The Zen of Climbing

Preface

The Art of Attention

Your desire to climb a route, a boulder, or to accomplish any athletic goal, is often the greatest thing hindering you from doing so.

I shall explain.

A few years ago, I stood beneath a granite sport climb near my hometown of Carbondale, Colorado, an idyllic mountain town at the junction of the Roaring Fork and Crystal rivers. I craned my neck upward. I was tied in, ready to go. I took a breath. Inhale. Exhale. My eyes traced the chalk as it wove through a short dihedral system, then onto the face: a direct line of slightly overhanging crimps on red and ochre granite, slopers fashioned by a climber-god, then a boulderly crux with a so-so rest before it. A soft 5.13a/7c+, but not a gimme. An area classic for sure.

The route had been on my mind for years. I had been saving it for the onsight. It was time to stop hesitating.

The route was on the downhill side of a small corridor. The routes on the uphill side were just off vert, almost slabby, and on the downhill side they were slightly overhanging. The crag was upvalley from town about ten miles and perched on the west side of the Crystal River, which meant in town it could be 92 degrees and have you running for shade, but here, in the late afternoon, you could be in a fleece, maybe a beanie. Lodgepole pines and Douglas fir crowded the steep hillsides. Elk herds wandered below, by the river, near the hot springs. The area has a primitive feel to it, a sense of adventure.

Jordan and I had the crag to ourselves, per the norm. Storms were threatening to kill the day, and a cold, dry wind was gusting from the west, bringing with it the scent of wildfires burning in California and New Mexico, but that made for incredible conditions. Vibes were great. I had no injuries to speak of. My knot was tied and my hands were chalked. It was time. It was possible to onsight the route, but unlikely. Still, I was going to try. I have a philosophy that you should never waste an onsight attempt. Every climb is a unique experience, and you can’t relive a first impression. I was rested. I had a partner who was stoked. Everything was perfect … except me.

Good to go? he asked. Yep, I said. But that wasn’t entirely true. I thought I was calm and that my nerves were gone, but sure enough the second I grabbed the first hold they peeked their head, as if there all along, hiding, waiting.

How in the f *&k did that happen? I was more than a tad concerned because, with few exceptions, nerves are a performance killer. Nerves create pressure, and no one climbs well under pressure, despite popular opinion. Rather, top climbers can turn pressure into focus. But when you are nervy, you are not climbing well. It doesn’t matter who you are. As it is said, athletics is 90 percent mental…and the other half is mental.

Damn. I really wanted things to be perfect on this one.

Five or so bolts up, I fell at the crux. My mind was scattered. My nerves stiffened my body. My lack of composure expressed itself in a botched foot sequence I had known was crucial. I couldn’t focus because my thoughts had been at the top of the route and enamored with feelings of doing it first try—It would be so nice. Man, that would feel good. Defeated, I got back on and made my way to the chains. I should have flashed it. I lowered.

I wasn’t mad, but for the first time in my life, after climbing for nearly 30 years, it struck me that the desire to climb the route had actually been the thing preventing me from doing so. That was the beginning of a massive shift in my perspective.

I resolved to make an experiment on the spot, for my next attempt.

Don’t try to do the route. Don’t try to get to the top. Forget about images or feelings of success you think you will have if you do it. Your only goal is to breathe, and stay there, each move by each move. Just execute. Try hard, but not too hard. But don’t panic. Relaxed aggression. Poised, but with nothing to lose. Listen to exactly what your body needs. Respond as quickly as possible. Make good decisions.

Then I remembered a trick I had heard the American phenom Chris Sharma mention years ago, a trick he used on himself to calm nerves—convince yourself you are not going to do it. Tell yourself, don’t worry, you are not going to do it this time. Not this time. This is just a beta burn. This was a step further than my initial plan—don’t just release yourself from the pressures of success: be sure of your own failure.

That’s exactly what I did. On my next burn I clipped the chains. Despite this being a type of route I don’t do second go, it felt easy. There was no flow state, nothing mystical, but I was clear, my climbing free from the pressure I had put on it. My body did what it knew how to do, without interference. Even better, it was supremely enjoyable, as if I had discovered a new way of climbing, despite having done it all my life.

Over the course of the next few months I kept doing the same thing, for sport climbing, bouldering, ice and trad climbing, all of which I partake in. I unburdened myself from expectation. As a result, my attention sharpened. I found myself enjoying climbing more, which I didn’t think was possible. I got to know my body, and the language of stone, with greater intimacy and acuity. My climbing got more predictable. My endurance improved. I became more efficient. I didn’t break records, but I got better, not necessarily because I got stronger, but because I had removed the most common cause for failing: lack of awareness. It was a fundamental awakening in my mental game and a shift in my mindset. As I would later learn, it was a perspective shared among top athletes, artists, and, as the title suggests, Zen masters, the latter a tradition I have been practicing all my life…just not, apparently, in climbing. The more I read and experimented on myself, the more I learned that it was, foremost, a strategy of dealing with one’s mind: an emphasis on taking away and simplifying, a deployment of the power of subtractive thinking. I had simply tried it out on climbing.

I went home that day and thought about how I had sabotaged myself. And when I thought about it more, I realized that this had been a recurring pattern in my climbing career, whether it was on hard boulders, sport routes or hard ice and mixed climbs. In short, as someone who considers themselves selfaware, I hadn’t been.

It came to my attention that before a send, burn or a go on a hard boulder, when I’d have to focus and get shit done, I’d get nervy. I’d be off my center, but I couldn’t articulate it for the simple reason that I didn’t know where my center was, nor even, if I’m honest, that I should be looking for it in the first place. It’s hard to describe this state, despite it being the default state for most climbers.

For a long time, I told myself a story about nerves:

~ that it was a natural reaction. Nerves come with performance, right?

~ that they were just part of the deal. Everyone gets them.

~ that I needed to work against the nerves to calm them. They are an enemy I need to combat.

~ that they could be appeased a few minutes before I climbed. Moments before is the best time because they are most intense then.

Working with my nerves was just the beginning. Fear, hesitation, expectation, consistency, not overgripping, reading sequences—it’s all connected. Nerves are just some of the weeds in the climber’s mind, whether you are a pro or newbie, but it’s the obvious place to start. I’ve had climbing partners who are still struggling with taming nerves on hard sport climbs despite having climbed twice a week for thirty years. It is especially the case for new climbers—the irrational fear of even taking a two-foot whipper, stiffening up four feet off the bouldering mat, or the fear of leading altogether. While it might seem that nerves are neuro-muscular, and awareness is mental, it’s a false dichotomy. Nerves have a beginning and an end, snaking through the entire spectrum of our being. Nerves sprout in many different soils, yet we lack the language to untangle them. Only practiced awareness helps us figure out if our nerves come from existential fear, performance anxiety, the ask, attachments, unfounded desires, ego.

The Paradox of Awareness

Here’s a riddle. What do you have that you can’t turn it off, have it in abundance, and yet it is one of the scarcest resources in the world?

The answer is attention. As Herbert Simon reminded us before the digital revolution, in 1971, an information economy consumes attention. Every company, brand and device in existence today wants your attention. Attention is our greatest resource. It is the manner, and method, in which we do things, and for that reason it is supremely unique for our daily function and elite performance. The same goes for all sports: awareness is the resource par excellence of any athlete. It is the coin through which we purchase mastery of our craft. Performance psychologists and professional coaches talk of situational intelligence, holistic field perception, kinesthetic embodiment, bodily cognition, and somatic intuition, but they are all variations of attention. Attention focused is awareness of one’s shifting opponents on the field; awareness of one’s limbs in space; awareness of one’s fatigue. And so on. As Wayne Gretzky, arguably the best hockey player to have ever lived, put it, my awareness was my creativity. Because it is ubiquitous, attention is the thing we think we all have, yet we seldom use it.

Climbing is the art of paying attention, of giving attention. Attention is the building block of our sport, and you will get nowhere without massive quantities of it. A beginner needs attention to get over the fear of taking a lead fall, or to calm the panic of trying hard; a top climber needs it to be creative in figuring out complex sequences, and then executing them. Climbing is equal parts jazz, improv, gymnastics, chess, weightlifting and ballet. We need to be relaxed and aggressive, but, more importantly, we need to know how and when to deploy each, and then toggle back to our baseline. Not only do we have to give full attention to execution, but we also have to give full attention to the apparatus, namely because it is always changing (from route to route), which is not the case with gymnastics, or the long jump, or most sports. We need to see the bumps in a sloper to hold it with optimal efficiency, but we also need to see how a route will go in the alpine. We need to be attentive in our training, in periods of extended patience while we are projecting, or while fishing in a bad nut on a dangerous route. Most important, however, is seeing what is going on inside of us, and what is not going on.

Bill Cole, a pioneer in sports psychology, echoes the sentiment from another direction, The ability to consistently stay in the moment when needed is what marks all great athletes and performers. I would add that the inability to be in the moment, as that which keeps athletes from achieving their potential, is an awareness error.

Paying attention is harder than you think. There is a lot of junk in most people’s moment. In fact, paying attention is the foundation of 99 percent of meditation practices, and most never progress past the beginner stage. If focusing on your breath for ten inhales and exhales without distraction is an enormous challenge, and it is, then imagine how hard it is to climb with a pure mind for minutes on end, sometimes hours, all the while completing complex biomechanical tasks that require memory integration, analysis, prediction and max muscular contraction. The truth is you can’t, and are not going to achieve it perfectly. But you can get better, and hence get better as a climber.

Ask yourself: how is a lack of pointed attention affecting my climbing? The answer is a lot. Given that the vast majority of climbers fall on their projects or fail to improve because of awareness problems—botching a sequence, forgetting beta, missing holds, miscalibrating this or that, overtraining, undertraining, not seeing weaknesses—becoming not only more aware of your craft, but more aware in your craft, will make you a more agile, intuitive and intelligent climber. No, this isn’t just about practicing mindful climbing and turning climbing into a moving meditation. Meditation is one thing. Climbing is another. It’s much more complex than that. We are talking about remaking ourselves, and then, in the process, remaking our climbing. You cannot arrive at the latter without the former.

Introduction

Be Suspicious

You should be suspicious that I’m full of shit. I wouldn’t blame you.

But be not worried. This book is the fruit of lifelong dedications—to climbing, to Zen—which is as it should be. I’ve been a climber all of my life and still am: a sport climber, boulderer, ice climber, trad climber, alpine climber. When I’m not climbing, I’m running or skiing in the mountains in Colorado, or I’m writing. I was put on the cover of Rock and Ice magazine when I was in college, but I walked away from pursuing a sponsored climbing life to get a PhD in the Philosophy of Religion. Mainly because Zen got its hook into me when I was young, and, like all slow transformations, it took a while for me to feel the effects but the hook took hold.

Zen is the art of looking, at ourselves, each other, routes and mountains. Given all the bullshit and distraction and lying and dodging of the truth these days, Zen is cathartic in the way an enema wishes to be.

For this book, I’m going to take the back-door approach. I am going to lay out the basics of Zen, but I’m also going to focus on how climbing is already a Zen sport. When climbing at your limit, you need Zen. What we are doing is already Zen. In his Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind, a book as classic as it is profound, D.T. Suzuki aptly noted: Wherever there is any sign of life at all, there is Zen. If philosophy isn’t a set of abstract principles but rather a manière de vivre (a way of life), as French thinker Pierre Hadot reminded us, simply by doing some of the work advocated here, you will be doing Zen. Philosophy is about improving our experience, and climbing is only a subset of that.

If you digest what is in these pages, you will appreciate your climbing more (or whatever sport you do), have more fun, complain less, develop better technique, and, I’m going to argue, become a better athlete.

PART I

Is Climbing a Zen Sport?

Zen isn’t about being