The Climbing Manifesto
I’m pissed. To you they might just be plastic holds coiling their way up the walls of indoor climbing gyms, like the DNA of some yet-to-be-born creature. But to me that creature is a monster, and it’s already here.
Since the revolution of the indoor climbing gym a whole class of climbers has been raised in this controlled environment, happily filling out insurance waivers. It’s something new, something the climbing community has never had to face before. The reality of climbers truly feeling fulfilled with this contrived climbing experience saddens me, like seeing ancient forests logged away from helpless natives.
So, in these changing times we have to ask ourselves: What will our climbing futures be? Do we accept this endless circulation of plastic climbing holds? Is that really the experience we’re after? The spirituality? Or do we take it to the streets?
I’m talking about urban climbing, about the endless possibilities of this urban landscape. I’m talking about not settling for a substitution. I realize that I’m spoiled, having climbed in British Columbia and Thailand and that my adrenaline addiction is not easily fixed, but I refuse to step backwards. I refuse to suppress my dissatisfaction and become complacent. I refuse to allow the gym to define my limits as a gridlocked climber.
I’d better confess right now that not only do I have a membership to the climbing gym, but I’ve also built a climbing wall in my home. But this is the fine line that defines our progressive lifestyle: the artificial wall should be used as a tool to open our skills to more possibilities, not delimit our horizons. The minute plywood and plastic are used as a defining meter and not as a form of preparation, the grander idea of exploring the unknown, which drives the climbing spirit, is lost.
This climbing spirit has always lied in crusades into the unknown and the proving wrong of people with skeptical eyes. We owe what climbing is today to the pioneers that forged its history: Ernest Shackleton’s 1909 expedition to the South Pole; Sir Edmond Mallory’s 1953 ascent of Mount Everest; Lynn Hill freeing The Nose and John Gill ascending the twenty-foot Thimble. Each one of these legends has slain enormous monsters, proven countless skeptics wrong and defined the course of climbing’s evolution. What is intriguing about this ongoing evolution is that the scope has always been narrowing in size: from continents to mountains to cliffs to twenty-foot boulders.
Today, in our urban climbing communities, the scope of some never sees the light of day. The modernization of climbing has become so introverted that many of us have locked ourselves in converted warehouses filled with different variations of chin-up bars, chasing numbers like V5 and 5.12. These numbers being the only remnants that reflect the ferocity of those legendary monsters that had to die to make rock climbing what it is today.
The blood trail has found its way to Philadelphia with echoes of The Declaration Of Independence. Training by day, trying not to succumb to the dull mindset of indoor climbing, then dressing in black and assaulting the city by night, our numbers are growing. But, how did it start? Who are these self-proclaimed-revolutionary-climbers that often brandish superhero names? It’s the students; it’s the crazy country kids that learned to trad climb on stone barns and are now enrolled at the University of the Arts, Drexel, Temple, The Art Institute (not so much Upenn — those kids aren’t really from here). Philadelphia is full of privileged white kids from the ‘burbs, soaking up the liberal ambience of the city.
I am one of thousands of students in Philly being educated in the mechanics of our societal system. Inevitably we assess everything around us. Since my particular enthusiasm lies with the climbing community, I, along with others, have reassessed our surroundings. No longer is City Hall just a tomb for courtroom filings, its French Renaissance architecture has been reborn into the most fantastic second coming of Christ… err… bouldering in Center City, Philadelphia.
Penn’s landing is a vacant lot unless The Roots are performing or it’s the Fourth of July. I remember visiting the Marine History Museum in grade school and only getting excited about the gift shop. But times have changed. The outer walls are now an overhanging V4, only having been climbed by a handful of Philly cats.
The bridges that connect Center City to the other universe known as UPenn campus have become the focus of our attention. Every bridge is different; its architecture reflecting the era in which it was built: old bridges hold so much variety, new bridges are bland and need a little more vision to accommodate urban climbers. I never cared much for architecture until I got face-to-face with it. A group from University City epoxy-ed climbing holds on the underside of a spiral catwalk, drilled bolts to the overpass and littered the bridge base with sport climbs. But, of course, not everyone shares the ideals of our little crusade. We’ve had our share of run-ins with the Fairmount Park Commission and eventually these bolts were torn from the concrete. It’s a shame to see potential destroyed but we all knew big brother wouldn’t want us to hurt ourselves; their removal was inevitable.
So in a society that seems over precautious, this is the opportunity to return to the primordial hunter-gatherer that lays hidden in our DNA. It’s been waiting for the hunt – the thrill of chasing down the biggest, baddest prize, wrapped in the fear of the monster turning – and slaying you instead. But it’s more then just reliving archaic instincts. It’s a way to regain a sense of self-worth and renew a sense of spirituality and rise above the everyday bullshit. Amidst the chaos, find peace in the moment of full commitment – the single moment when the brain short-circuits and the squabbling conscience is shut down; the soul and body fuse and we finally become something more than human.
The drab urban landscape emanates a new glow as we realize the possibilities. Climbing is endless and this catch-22 keeps everything spicy: you never reach the top — you just keep climbing.
So, as you bump along to the climbing gym take a look around and evaluate your surroundings. Each hold is a hold up, but it’s also a hold out — out into the concrete and steel climbing metropolis we call home.
