, it’s a gym called ROQ that’s reimagining the training experience for climbers. Inside this Seattle-based gym, Kilter Boards fill two-thirds of the 4,500-square-foot space. Training equipment fills the rest of the gym. Established this past January, ROQ offers climbing-focused workout classes.

What does a HIIT climbing class look like?

Founder Michael Hauss’ idea to combine climbing with HIIT was inspired by boutique gyms, like Orangetheory Fitness and Barry’s, which are popular for their instructor-led workouts that foster motivation, accountability, and community. ROQ’s hour-long Flagship Class includes 40 minutes of climbing, 10 minutes of rowing, and 10 minutes of strength training.

As an experienced climber himself, Hauss created ROQ HIIT climbing classes to fill the gaps that he saw in traditional climbing gyms. Newer climbers may feel overwhelmed with the vague and self-directed nature of climbing gyms. Meanwhile, he felt that more experienced climbers struggle to stay consistent with their own training plans without adequate space and motivation.

Developed by professional climber and coach Matt Fultz, the training program focuses on climbing-specific High-Intensity Interval Training (HIIT). The workouts are designed to build capacity, or the ability “to recover between intense efforts.” In his decade and a half of coaching, Fultz has seen how interval training leads to “a lot more quality attempts on your project,” and ultimately more sends.

My experience with a ROQ HIIT climbing class

After hearing about the structured coach-led classes at ROQ on the Climbing Business Journal podcast, I wanted to try it out. I’ve been climbing for nearly 10 years, progressing from indoor toproping to outdoor sport and trad climbing. But admittedly, I have little experience in training plans aside from the Power Company’s “Climb 5.12” e-book.

Knowing that my climbing would benefit from board training, I’ve tried various boards, including Kilter, but have never found a way to stay engaged with this type of climbing. Could a ROQ class get me stoked on Kilter Boarding?

Last month, I tried two Flagship classes: one focused on “Capacity and Technique” and the other on “Power and Strength.” Before each class, the coach helped us select a Kilter Board angle (ranging from 0-70 degrees) and a curated playlist of problems that matched our climbing ability.

We started and ended the class with 20 minutes on the boards, alternating between one minute climbing and one minute resting. The climbing drill was determined by the focus of the class—either climbing slowly on easier grades, or explosive movement on harder grades. In between the two blocks of climbing, we rotated through rowing and floor exercises, such as overhead press, seated leg lifts, and push-ups.

In the three ROQ classes that I’ve taken so far, I’ve tried more Kilter problems than I have in the past six months. It’s hard to say whether my climbing capacity or technique have improved. However, I can definitely see the appeal of showing up to a class and bashing out 15 problems in an hour. I found the strength and rowing portions particularly useful, since I often neglect these types of exercises. The coaches were great at creating an environment where I felt motivated to try hard. That said, I was hoping for more feedback on my climbing than what the ROQ coaches offered.

What climbers think about ROQ classes so far

Since opening, ROQ has seen the most interest from “people who have some climbing experience, but whose max V grade is V1 to V3,” Hauss told me. There’s also a significant portion of people trying out ROQ who have never climbed before. Nicole Zielinski, who has tried climbing, but doesn’t climb consistently, said the ROQ class felt less intimidating than visiting other climbing gyms.

More experienced climbers thought the classes were fun, but had no plans to trade their traditional climbing gym membership for one at ROQ. Christian Owen, who has been climbing indoors and outdoors for eight years, thought the “HIIT cross-training could benefit [his] overall routine.” But Owen didn’t want to give up aspects of a traditional climbing gym that ROQ doesn’t provide, such as corner climbing or the mental aspect of lead climbing.

Another climber with 20 years of experience in everything from alpine routes to indoor board climbing appreciated not having to plan her own workout or compete for space on the wall. But she observed: “I’m not really sure it is that effective for training the type of outdoor climbing I want to do.”

For both of these more experienced climbers, the cost of ROQ classes was difficult to justify on top of their existing gym membership. A drop-in class at ROQ costs $39 and memberships range from $119 to $299 a month. In addition to classes, visitors and members have access to open gyms, where they can use the Kilter Boards outside of class hours, and saunas located in each locker room.

ROQ also provides a free intro class for everyone to learn the format, and to teach new climbers how to use the boards safely. After that, you can opt for the “Foundations” class, which follows the same format as the Flagship but with longer transitions and more demonstrations. Or you can choose from three types of Flagship classes: Strength and Power, Capacity and Technique, and Power Endurance.

Some climbers have criticized ROQ for being an example of the increased corporatization of climbing, but Hauss disagrees, calling his gym “the definition of [a] small business.” His goal with ROQ is to experiment, innovate, and “bring climbing forward,” and he hopes that climbers will be more curious to try out the new concept.

As the sport continues to expand beyond its outdoor roots, many climbers these days have no intention of climbing outdoors. By creating a boutique fitness climbing experience, Hauss hopes to bring climbing to new people. Nearly 40 years ago, people were certainly dubious when two climbers glued rocks onto plywood and created Vertical World, the first indoor climbing gym in the U.S. right here in Seattle. In the same city, ROQ is now exploring what the next evolution of indoor climbing could look like.

The post In a Training Rut? These New HIIT Climbing Classes Are a Game-Changer. appeared first on Climbing.

The first 5.12 in Squamish is also the first route that made me wonder if I could afford to be a climber. Sentry Box is 90 feet of gleaming granite and perfect splitters. It is as roadside as it gets and some of it stays dry in the rain. It’s the kind of pitch most trad climbers dream about when they sit around dreaming about trad climbs. Unfortunately for me—and my rapidly tanking budget—Sentry Box also has a terribly thin crux that protects with only the smallest nuts and cams.

I first tried Sentry during the summer of 2023. I had saved the route for an onsight attempt and was eager to give it my best, unrehearsed effort. I chugged through its opening hand crack, spanned neatly out from beneath a square-cut roof, and placed a nest of satisfyingly solid micro cams. Then I shoved my pinkie fingers into the leaning, offset crack, smeared my feet against the wall, and punted. As I hurtled down, I felt the familiar ping! of a cam ripping, before another one caught me below.

The naughty red micro cam sped down my end of the rope and slapped me on the thigh. Its mangled lobes were inverted like an umbrella caught by the wind. All four of its wires had been completely sliced through.

“Shit,” I muttered. “I just blew up a cam!”

On my next attempt a few days later, I employed protection with fewer moving parts: a well-loved brass nut by DMM. This time, I slotted the offset nut carefully into a constriction, clipped a quickdraw to it, and gingerly jammed the first shallow pinkie lock. I stabbed my hand higher to a sidepull, stood up so my feet were level with the nut, then did one more move, before peeling out of the crack.

Ping!

The nut ripped and I took another long fall. But when the quickdraw came hurtling down the rope to slap me in my nethers, I realized there was no longer a nut attached. Far above me, I could see the brass nut still wedged into Sentry’s crux. But my fall had split the wire in half.

After falling twice on Sentry Box, I had destroyed exactly $120 worth of hardware. Could I afford to keep falling on this thing?

I gifted my ruined cam to a friend for arts and crafts but held onto the brass nut. DMM said they would inspect it and try to figure out why it failed so catastrophically. I packed it up in a padded envelope and shipped it off to the U.K. Then I went back to rock climbing, tying into anything but the money-grubbing Sentry.

As DMM was mulling over how best to tell me I was doomed to continue breaking gear, I left Squamish and drove to the Bugaboos. I stuffed a double set of brass nuts into my pack before hiking in to try the finger-splitter Sendero Norte (5.12+; 500m) on Snowpatch Spire’s impressive east face. I didn’t explode any gear on the first few pitches, but while cleaning another brass nut on the sparsely protected fifth pitch I noticed, with a sinking heart, that its wire was nearly sawed through.

What is happening to me?

Small brass nuts, big red flags

A few months later, DMM hit me back. They were unsurprised my Sentry Box nut had failed. The area around its head, where the brass is soldered in place, was scarred with signs of abuse: flattened wires, sheared strands, deformation from long-term wear, and evidence of nut-tool overuse.

Unlike climbing ropes and harnesses, DMM told me that an unused brass nut will not naturally lose its strength over time. But tiny metal hardware will get banged up surprisingly quickly and climbers need to carefully inspect their micro gear before each use.

The engineering team offered a more detailed explanation: “For example, Robbie Phillips sent one of his well-used and damaged DMM Brass Offsets back to us for evaluation. The nut failed at 3.9kN, which is 55% of its rated 7kN strength. This suggests fatigue failure caused by repeated bending and wear, showing that even minor visible damage can significantly reduce performance.”

Although I was disappointed to retire another nut after Sendero Norte, I was pleased that DMM’s team validated my fears. Another few falls—or one perfect storm on a leaning, offset crack like Sentry—and I was all but guaranteed to face another scary, expensive fall.

In inspecting their nuts as DMM recommends, climbers should focus on three high-wear areas:

1. The soldered base of the nut (mainly relevant for brass nuts), where untwisted wires are a clear indicator of internal weakening
2. Flattened or shiny spots on the wires, which suggests abrasion and wear and can lead to sheared wires rather than clean breaks
3. Damage caused by the nut tool or rock abrasion. Aggressive nut-tooling can weaken the head of a brass nut over time, but DMM emphasized that it is much better to remove any nut with a proper tool rather than simply yanking it out by hand.

How I view micro gear now

After the Expensive Summer of 2023, I am much more anal about gear inspection. I scan each brass nut as I load them into my pack the night before a climb, and I beg my partners to wield their nut tool carefully. I treat micro cams with suspicion now, too—I never did learn why my 0.1 cam exploded, though I suspect it is due to Sentry’s sharp, offset crack. I also double up my placements before a substantial crux.

When I did return to Squamish the following summer, I knew I had to finish off Sentry. It had taken too much from me at that point. I needed to justify the loss.

I chugged up the opening hand crack, spanned neatly below the square-cut roof, and faced off below the leaning seam. I placed a nest of gear and prayed I wouldn’t weight it, then climbed quickly to the chains.

Sentry Box: 2 / Anthony: 1

The post What I Learned Exploding Cams and Nuts On a Classic Squamish Splitter appeared first on Climbing.

Thanks to an incoming El Niño season, mosquitoes are expected to surge this spring and summer in the U.S. So what does that mean for climbers, especially those pulling on rock at wet, humid, and wildly buggy crags? Unfortunately, this is far from a regional problem—over 200 different types of mosquitoes exist across the continental U.S., according to the CDC. They’re found in every state, so you really can’t escape them unless you’re climbing indoors. The good news is that only a few types of mosquitos carry viruses or parasites. The bad news is that mosquito bites still itch.

If you’ve spent any time on belay in summer, you’ve faced the conundrum of either swatting a mosquito latched onto your arm or keeping your hand on the rope’s brake strand. It’s a tough choice. No belayer wants their partner to take a groundfall… but no one enjoys getting their blood sucked either.

Mosquitoes tend to be most annoying for climbers during waterside bouldering sessions, long belays on single-pitch sport projects, and approaches past alpine ponds and lakes. Once you’re off the deck, you’re usually in the clear—unless there’s dense tree cover. Mosquitos are weak fliers that prefer low-lying moisture, so even a light breeze will keep them grounded.

There are many ways to repel mosquitoes, from smoking cigarettes to sacrificing small goats to pagan gods and hacky-sacking so frenetically that they can’t land on you. There are also some simpler ones, like using bug spray with DEET, or, according to some new scientific findings, a patchouli oil-based cream. But does bug spray damage your climbing gear? More on that later.

First, let’s look at the 10 U.S. climbing destinations with the worst mosquito problems.

The 10 worst climbing areas for mosquitoes, ranked

10. Mosquito Wall, Utah

Does this crag in the Uinta Mountains actually have a ton of mosquitoes? I don’t know. I’ve never actually been there, but they at least make guest appearances, because one climber on Mountain Project, Jonathan Amburgey, notes that “Mosquitos can be thick at the end of the day on the right-hand side of the cliff line.”

According to Climbing Editor-in-Chief Maya Silver who lives in a gateway town to the Uintas, the alpine air here grows thick with mosquitoes from late spring to early summer. The closer you are to an alpine lake, the more bites you can expect. Cliff Lake, for example, is another mosquito hotbed if you’re clipping bolts here in early June. While Silver has never climbed at Mosquito Wall (for obvious reasons), she speculates that mosquitoes likely wouldn’t be a problem at this specific area by August, and certainly not by fall.

Regardless of whether this wall owns up to its name, I wanted to include it for the name alone. Hosting climbs like Bloodsucker (5.9), Malaria (5.10c), and Mosquito Coast (5.10a), even if you don’t encounter actual mosquitos at Mosquito Wall, they’ll be on your mind.

9. Rumbling Bald, North Carolina

This crag is where I learned to climb on gear. There’s a high concentration of easy-to-moderate granite trad and phenomenal bouldering, too. As with almost anywhere in the Southeast, the mosquitos are bad here in the summer, so it deserves to be on the list anyway. But the real villains at Rumbling Bald are the chiggers.

You can spray yourself with DEET, you can climb in a HAZMAT suit, but you really can’t escape them. Every time I’ve climbed at the Bald during the summer, I’ve woken up the next day looking like I got sprayed by a BB gun.

8. Guanella Pass, Colorado

Guanella Pass, south of Georgetown and the I-70, hosts a nice array of boulders. It’s not far from Denver and it’s at high elevation, so it’s a good way to escape Front Range heat come summer. But Guanella is also a primo hang zone for mosquitoes.

The climbing here is nestled in a subalpine forest filled with willow thickets and stagnant pools fed by annual snowmelt. Because these boulders are often tucked into wind-shielded pockets, the mosquitoes here face little wind to cast them out of the skies. Once late-spring to summer temps hit, be ready for a bloodsucker carnival.

7. Stone Fort, Tennessee

This premier winter bouldering destination transforms into a suffocating bug trap during the humid spring and summer. The microclimate is defined by a low-elevation sandstone labyrinth, where densely packed boulders create narrow corridors that completely block wind. These depressions also often hold leaf litter and stagnant water, serving as wind-protected nurseries for mosquitoes.

6. Red River Gorge, Kentucky

If you’re a sport climber east of the Mississippi, then either you’ve made a pilgrimage to the Red River Gorge, you will soon, or you’ll have to order a Miguel’s Pizza t-shirt online so you can pretend like you have.

The overhanging sandstone amphitheaters of the Red do a great job shielding climbers from rain, but these hollows also function as giant, wind-protected bowls that trap the sweltering humidity. Mosquitoes are a real problem here. But the Red is also plagued by “no-see-ums”—microscopic gnats small enough to slip through standard mesh screens and bite you through your clothes, resulting in itchy, painful welts.

5. Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite, California

You may expect to find dry, arid conditions in the High Sierras, but places like Tuolumne Meadows can become a bug trap for the same reason as the Winds. As the winter snowpack melts in June, it floods the subalpine meadows, like Lyell Canyon or the approaches to various backcountry domes. This renders humid marshes that yield brief but intense mosquito swarms.

As far as the greater area, Yosemite can be “pretty bad” when it comes to mosquitoes, according to Climbing Associate Editor Sam MacIlwaine, who has lived and climbed in the park for several seasons. But she says mosquitoes are usually only a problem here in spring, from around April to June. Aside from Tuolumne, several readers also called out The Chapel Wall as a skeeter hotspot.

“Personally, I’ve been attacked at the base of El Cap, at Cookie Cliff, and around Camp 4 at dusk,” MacIlwaine says. “The good news is they don’t follow you up the wall so once you’re off the ground you’re pretty good. Any kind of wind layer usually keeps them out.”

4. Pawtuckaway State Park, New Hampshire

Pawtuckaway is a world-class bouldering destination, with hundreds of granite boulders tucked between marshy wetlands and slow-draining streams. Sadly for mammals like you and I, the heavy leaf litter here traps standing water, creating concentrated, wind-sheltered nurseries for blood-sucking insects like mosquitos and black flies. Zones like Round Pond are particularly vile.

I don’t typically like to let Internet denizens do my writing for me, but I found the following anecdote from Mountain Project user Ian McAfee particularly compelling:

If the black flies are swarming and biting it’s absolutely horrendously unclimbable. You may think, ‘Hey if i spray enough DEET they can’t possibly get through it all,’ and drive out there, but then you have thousands of pterodactyl-sized unkillable black flies ready to eat you and your entire family, and then you’re left as a bloodless corpse for conspiracy theorists to ponder your cause of death.

3. Wind River Range, Wyoming

This cathedral of high-altitude granite is home to the famed Cirque of the Towers, one of the most breathtaking alpine skylines in the Lower 48. But anyone who’s packed in there during the high summer knows that the range’s alpine lakes attract more mosquitos than a Sabrina Carpenter concert does middle school girls. When the winter snowpack melts in June and July, it turns the high-altitude meadows into soggy, stagnant breeding grounds, launching a mosquito-ocalypse.

Mosquitos aren’t the only problem in the Winds. As I reported for Outside last year, scientists from the EPA have also found that one of the range’s most famous alpine lakes, Lonesome, is chock full of human feces. The lake holds a higher concentration of feces than any of the 1,000 other water bodies surveyed around the U.S. Lovely.

2. Arrigetch Peaks, Alaska

There’s a running joke that Alaska’s state bird is the mosquito. In the summer, the state’s skies go black with the little suckers. That also makes it hard to choose just ‘one’ bad crag. In reality, the top 10 worst climbing areas for mosquitos in the U.S. should probably all be in Alaska.

So I asked veteran climber and bush pilot Paul Claus, who has logged over 35,000 hours of flight time around the state, and served as the wilderness survival expert on the Discovery Channel’s Alaska Experiment. He told me, unequivocally, that the worst crag in all of Alaska for mosquitoes is Arrigetch Peaks in Gates of the Arctic National Park.

The approach to this collection of granite spires features vast stretches of tundra and boggy wetlands that sit atop permafrost, preventing water from draining and creating an endless network of stagnant water. Because the peaks are located north of the Arctic Circle, the summer sun also never sets, meaning the mosquitoes never experience a temperature drop significant enough to send them into dormancy. The result? Swarms present 24/7 that are thick enough to be inhaled. Bring your gas mask.

(An honorary mention goes to Grapefruit Rocks in the Fairbanks area, thanks to a tip shared with us via Instagram).

1. Insert Your Local Crag Here

Mosquitoes are everywhere. They live in all 50 states, and although arid desert regions and high elevations tend to keep them away, even those places aren’t exempt, as the Winds prove. So there aren’t just 10 bad crags for mosquitoes in the U.S. There are at least 83, if not 84. Perhaps 85. I’m sitting outside at a coffee shop writing this story and a mosquito is sucking on my ankle right now. Slap. Another seems to have inadvertently drowned itself in my PBR. Do I drink it anyway? Let me know in the comments.

To preclude people saying, “But wait, Owen, you forgot such and such crag that I always get smoked by mosquitos at!” the tenth crag on this list is whatever you want it to be. While the crag you have in mind is probably not the worst in the U.S., as this ranked list would have you believe, we know you probably think it’s the worst, as you nurse your fresh bites.

Now let’s talk about how climbers can protect themselves from mosquitoes.

What are the worst climbing areas and conditions for mosquitoes?

To ensure your climbing trip doesn’t turn into a bug bonanza, understand the conditions that breed skeeters in the first place. The biggest factor is warmth. Mosquitoes don’t hatch until temperatures are above 50°F, and don’t thrive until above 70°F. Most scientists agree that between 80 and 90°F is the sweet spot.

Mosquitoes are also notoriously weak fliers and highly susceptible to dehydration. So beyond warmth, they look for areas with stagnant water or otherwise high humidity, and no wind.

The primary geographic culprit that leads to a mosquito issue is the “amphitheater effect.” Steep, overhanging sandstone arches or deeply recessed limestone gorges serve as prime real estate for mosquitoes because they trap humidity and block wind, allowing mosquitoes to fly and feed with impunity. Overhanging crags can also feature slow-dripping seeps or vernal pools that keep the base of the wall damp, offering a sheltered nursery for larvae.

Other aspects of geography or ecology play a role, too. Crags buried beneath dense hardwood canopies or tucked away in low-lying river corridors are shielded from direct sunlight, preventing groundwater from evaporating. When early summer heat waves hit these damp, shaded forest floors, eggs hatch simultaneously, unleashing the swarms. The same thing is true of high-alpine basins experiencing heavy snowmelt. When the snow melts, the meadows get marshy, and the bugs start biting. Generally, the higher the snowmelt (and/or wetter the spring), the better the digs for mosquitoes.

Are climbers at a higher risk of a bite?

Sweat

Unfortunately for some sweaty climbers laboring away on their sport project, the bacteria in our sweat may lure in mosquitoes. Bacteria break down our sweat into unique byproducts, which can either attract or repel mosquitoes. Some people produce a blend of acids that mosquitoes find irresistible, others produce natural compounds that act as minor deterrents.

An extensive, years-long study published in Current Biology in 2022 revealed that mosquitoes prefer to bite people whose skin has high concentrations of carboxylic acids. Some examples of carboxylic acids include acetic acid, citric acid, and lactic acid.

This last one is the kicker. It’s the same chemical that makes you feel pumped and builds up in your sweat during physical activity. So almost any climber is at a higher risk than the average person standing outside, because we’re putting out lactic acid, but those of us who sweat more heavily are more attractive to mosquitos.

The bad news is if you attract mosquitos now, this probably won’t ever change. “Some subjects were in the study for several years, and we saw that if they were a mosquito magnet, they remained a mosquito magnet,” one of the paper’s authors, Dr. Maria Elena de Obaldia, told the National Institutes of Health. “Many things could have changed about the subject or their behaviors over that time, but this was a very stable property of the person.”

Body Heat

Mosquitoes hone in on warmth, so people with a higher core temperature or faster metabolic rate tend to be bigger targets.

Alcohol

Research also shows that alcohol attracts mosquitos—and not just open containers, but alcohol in your bloodstream. If you’ve been drinking beer, in particular, you’re at a much higher risk of being bitten.

Blood type: Uh-O

Extensive studies indicate that mosquitoes are drawn to people with Type O blood, and are the least attracted to people with Type A. People with Type O blood are bitten at least twice as much as those with Type A.

Dark colors

You can’t change your blood type, but wearing lighter clothing can help you be less attractive to mosquitos. Research conducted by the University of Washington and published in Nature Communications in 2022 reveals that mosquitoes are more attracted to the colors black, red, and orange. Lighter hues like green, white, beige, and pale yellow are less appealing.

CO₂: A warning for mouth breathers on the approach

You probably knew that mosquitoes were attracted to sweat and blood type, but did you know they’re also attracted to your breath? Mosquitoes are equipped with a sensory organ called a maxillary palp, which detects plumes of carbon dioxide (CO₂) from up to 150 feet away.

The more CO₂ you emit, the bigger your target. Because of this, larger individuals and pregnant women, both of whom exude more CO₂ than the average person, are the first ones logged onto the insects’ radar. The same goes for anyone breathing heavily from physical exertion.

If you’re breathing hard while carrying a 40-pound pack up a steep talus approach, your heavy exhalations are creating a massive, invisible trail that acts as a bug highway to your face. Keep the huffing and puffing to a minimum!

Mosquito combat: How climbers can fight back against bugs

In the words of the United Citizen Federation propagandists of Starship Troopers, “The only good bug is a dead bug.” Here’s how to keep them away.

Impermeable and loose layers

Your first line of defense against bugs is your clothing. If the mosquitoes can’t reach your skin, they can’t do you any harm. For the best defense, you want tightly woven synthetics—think GORE-TEX or other hardshell, weatherproof materials—that are physically impossible for a mosquito’s proboscis to penetrate.

Alternatively, choose clothing that’s loose enough that a mosquito can’t stick its proboscis through it and bite you (avoid skintight fits). Also look for clothing secured at the neck, waist, ankles, and wrists. You can also explore ‘bug-proof’ sun hoodies designed with a tighter knit or pre-treated with repellent.

Bug spray

If it’s too warm to layer up, try bug spray. There are a number of options, including Picaridin, Permethrin, Para-menthane-diol, and lemon or eucalyptus oil, but one of the most effective choices is a bug spray that contains 20 to 30 percent DEET.

Some climbers have wondered if bug sprays like DEET or Permethrin can damage soft goods like ropes and slings. Testing from HowNot2 showed that polyester, Dyneema, and nylon slings soaked in various bug repellants did break under slightly less force than the control slings, but the difference wasn’t significant. The HowNot2 guys also soaked their slings in jars filled with bug spray for over a week—most likely, you wouldn’t be even directly spraying your climbing gear and it might just be caught in some spray crossfire as you douse your skin. That’s not to say repellants have no impact, but if you’re spraying some bug spray on your skin or clothes and a bit of it wafts onto your gear, you don’t need to be overly concerned. Give the video a watch and see the data for yourself.

A cream of patchouli oil

Not too sure about DEET? A new study found that adding patchouli oil to unscented cream can actually repel mosquitoes just as effectively.

Mosquito netting

Mosquito netting is ubiquitous in regions where mosquitos carry disease for a reason. It really works.

Yes, a fine-mesh head net that fits over your climbing helmet is the ultimate ‘ego-death’ accessory. It looks ridiculous. But it definitely keeps the bugs off while belaying. If there’s any other place where you’re spending lots of time—like a camp kitchen or a hammock—consider draping a mosquito net over the entire rig. This spring, Climbing Editor Sam MacIlwaine has been shrouding herself in a bug net during her frequent crack trainer sessions in Camp 4 to keep the bugs at bay, for example.

Smoke

Smoking cigarettes can repel mosquitos, since tobacco is a natural insecticide, but so can burning about anything. A 1994 field study conducted with tribal peoples in Papua New Guinea and published in the Southeast Asian Journal of Tropical Medicine and Public Health, found that burning almost any kind of vegetation can significantly reduce the presence of all reduced biting insects. So if you want to keep the bugs away in the morning or evening, start a fire (responsibly, of course)!

Parting words for climbers who fear the bite

There is no surefire way to avoid getting bitten by mosquitos. The best way to deal with a mosquito-plagued crag is to either avoid it in the summer, or just embrace the misery. But that’s not so bad, is it? Climbing is about managing discomfort, whether that’s a screaming calf pump, shredded fingertips, or a mosquito boring into your eyelid while you’re trying to stick clip that first bolt.

So, just pack some DEET, layer up, and bring a mosquito head net if your ego is already dead. And if you have Type O blood, avoid the crags routinely swarmed by the world’s most deadly animal.

The post The 10 Most Infamous Mosquito Traps in American Climbing appeared first on Climbing.

Gone are the days when just one harness worked for all my climbing pursuits. First was the progression from an all-around gym-and-crag workhorse to a streamlined sport-specific design. Then came the trad graduation, requiring generous gear loops and all-day multi-pitch comfort. Next, the winter harness: adjustable, accommodating of layers, and able to carry ice screws. Now, in spring 2026, Arc’teryx threatens to upend my harness wardrobe once again. Their new stripped-back Lithos SL, intently designed for sport climbing, puts my old bolt-clipping harness to shame. But do I—or you—really need it?

First impressions

Pulling the Lithos SL out of its teeny little sack, it’s clearly a very slick bit of kit. It feels incredibly light in hand (a size 4A is 275 grams/9.7 ounces) and the black and lime green colorway with a silver bird logo is pleasingly aesthetic. Its rear risers are super-skinny elastic and the thin belay loop reminds me of more alpine-style harnesses. With just two large gear loops, the Lithos SL compresses easily into one hand.

Over the last few years, I’ve predominantly used an Arc’teryx women’s FL-355 harness (now discontinued, but very similar to the AR-385a) for sport and trad climbing, interchangeably with a Petzl Selena. I’m a big fan of the FL-355’s low-profile, minimalist feel, and, because of its adaptability, it tends to get more outings than any of my other harnesses. It’s proven to be incredibly robust and reliable—even after years of heavy use at home and abroad, it shows little sign of wear. The Selena is a newer model to me and offers a layer of comfort for projecting that the FL-355 doesn’t, owing to its lightly padded leg loops and waist belt.

Arc’teryx’s famed  “Warp Strength Technology,” which deftly distributes bodyweight through a broad strip of webbing, has been made thinner, lighter, and more durable in the Lithos SL. Toying with the two-millimeter-thick hipbelt, the fabric appears just as tough as that of its predecessors.

As with the FL-355, the Lithos SL is made using the same “Burly Double Weave” textile construction—that really flat, unpadded banding which I find to be much more comfortable than it looks. I’ve spent a lot of time in the FL-355; at hanging belays, resting on the rope while projecting, carrying, at times, either a hefty double set of cams or enough quickdraws to equip a marathon Spanish sport pitch. The reduced bulk and weight are a trade off I’m willing to make under most circumstances, but in the Lithos SL, the width of the leg loops and waist belt is reduced even further. We’re about to find out just how much comfort I’m willing to compromise…

Testing

I tested the Lithos SL on single-pitch U.K. sport routes over a period of two months (British weather permitting), as well as in my local gym on a 25-meter lead wall. With it being the start of the outdoor season, it was an opportunity to ease onto some friendly lines where I could focus on the feel of the harness as I moved, before testing it on more demanding routes later on. In the gym, I worked some of the trickier routes on my training roster, as well as doing fall practice. My co-tester, Anthony Walsh, also tested the Lithos SL for two months, at various sport crags throughout British Columbia and southern Alaska. He primarily focussed on near-limit projecting, catching and taking 20-plus-foot whippers as he sussed out routes that are “probably too hard” for him.

Sizing

The Lithos SL’s best feature is its gender-neutral sizing system. You choose your waist belt (swami) size from six options and pair with either an A or B leg loop, with A offering a smaller circumference and regular rise, and B a larger circumference and longer rise. The rise influences hanging position depending on your pelvic depth and how much your thighs fill out the leg loops. I was excited to read about this, as women-specific climbing apparel is something that irks me more often than I’d like.

The women in my life seem to find nailing down the perfect harness more of a challenge than most of the men I know. The formula for women-specific harness design seems to generally be a matter of slightly altered geometry—extending the rise by elongating the belay loop. The idea is to accommodate wider hips and a smaller waist and prevent tension between the leg loops and waist belt. This works, sort of, but a quick canvas of my women climbing companions suggests that many of them tend toward men’s harnesses anyway for a better leg-loop fit.

Arc’teryx sent me both the A and B versions of my chosen size harness for comparison. I had a sneaking suspicion that the B version might be the one for me, so it wasn’t surprising when the A immediately felt bunched between the waist and leg loops. The longer rise theory might not be ground-breaking, but the ability to choose this and combine it with a more specific waist and leg measurement will help counter the body-variability issue that I think a lot of women face. The range of adjustability within my chosen size (2B) is just enough to accommodate hormone-driven fluctuations in my waist and tummy on a monthly basis, and while it certainly won’t accommodate a great deal of clothing underneath, you can squeeze in a lightweight layer on colder days.

Despite the wide-ranging size options, Lithos SL buyers should really strive to try this one on in-store before purchasing. According to Arc’teryx’s sizing chart, Anthony fit squarely into the size 3B, yet when his harness arrived he found the leg loops to be surprisingly baggy. Depending on how snug you like your leg loops, he suggests considering a size down.

Mobility and comfort

The lightness and freedom of movement of the Lithos SL is dreamy. I’m quite a techy, flexy climber, always in favor of a high foot, and this harness provides absolute freedom in executing those movements. The elasticated continuous leg loops feel secure but provide enough give as to not be restrictive, allowing for a full range of motion (and this is from someone with—humble brag—good hip mobility). The waist belt sits exactly where I want it to, above my hip bones, and the minimalist coverage at the front buckle means there’s little interference when winding up for dynamic movement.

Falling and resting feels… fine. No issue with the waist belt, which distributes load well and, combined with the longer rise, makes the harness feel supportive to sit in. There’s really not much to complain about other than a slight pinching sensation in the leg loops when resting for long periods of time. I found this to be the case with the FL-355 too, but generally a bit of a butt shuffle or slight repositioning of the leg loops alleviated the impending “dead legs.” Resting in something with a bit more padding would certainly feel more… restful. But the trade-off here really is in the freedom of movement, weight, and streamlined design.

When climbing with a bare midriff, Anthony raved about the Lithos SL’s next-to-skin comfort. “The Lithos’s new style of gear loops allow for a stitch-free swami interior,” he noted. “On hot spring days climbing without a shirt, I noticed a bit less skin abrasion while writhing around.”

“Writhing around” was where Anthony logged his sole criticism: “The edges of the harness are notably stiff. Occasionally, on strange, contortionist moves, I’d pinch my skin beneath the fabric. I’d never experienced that before.”

Security

The Lithos SL’s leg loops are made from a single, continuous piece of webbing which aims to eliminate stitching in critical areas and increase durability over time. Arc’teryx’s “Burly Double Weave” feels reassuringly tough here, and Anthony noted its resistance to rough granite while thrutching up some gravelly 5.12s at Alaska’s Weiner Lake. The waist buckle cinches and stays put without any give, even after a big whip. And the brand’s new style of belay loop, a spun fiber with a sheath, promises to be “double or more” the strength of the brand’s existing belay loops—despite appearing roughly half as thick. If you’re used to a winter or alpine harness, skinny belay loops won’t phase you. If not, it might take a bit of getting used to!

Functionality

The Lithos SL does not pretend to be anything other than a high-end sport harness. Keeping things slick and streamlined, the Lithos SL only has two gear loops. They’re well positioned for ease of reach and racking, and while they do accommodate 10 beefy draws each without drama, anything more feels quite clunky.

If you pee standing up, this next part is less relevant to you, but it is educational… Just like meagre pockets on women’s pants, rear risers on harnesses have the ability to ignite my feminine rage. Granted, needing to remain in your harness while going to the bathroom is more of a problem on multi-pitch trad terrain, but I think this feature is worth a mention. Arc’teryx states that the elastic rear riser on the Lithos SL is “easy to unclip one-handed, even while wearing the harness”, which, personally, I did not find to be the case.

The Lithos SL’s other key feature is of course the aforementioned sizing system, which I personally hope reignites an industry trend. (I say reignites because, some 20 years ago, the Arc’teryx Vapor harness did come with different leg-loop size options.) I’m pleased to see the brand revive the idea—and I’d love to see a range of harnesses within this sizing system, particularly something with a few more gear loops! 

Should you buy the Lithos SL harness?

So: does anyone really need a sport specific climbing harness? I’d say it depends on your ambition and budget, though, for me, the difference is tangible.

If comfort is your number one priority, the Lithos SL may not be for you. For relaxed days out or training sessions, I’d opt for something with a bit more padding. The price point is also comparatively quite high next to other sport climbing harnesses on the market, but considering the longevity of my previous Arc’teryx harness, the progression of the Warp Strength Technology, and the potential to get a really good fit, I feel assured that the Lithos SL is built to last and will see a lot of use. Exploring the size options in the Lithos SL is really worthwhile, and while it inevitably won’t accommodate every body just yet, the gender-neutral design and adaptable sizing system feels like a positive step.

The Lithos SL is certainly a high-performance harness, and I did feel like a bit of an imposter at first. Ultimately, though, mobility and security are important to me and my style of climbing. If I’m about to deploy “try-hard Hannah,” I need to know those things are in order before I can get into that tasty flow state.

I love the challenge of working routes at my limit and the adrenaline-fueled finale of a redpoint burn. In the Lithos SL I can throw all the shapes I want, feeling almost totally unencumbered, yet psychologically bolstered by the rugged, hard-wearing construction and delightfully tailored fit.

Shop the Lithos SL for $150

The post Arc’teryx’s All-New Lithos SL Brings Back the Best Harness Feature We’ve Seen in Years appeared first on Climbing.

Soulful climbing. Laughing and dancing. Unscheduled days off.

These aren’t typically phrases that bring to mind climbing 5.13 R on El Capitan.

Between May 2 and May 14, American climber Sam Stroh and his Czech partner František D’Agostino, both 25, free climbed El Capitan’s El Niño (VI 5.13c 2,700ft) in a day, Golden Gate (VI 5.13a 3,000ft) in about 26 hours, and Father Time (VI 5.13b 2,000ft) on Middle Cathedral Rock in under 15. Each of these routes exist at the top of most Yosemite climber’s dream ticklist; only eight people have sent Golden Gate in a day, including Emily Harrington in the award-winning documentary Girl Climber. El Niño and Father Time have only a handful of ascents in this style.

“In-a-day is about climbing loads of rock, carrying fewer heavy packs, and being down in time for tea,” Stroh told me. “[It’s] impatience at its core.” In 2021, at age 20, the Texas-born crusher became the youngest person to send Freerider (VI 5.13a) in a day, completing the feat in 18 hours 51 minutes with his partner Graham Webb. But his recent Yosemite exploits have involved pushing harder and harder grades on multi-day adventures, including the fifth free ascent of Wet Lycra Nightmare (5.13d A0), the fifth free ascent of Magic Mushroom (VI 5.14a), the sixth free ascent of Zodiac (VI 5.13d), and even the fourth one-day free ascent of El Corazón (VI 5.13b).

In climbing the trifecta of Golden Gate, El Niño, and Father Time in near-24-hour pushes over a casual two weeks, 25-year-old Stroh and D’Agostino have cemented themselves as leading performers in fast, difficult free ascents on climbing’s biggest stage.

Yet Stroh’s approach to climbing at the highest level isn’t the rigid, scientific cliché you’d expect from a 25-year-old professional athlete. He’s not tucked away in an isolated corner of the Valley, hangboarding from a van like Alex Honnold used to do, or keeping himself on a regimented training schedule like 23-year-old Pietro Vidi.

Instead, Stroh could be found reclining at a busy table in the dirtbag-festered Base Camp Eatery at the Lodge or hacky-sacking around Camp 4. His van was often open, with people gathered around it, laughing, smoking (though Stroh himself doesn’t smoke), and largely at ease, separated from climbing obsession. Many climbers drive into Yosemite tailing a rigorous training block and start another one as soon as they leave; by contrast, Stroh prepared for his May climbing goals with a focused meditation course and ended it by presenting a DJ set a few miles outside the Valley.

Trading ego for a true partner

El Niño is notorious for runout face climbing and exciting rock quality. It’s one of El Cap’s more sustained free climbs, with around 14 of the route’s 26 pitches graded 5.12 or harder, and R-rated climbing throughout. The first ‘real’ challenge is pitch two: a slippery, slabby 5.13a known as “The Black Dike.”

On May 2, Stroh had already fallen on The Black Dike twice. He was supposed to lead the first several pitches of El Niño; it was the plan he and D’Agostino had designed for their in-a-day attempt. Yet he couldn’t get started.

“As Frantšek was tying in to see what he could do on the pitch,” Stroh recalled, “I noticed anxious and spiraling feelings inside of me. Then, as softly as possible, I redirected my focus into František’s movement and focused on being present and genuinely wishing him the best on his go.”

Stroh met D’Agostino under Camp 4’s legendary Midnight Lightning (V8) boulder in 2022. After that, they ran into each other occasionally while climbing across Europe. “František has a cool approach to climbing that stems from his other life as a painter in Prague,” said Stoh. “We found commonalities between our dedication to climbing style and communication. As I texted him back in December to see if he wanted to be my Valley partner this season, he was pulling out his phone to do the same.”

The pair spent the end of April dialing in El Niño together, and chose May 2 to go for the send. Despite the wary start, D’Agostino was able to lead through The Black Dike, and the pair settled into their flow. By the 12-hour mark however, their headlamps could be seen halted halfway up the wall, spectral in the 3 a.m. moonlight.

“During that 2 to 4 a.m. time slot, we were sleepy, hadn’t had a real ledge to hang out on in forever, hadn’t seen the sun in hours,” said Stroh. “Your brain tells you ‘This sucks. This is never-ending,’ but through experience, you observe the fatigue and lack of motivation, and understand that everything is always changing and evolving. This lull, you know, will pass.”

Stroh and D’Agostino topped out El Niño after 18 hours and 21 minutes on the wall. They walked back to the Valley floor and spent four days jumping in the Merced River, eating homemade sushi, and “anxiously chilling,” as Stroh put it. Possessing the niche fitness to free climb El Cap in a day meant it was time for them to use it once more.

Round two on El Cap

In the scorching, midmorning sun on May 8, after around 22 hours on the wall, Stroh and D’Agostino found themselves squinting up at Golden Gate’s most famous crux, the A5 Traverse. 2,700 feet off the ground, the A5 is an iconic 5.13a pitch involving unique pockets and minimal feet—the last of Golden Gate’s difficult climbing.

“We didn’t really think we’d send,” D’Agostino told me. “We were just excited to have a good try, climb a bunch of amazing cracks on the way to the hard climbing, and climb on The Captain more.”

As the duo traded unsuccessful burns on the A5, the momentum they’d carried through the night began to derail. The 24 hour threshold arrived and passed. At this point, Stroh reached for his mental discipline.

“My ‘mindset hangboarding’ before this season, if you will, was being in a meditation hall 16 hours a day for 10 days straight,” said Stroh. “Not speaking or making eye contact with anyone, you’re cultivating an altered state. It’s intense: the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it inclined me toward a calm awareness and equanimity.”

At the A5 belay, Stroh curled in his harness and went limp, eyes closed. Onlooking photographer Dan Teitelbaum later remarked, “I thought Sam was napping, by my view of it. He was totally expressionless, hanging there, but he wasn’t asleep.”

Stroh returned from the place he had gone. His eyes fluttered and a loose, light smile graced his face. Then he began climbing and sent the pitch with controlled, yet rapid movement that showcases a ticking pump clock.

“When Sam sent the A5, something in me also shifted,” D’Agostino said. “I went, ‘Oh shit, we’re back. I have to try as hard as I can now.’”

D’Agostino sent via his own screaming battle. Back on track, the pair charged the remaining pitches and summited Golden Gate after around 26 hours of continuous effort (They don’t have the exact time, as both of their phones died).

“We couldn’t believe we actually pulled it off,” Stroh said.

One last climb—for the vibes

Following their fight to send Golden Gate, Stroh and D’Agostino both felt diminished in mind and body. “We each were hoping the other would bail on our remaining objective, so we could be done with our season,” Stroh laughed, declining to add detail on the original, third objective. “Then we talked about it and realized we were both on the same page. So we settled on Father Time as a more easygoing objective for our last climb together.”

“Easygoing” wouldn’t be most climbers’ notion of Father Time. Established ground-up over a period of 60 days by Mikey Schaefer, the 20-pitch centerpiece line on Middle Cathedral has earned a reputation for heads-up face climbing on beautiful stone. It begins with 11 pitches of sparsely bolted slab, then veers back until three consecutive 5.13 cruxes—each with their own unique style of bouldery, endurance-y, and finally, techy—interrupt steeper 5.11 and 5.12 R-rated climbing. According to Schaefer, even Alex “No Big Deal” Honnold once commented that Father Time was “kinda real.”

Stroh and D’Agostino started climbing at 6 a.m. on May 14 and finished the route around 11 p.m. on the same day. “[Father Time] was such a nice one,” Stroh said. “We were chilling by the river, sitting with our successes and hanging with friends, and we didn’t take it super seriously. We were like, ‘the weather’s good, let’s just go try it and see.’ We had so much excess fitness that we were able to go up there and have a good time, just enjoying the climbing so much, because it felt casual compared to our other ascents. It’s a truly beautiful route.”

A different type of dancing

Stroh finished his Yosemite season by doing what was most important to him: spending time with friends on the Valley floor. But even then, Stroh was working to cultivate a different type of experience: he’d be leaving Yosemite on May 15 in order to play a DJ set for climbers and other hippies at a party nearby.

“I feel like house and techno music is about the buildup of tension, followed by release,” Stroh said. “This ebb and flow metaphor starts to sound repetitive, but it really does apply to everything in life. Being able to curate a DJ set with that energy is something I’m learning. I did my best to play what I thought people would be psyched to listen to: something that put them into a consistent groove through push and pull, comfort and discomfort. Creating that sensation in others was probably the coolest part of my season.”

At the party, pink and violet strobes bounced off the cluster of boulders surrounding the dance floor. Elite athletes and easygoing dirtbags alike danced in unison to Stroh’s tunes. Everyone had a smile on their face and a sheen of sweat as the rhythm brought them together through the night.

An earlier version of this article listed D’Agostino as Agostino.

The post How Sam Stroh and František D’Agostino Freed 3 Grade VI Yosemite Routes in 2 Weeks appeared first on Climbing.

Seaside locations can make for some of the most epic climbing destinations. For example, on the Greek island of Kalymnos, many routes start just above the shoreline, in bands of bleached limestone cut by gashes of runoff. They rise steeply into caves and overhangs, many polished and greased, a tangerine orange now, worn by decades of use. Below, the Aegean Sea is close enough to hear, sometimes close enough to smell, and easily carried up by the wind. It’s on the ticklist for some, on the Pinterest board for many.

But coastal climbing is also built on an assumption: that the hardware is solid. When you clip into the anchors and start lowering, removing your draws on the way down, you trust that the bolts will hold.

Lately, that assumption has been challenged in horrifying ways.

On March 27, a 60-year-old Czech climber, Petr Hruban, had just finished climbing St. Savvas, a 60-foot 5.12c on the west side of Kalymnos, and began to lower. That’s when both anchor bolts failed, sending him down the steep face towards his third point of protection. It also sheared under the force of his fall. He landed on an intermediate ledge roughly 40 feet below, close to the belay stance. After a five-hour rescue, he passed away, having never set foot in the hospital.

Triple bolt failures like this are rare, and fatal ones rarer still: one local account described Hruban’s death as only the second fatality in more than two decades. Most incidents involve more familiar errors, like ropes that are too short or missing stopper knots, rather than three rounds of hardware failure.

But while the details of the accident are grisly and straightforward, its implications are not. The bolts on St. Savvas were more than 20 years old, stainless steel and close to the ceiling of their lifespan. And on an island with roughly 5,000 bolted sport routes, about 1,000 of them the same age, that detail is critical.

In seaside environments, stainless steel presents a unique danger to climbers: corrosion from the inside out. The coarse mixture of salt and humidity in the air only accelerates this process, weakening the metal in ways not always visible. In marine areas, steel bolts that should last for 20 years can break down in as little as three months, whereas titanium bolts can last up to 200 years in the same environments. So why do we still see so many deadly, steel bolts in coastal areas across the world?

Bigger than Kalymnos 

Kalymnos isn’t an outlier in suffering from corroded bolts. In Sardinia, Italian route developer Maurizio Oviglia warned in a 2020 fundraising appeal that stainless steel anchors had already failed at multiple seaside crags, including Cala Luna, Millennium Cave and Biddiriscottai. He launched a fundraising appeal for replacement hardware, arguing that marine conditions around the island were corroding stainless steel far faster than originally expected.

A similar conversation has unfolded in Spain’s Costa Blanca, where route developers and rebolters have increasingly shifted towards titanium. Trevor Massiah of Rock & Sun, who has helped develop and maintain routes throughout the region, wrote in a fundraising appeal that the area has already seen numerous “fixed anchor chain failures” alongside stainless steel glue-in failures elsewhere in the Mediterranean. His group has replaced anchors at Sierra de Toix Oeste with titanium glue-ins, but noted that “there is no bolt fund” in the Costa Blanca and that maintenance often relies on personal expense, donations and volunteer labor. Rock & Sun estimates the average cost of equipping a route at roughly £120, with titanium systems costing around 30% more than standard expansion bolts.

In places like Railay Beach, Thailand, stainless steel bolts began failing after only a few years in use. The failures eventually led to large-scale titanium rebolting efforts through projects like the Thaitanium Project, a volunteer initiative supported in part by the American Safe Climbing Association. 

While it’s only half as durable as steel, titanium is widely preferred in coastal climbing areas because it does not corrode. In 2024, Ryan Jenks of HowNot2 published a comprehensive bolt comparison, noting that even “high-end” steel bolts, such as the “marine-grade” 316 stainless, can completely fail within 3 years in harsh marine environments.

“Titanium is the best option for any areas that have a risk of [stress corrosion cracking],” he wrote. “It may feel more expensive, but it isn’t much more. If a 100-year cost for an anchor is considered, titanium is significantly cheaper if it doesn’t have to be replaced.”

Changing bolts by changing minds

The shift from stainless steel to titanium has been gradual, aching and expensive. It hasn’t followed a single decisive moment, but rather a series of slight adjustments: new information here, new materials there and a growing understanding of how damaging coastal weather can be.

“At the time, nobody was thinking about how long bolts would last,” says Claude Remy, a Swiss climber and longtime route developer who has bolted extensively across Europe, including in Kalymnos. “It was just about making new routes.”

In the late 1990s, he explained, stainless steel was widely considered strong enough for most environments. “Climbing development was made by many different teams coming from different countries with different styles of different equipment,” Remy said. “Most of them used M10 inox [stainless steel] bolts. At the time it was the best, and then [it was] considered sufficient for marine environments.”

Over time, that understanding began to shift, first in places like Railay and Tonsai in Thailand, and across coastal crags in southern Europe, from the Calanques in France to Finale Ligure in Italy and Costa Blanca in Spain. The rapid degradation was becoming harder to ignore. Early rebolting efforts didn’t just replace steel hardware; they reframed it as an impending issue.

By 2015, the warnings were explicit. The UIAA Safety Commission reported that stress corrosion cracking had already led to stainless steel anchor failures, sometimes within months, and under little more than body weight. The organization listed 13 areas, including Hawaii, Portugal, Malta, Minorca, Thailand, Sardinia, Greece, and the Dominican Republic, as places where stress corrosion cracking had been confirmed or highly suspected.

Still, even if the solution was widely understood, the difficulty emerged in carrying it out.

Mind the gap

Dimitris Gerolympos, head of communications for Rebolt Kalymnos, says the continued presence of non-titanium bolts isn’t the result of a single oversight. “The continued presence of non-titanium bolts in marine environments is a mix of historical context, cost constraints, and the scale and logistics of replacement,” he says.

By the time titanium began to be more widely recommended, thousands of routes had already been established on the island. And because it appeared to perform reasonably well, there was little immediate pressure to replace it. The failures, when they came, were sporadic, sparse, and easy to consider isolated

“The transition is happening,” Gerolympos says, “but it’s uneven and slower than ideal.”

After several decades of bolting with steel, the scale of the problem has outpaced what individuals can reasonably keep up with. Rebolt Kalymnos emerged as a way to centralize that effort, to track what needed replacing, prioritize the most urgent fixes, and begin to frame the island’s infrastructure as something that requires ongoing care.

Switching to titanium isn’t just a matter of swapping one bolt for another. Most titanium systems are glue-ins, which require more preparation and more precision than expansion bolts. The hole has to be cleaned thoroughly. The adhesive has to be placed correctly. The bolt has to be set and left to cure. It’s slower work, and less forgiving.

“When it comes to rebolting, the transition to titanium is more straightforward in principle, but cost has still been a major limiting factor,” Gerolympos says. “Because there hadn’t been widespread or highly visible failures locally, and materials seemed to be holding up reasonably well, there wasn’t the same urgency that might have otherwise driven earlier large-scale titanium initiatives.” After the high-profile death of Hruban, this urgency may be finally picking up.

Looking forward, the rebolting efforts in seaside climbing areas will depend on the support of the community and the local volunteers who take up the task. When you next visit a coastal climbing area and notice corroded steel, consider donating to their local climbing organization’s rebolting fund. We can all benefit from being able to clip into the anchors of beautiful routes without worrying about how long ago they were added—or how long they’ll last.

The post Why Do Seaside Crags Around the World Still Have So Many Bad Bolts? appeared first on Climbing.

To send the crux on her new V15 in Yosemite, Katie Lamb had to revert to factory settings. “The solution was turning off the narrative that I built up in my mind about how to do the move,” she told me. “I had to go back to a beginner’s mind.”

Her new problem, 130 BPM, is Lamb’s fifth graded V15 or harder. She’s also scaled the established V15s Box Therapy, Equanimity, and Fallen Angel, and a year ago ticked V16 with another Yosemite problem, The Dark Side. Lamb has twice been the “first”—and is to-date the only—woman to climb the V16 grade: Box Therapy was considered V16 when she sent it, but was later downgraded.

Lamb’s 130 BPM is also one of the hardest boulders ever established by a woman.

In 2023, Jana Švecová proposed V14 for a variation to Terranova (V16), which she dubbed Nova, but its first repeater, Will Bosi, suggested the line was more likely V15. In March, Švecová proposed a second V15 FA, Tokyo Drift, which remains unrepeated.

The 28-year-old Lamb, who sent 130 BPM on April 22, told me it took her around 20 sessions to solve the problem, beginning in the fall of 2025.

The 15-foot-tall boulder that houses the problem sits in Yosemite Valley, near the intersection of Highway 120 and 140, which is how the problem got its name. “It’s not actually so aptly named,” Lamb joked. “It’s at the junction, but it actually sits right above Highway 120. It should have been called 110.” Lamb and Keenan Takahashi stumbled across the roadside boulder in 2024, but the first climber to try it in earnest was Aidan Roberts, who put in at least one session on it in the spring of 2025.

Lamb said it wasn’t until that November, however, that she and several other strong climbers began dedicating their time to this project. “Nobody had really conceptualized the moves until then,” she explained. “Then we had a group of people trying it, but over time other people ended up in their own lanes, throwing in on their own projects, and this one suited me well, so I stuck on it.”

The anatomy of 130 BPM

“The problem starts on a massive jug,” Lamb said. “From there, you do three not-so-hard moves on edges, maybe V7 or V8 climbing, into two slanted edges. The holds are quite good, full-pad edges, but the feet are bad. Off of those edges you do a left foot kick that’s kind of blocked, and then a powerful cross straight into a strange left hand up.”

These edges all angle left, so the climber has to keep their weight right, and that high left foot, pressing left, is the only point of contact providing opposing force. “It’s hard, because you have to keep your weight to the right but you’re moving to the left,” Lamb said. “After that, you do a drop knee with your right leg, and then sort of a jump to a jug. From the jug, there’s probably a V8 or V9 outro sequence on crimps to the top out.” (Footage of Lamb working the crux sequence is visible on her Instagram.)

“None of the moves are really powerful,” Lamb explained. “It’s pretty technical, and most of the difficulty is because of this one bad foot that you do all of the hard moves off of. But the body positions came naturally to me.”

The drop knee move at the end of the crux felt easier for her than for others who tried the rig, she said, because she has internally rotated hips, allowing her to more easily move into and out of the drop knee.

Though Lamb has sent several other V15s, this is her first time proposing a climb at the grade. She said she tries to grade problems based on geographic location, because every area has a slightly different distribution, and in Yosemite, V15 for this problem feels apt. “Basically, I thought it was probably easier than The Dark Side, and significantly harder than The Rookery, a V14 here,” she explained.

She added that with this problem in particular, body type probably plays a larger role in a climber’s experience than in many other problems. “The drop knee move that I don’t find to be hard might be the crux for most people, but maybe they wouldn’t find the lower moves as hard as I did,” she said. “It’s hard to say. The problem feels quite specific. So, as with anything, I don’t feel super confident about the grade, but it’s probably harder than V14.”

Escaping the analytical trap

When she announced her send on Instagram last week, Lamb wrote that, “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to physically emulate the best of what I see in others, maybe falling into the modern trap of believing there’s always a fix to make myself look, feel, and climb exactly how I want to.”

When I spoke with her a couple of days later, she told me that while she was referencing the pressures to use a certain type of beta, or perform a certain type of way as a climber, she was also addressing a broader disposition in modern life. “I’m also speaking to a general attitude that I think we have, or that it’s easy to fall into the trap of, beyond climbing,” she said. “Peptides and Botox, and just manufacturing your way to being who you think you should be.”

Part of her experience on 130 BPM, she said, was learning to let go of that. In her post, she’d added that to solve the problem, she needed to pull back from trying so hard, at least in a technical sense. She sent all the problem’s moves in isolation within a couple of sessions, but kept fumbling once she started trying to link them. “In becoming overly analytical about how it should be done, I’d lost the instinctive feel for it,” she wrote. “I’d run up against the limits of understanding movement cerebrally at the expense of tuning into embodied intuition.”

The inclination to stuff intuition and instinct into a backseat, and oversolve, is something Lamb feels is pervasive among modern rock climbing. “There are so many training protocols, or silver bullet fixes for problems or obstacles,” she said. “It feels like climbing as a whole has become a lot more over-engineered. There’s this mindset of, ‘There’s no excuse to not be able to do a climb, or do a move.’ You can set a replica, you can do this workout. There’s a feeling in our modern time that there’s always going to be a fix.”

Lamb said she often falls victim to this hyper-analytical approach. “I’ve never encountered a move that I felt like I actually couldn’t do,” she explained. “My mentality is always that I’m just doing it wrong, or inefficiently, and that there’s a way I can ‘fix it’ so that I can do it.”

That confidence is helpful, Lamb explained, but it’s also often limiting, at least to the extent that it leads her down a perpetual search for the perfect technical solution, instead of leaning into the flow. “That mentality comes at the expense of feeling it in your gut, feeling how your body naturally wants to do the move,” she said. “Being analytical about a move inherently makes one less in tune with their intuitive sense of it.”

When pioneering a new problem, as opposed to an established one with well-documented beta, hyperanalyzing a sequence is particularly confining. “With a new project, there’s no beta or roadmap, so you’re left wondering whether the way that you naturally think a move should be done is the best way,” she added, “or whether you should do the move in the way that another climber is doing it, or the way it ‘looks’ like it should be done.”

On 130 BPM, for example, Lamb was able to solve the high left-handed move in the crux quickly, during her very first session on the boulder. But when she started ground-up attempts, the move rebuffed her, and eventually she seemed to forget how to do it entirely.

“In the process of trying to make that move easier and easier, I ended up completely losing the ability to do the move in isolation,” Lamb admitted. “By around session 10, I reached a point where I couldn’t do it at all.”

She hadn’t gotten physically weaker. She was just mentally overgripping. So she had to go back to the basics. “I had to think about the problem like, ‘How would I do this if I had never seen this boulder before?’” she said.

Once she tuned into that “beginner’s mind,” and “turned off all the little mental cues that I’d developed to help myself do the move,” the shift was immediate.

It still took her a while to dial and complete the rig, but the blockage was gone and progress was consistent. A few sessions later, and she was on top of a new V15.

“It feels like one of my proudest sends,” Lamb said, “and it was nice to follow a slightly different process and find a new headspace. It was a good opportunity for growth.”

The post How Katie Lamb Sent ‘130 BPM’ (V15), One of Her Hardest Boulders Yet appeared first on Climbing.

When a friend asked if I wanted to join him on a climbing trip to Iraq, I felt immediately intrigued. Iraq had long occupied a complicated place in my life. While serving as an American soldier, my father was killed there in combat in 2005; I was seven years old. As I’ve grown up, my interest has shifted away from the conflict that took my dad’s life, toward the people attempting to build an ordinary life in its aftermath.

The invitation to take my first trip to Iraq came from Joe Sulik, an excellent photographer (and nicotine addict). He somehow convinced me to quit my job and travel to Kurdistan, the northern part of Iraq that the indigenous Kurdish people call home. Here, the Zagros Mountains rise like dragon scales and locals donning Jamanas—traditional Kurdish attire—sip tea all hours of the day.

Warming up to Kurdistan

I arrived in Kurdistan in February, and felt drawn in immediately. Partly by the region’s geological beauty and climbing potential, but also by how little most people in the West seem to understand about Kurdistan and its people. At the time, I was applying to PhD programs and saw the trip as an opportunity to explore questions surrounding community resilience, displacement, and recovery in post-conflict regions.

One corner of Iraq captured our attention: the Yazidi homeland surrounding Sinjar and Lalish. These two communities are still rebuilding after the atrocities committed by داعش (Daesh/ISIS). Joe had previously traveled through Lalish and Duhok with our Kurdish friend Saman, whose generosity and insight became foundational to the trip.

I had first met Saman during a climbing trip to Brione, Switzerland. What began as days spent bouldering together turned into long conversations about his home in Duhok, from family life to politics within the Kurdish Regional Government. By the time we arrived in Kurdistan, those conversations began to transform from an abstraction into something personal.

It was my first time in the Middle East, and getting to climb in Erbil helped me quickly acclimatize to the region. Days that might have otherwise felt foreign quickly became familiar. I had studied Sorani Kurdish for nearly a year before arriving, initially prompted by my conversations with Saman. By using the language on the ground in Kurdistan, I hoped to improve quickly.

Sorani is one of those languages that has adopted English words to compensate for new concepts. And due to how multi-ethnic the scene is, everyone opts for English as the primary language of instruction. But I did pick up a few local expressions used in climbing:

• بابڕۆین (babroin): let’s go!
• بەردەوانی (bardawani): rock climbing
• وەرە (wara) come on

What is climbing like in Kurdistan?

The first climbing areas Joe and I visited were the Music Valley in the Safeen Mountains and the outdoor lead walls of Peshmerga Park. We were joined by our new friends from Erbil: Mohammed (Moe), Mario, Oskar, and Hidaya. This crew of local climbers showed us around.

Our days spent roped climbing in these areas served as an unforgettable introduction to Erbil’s growing climbing community. All four of our new climbing partners worked as instructors with Equip Climbing Club. Overseen by American expat Kristopher Palmer, the organization has become a central force in introducing climbing to the region through instruction, certifications, gear access, and route development.

Climbing around Erbil remains a relatively new phenomenon, but interest has grown quickly. Weekend meetups now draw large groups of new climbers to the mountains, who spend their weekends and afternoons at the crag. Still, traces of the sport’s earlier history here can be found in a few bolted lines in Safeen. The original bolted routes in Music Valley, Hidaya told us, were established years ago by Americans passing through the region. Unidentified and mostly forgotten.

The routes of Erbil travel up black-streaked limestone on a two-tiered cliff. It’s the first feature you hit as you follow the trail up into the Safeen Mountains. Tufas, pockets, and odd oblong shapes decorate the wall.

The lower tier of the cliff is great for introductory climbing, with around 20 to 30 sport routes in the 5.6 to 5.11 range. A handful of projects remain on the lower tier, but they were wet when I was there. Every line stands on its own with unique features and movement. It’s common for Erbil climbers to lap these routes hundreds of times for practice, to project a new grade, or to establish a toprope for others. Locals are still developing the upper tier of the cliff.

“No friends but the mountains”

Among rock climbers of the region today, the old Kurdish saying, “no friends but the mountains” takes on a different meaning. Many use climbing to indulge in simple joy, deflect day-to-day pressure, stay connected with friends and family, and seriously develop the sport.

“Climbing to me is a meditative practice, in which I can drain the physical energy that could otherwise be mental noise,” Hidaya tells me. “I think most of us enjoy this activity and obsessively do it because of its ability to turn off your perception of time and narrow reality to the moment.”

But even among climbers, the realities of the region can’t be avoided. Airspace closures, distant interceptions, and military deployments slowly worked their way into daily conversation. The mountains offer temporary reprieve, not total escape.

During a stretch of bad weather, Hidaya’s family home in Shaqlawa became our own, a setting reminiscent of the “climber house” common throughout college. Kurds, Iraqis, Syrians, Persians, and Americans sharing a home was a sight to behold and soothing for the soul. Moe cooked great food. Mario was always the funniest person in any room. Hidaya cleaned us out at Texas Hold ‘em. And Oskar proctored each game benevolently—no cheating of course. Each of them carried a profound respect for one another, serving as ideal ambassadors of the sport in their region.

Escaping cabin fever, the six of us encountered a light snow blanketed across Kurdistan amid a bloom of flowers and cherry blossoms. A chilly morning gave way to a sun-soaked mountain. I had determined the perfect location for bouldering development, so my hosts and I embarked on our first day of Kurdish bouldering.

Mount Korek, Iraq’s premier skiing destination, hosted whole talus fields of limestone boulders accessed by roadside pull-offs. It was a classic day out, learning to fall on pads, spotting, and dealing with fear of heights. We topped out on problems up to V10, discovered how to define lines, and enjoyed some general fun.

I think the unofficial leaders of the Iraqi Kurdish climbing community prefer bouldering over sport climbing now. To see continued development, I donated three crash pads with the promise that we could boulder together again one day in Kurdistan.

Climbing on through the Iran War and Middle East conflicts

Reality came in waves on my trip. Airspace across the Middle East closed, as Erbil’s airport saw numerous volleys of drones. Many nights displayed the after images of the patriot defense system and the light of interception or impact. One day while bouldering, activity above cut as Joe made a V6 ascent. Jets? Drones? Missiles? You never know. The next day Mount Korek took a hit, targeting a radar station. We made a good decision to retreat from the boulders along the scenic route following the Great River Zab.

 

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After my eighth State Department alert to leave the Middle East, I folded. My punishment: an ungodly long bus ride north into Turkey that felt equal parts transportation and smuggling operation. Leaving carried its own bitterness. Like us, many expats had already departed as tensions escalated.

The experience reinforced the reality about climbing amid the Iran War in Kurdistan, or other conflict zones: If the sport endures here, it cannot be because transient outsiders bring in gear, funding, or expertise. Sustainable climbing in Kurdistan must be organized, developed, and led by Kurdish climbers themselves.

Post-ceasefire, the Kurdistan Climbing Club has organized with the goal to invest, train, and lead future climbing efforts in Erbil. The first of its kind in the governorate. Kristopher Palmer of Equip Climbing Club continues to foster the growth of this generation of climbers. For my Kurdish friends and instructors, gaining greater autonomy will create a sustainable community that can outlast visitors such as ourselves.

Amid airspace closures, zones becoming unsafe, ceasefire breaches, and continued violence, club activities continue to grow. This is despite the limited capacity of the four leaders of the local movement who I got to climb with earlier this year. They continue to invest in education, develop emerging instructors, and seek investors for a dream project: a Kurdish climbing academy.

The locals I met are determined to normalize their lives despite the conflict, and the club plans to keep working with what it’s got.

“Recently, with climbing development plans being halted, I felt rage build up like spring moss blinding the view of the uncompromised rock beneath,” Hidaya wrote to me recently. Yet despite the war’s impact on their efforts, climbing continues to provide relief. “In a time of conflict, where everything is affected and changed, it’s a huge release to visit the constant; the rock and its blissful state of stillness.”

Want to help the Kurdish climbing community get their first climbing gym off the ground? The Global Climbing Initiative is accepting gear and cash donations for this initiative here. 

About the photographer: Joe Sulik is a documentary photographer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. Follow along @joesulik

The post “No Friends But the Mountains”: A Climbing Community Rises Up in Iraqi Kurdistan appeared first on Climbing.

When Maureen “Mo” Beck was 12 years old, her counselor at a Girl Scout camp in northern Maine told her she probably shouldn’t try rock climbing.

“Oooh, you should just sit this one out,” the counselor said to Beck.

“Screw you—watch me,” Beck, who was born without the hand or lower part of her left arm, thought to herself. She doesn’t remember if she reached the top of what she says was “probably like a 5.2 slab,” but the experience of climbing enchanted her immediately.

Once she got high enough on that low-angle slab, the other campers stopped watching and fell away. It was just her. “The rock doesn’t give a shit if you’re disabled,” Beck says.

Aside from the refreshing neutrality of the rock, Beck also just thought climbing was cool. This was back in the late `90s, when she considered it a “spandex extreme sport.” Growing up near Acadia National Park, she also had access to good rock. To learn how to climb in high school, she saved up her babysitting money and hired a guide to take her out once a year. Then in college in Vermont, she joined the climbing club, cutting class to get to the crag.

Fast forward a few years, and Beck has become a leader in the world of paraclimbing whose motto is “two hands are too easy.”

While that may be true—considering Beck just sent her first 5.12b and is a world para climbing champion—it’s also true that it’s a whole lot safer and easier to send one-handed with thoughtfully designed gear.

“Nothing for us without us”

The idea of universal design is implicit in the term itself. What it’s not: Designing specifically for someone with one arm, one leg, or a wheelchair, for example. Rather, it’s designing for everyone (or as many users as possible).

Coined in 1985 by architect Ronald Mace, universal design is “usable by all people, to the greatest extent possible, without the need for adaptation or specialized design.” Automatic doors, slip-resistant rubber flooring, and curb cuts that let pedestrians move from sidewalk to street more easily are all classic examples of universal design.

A few years ago, pro skier Vasu Sojitra, who lost his right leg to an infection as a kid, started talking about the need for universal gear. He wanted to see outdoor equipment that wouldn’t only benefit him as a one-legged adventurer, but that would ultimately better serve everybody. He pitched the idea to his sponsor, The North Face. Soon after, Beck jumped on board to help consult the brand on its first-ever collection of universal design gear.

“You know the classic saying, ‘Nothing for us without us,’” Beck says. “This isn’t going to work unless you bring in the disabled community to help design this.” The North Face designers were committed—they even showed up at the annual Adaptive Climbers Fest, which Beck helps run, to share prototypes and get feedback.

Then, in April, The North Face launched its Universal Collection, with a daypack, tent, sleeping bag, and camp slippers. All of the products feature design elements like magnetic closures and extra ergonomic handles that make them easier to use not only for people with disabilities, but for everybody. “Who hasn’t fumbled with a zipper or struggled putting the tent pole in the stupid sleeve thing?” Beck explains to Climbing.

While Beck is stoked on the new pack and camping gear, she says that the opportunities to make more universal gear are “endless.”

The idea isn’t only to launch a one-and-done limited collection. It’s to get more outdoor manufacturers—including climbing brands—to make more universal gear. “This isn’t just a product launch,” Sojitra said, “it’s a call to action for the entire industry to rethink how they design for all users.”

Does universal design exist yet in climbing gear?

In short, not officially. Designing universal climbing gear is also more complicated than, say, camping gear. “Climbing gets a little weird because you have the safety component,” Beck explains. “So, yes, I would love to see a better buckle, but maybe there’s a reason why the buckles are sucky to close.”

However, she points to a number of newer climbing products that have made climbing more accessible for people with disabilities. The Petzl Connect Adjust, for example, makes aid climbing and anchor cleaning a lot easier for someone with one hand.

Topping Beck’s list is another Petzl product: the NEOX. While this assisted braking belay device is quite similar to the Grigri, it employs a wheel mechanism that makes dishing out slack much easier. When lead belaying, Beck pulls out slack by clamping down on the rope in the crook of her elbow, keeping her right hand on the rope as the brake. That’s a lot easier to do with the NEOX.

As an advocate for adaptive lead belaying, she often gets calls from climbers complaining about their gym refusing to give them a belay test. She emphasizes that as long as a climber can feed out rope, arrest a fall, and lower a climber, they should be allowed to belay—even if the way these tasks are accomplished looks different for certain climbers. She explains this in a blog post on her website entitled “The Gimpy Belay,” first published in 2019. Following the release of the NEOX, she added information about the value of the device for adaptive climbers to the post this January.

Recently, at a seminar she led on adaptive belaying at the Climbing Wall Association Summit, she cautioned gym managers: “The hard line is you’re putting yourself more at risk of an ADA lawsuit if you’re not at least trying to work with people and accommodate them than you would from an unsafe belay.”

Universal gear also helps the user be more independent, without increasing risk. For climbers, that might look like the confidence to be the rope gun, even on a runout climb, or in Beck’s case, on a sport route with bolts running up the left side of the line. Since Beck can only clip bolts with her right hand, she often has to reach far and wide to clip a bolt. The Kong Panic Draw—a quickdraw with a longer, stiff dogbone—makes those reachy clips easier and safer. “That’s something that’s really changed the game,” she says of the Kong Panic.

A mini stick clip designed for mid-route use also offers greater self-sufficiency. Last summer, Beck went out with a woman who has cerebral palsy and didn’t consider herself a strong leader. But with a Pronghorn ClipStick, she was able to safely lead. “She was crying at the end,” Beck recalls. “Did it take her longer? Sure. But she did it herself and didn’t need anybody else. So that level of independence that this equipment can give people is huge.”

How can climbing gear do better?

Buckles that aren’t so tricky. Fewer zippers, more ergonomic design. Chalk bags that are easier to access with either hand—or stump. Shooting from the hip, Beck lists these ideas off as ways climbing equipment and apparel could lean more universal.

Magnetic closures are another big one, used in The North Face Universal Collection. While Beck has seen some helmets with magnetic closures, they could also make climbing packs easier to use. And she reminisces about the currently discontinued Black Diamond Magnetron locking carabiners that employed a magnetic mechanism.

Beck has also seen some brands offer sales of single shoes—and it’s something she would love more brands to try. Whether someone has two different sized feet or one leg, selling single or mismatched sizing for shoe sales helps make climbing gear more accessible and affordable.

“Two hands are too easy”

Perhaps the new Universal Collection will inspire some climbing brands to think more about universal design and accessibility. Ultimately, this isn’t about gadgets or “super specialized” gear, Beck affirms. The true goal is to make the sport of climbing easier and safer for more people.

As for one of the sport’s leading advocates for universal climbing gear, two hands continue to be too easy as she approaches her 40s, sending harder than ever. Recently, Beck topped her first 5.12b, Far From God, in the Red River Gorge on April 5. She put in 16 burns on this steep, 90-foot endurance fest that she’d previously considered her anti-style.

With runout bolting up the overhanging sandstone, Beck also enjoyed some “good whipper therapy” and described sending as a magical, flowy, and “out of body experience.” A short film about her send will release at an undisclosed date—and she promises it won’t be your typical “girl tries hard and sends” film.

Beck has also just emerged from competitive climbing retirement in hopes of making it to the 2028 Paralympics—the debut of paraclimbing at the Olympics. “This is my one shot,” she says. “I’ll be 42.”

Her path toward Los Angeles took a favorable turn last weekend when she took Gold for her class at the World Climbing Para Series in Salt Lake City. She had anticipated more of a “shakeout weekend” after a long focus on outdoor climbing and limited training, hardly expecting to even make finals. She attributes her win to a “whatever happens” mindset.

While the configuration of classes and quotas for each class remains up in the air for LA28, Beck remains determined to become a Paralympian. “Just to go is actually the real goal,” she reflects. “I think anything that happens after qualification is just gravy. I just want to wear the ugly outfit for the opening ceremonies and I want to cry and it’s going to be amazing.”

Maureen Beck spoke at the 2026 Outside Days in Denver, Colorado on Friday, May 29 about how athlete insights shape gear design. Learn more about her talk here. 

The post Maureen Beck on How Climbing Gear Can Be More Universal appeared first on Climbing.