I'm the Conversation Starter

Climber #1: “So the sequence goes: gaston into the undercling, then scum your feet up and huck. Reminds me of a move I did on this V6 at J-Tree, real core intensive—not like that Dan Osman “No Fear” press, or anything, but still pretty thrutchy. Hey, I just read somewhere that Rolling Stone crowned Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20 the heir to Phil Collins. . .do you think Dean Potter is like the heir to Dan Osman?”

Climber #2: “Gaston-undercling—got it. You went to Joshua Tree? Wow, you are epic. I think Dean Potter is more like the heir to that German guy with Lethal Weapon hair who climbs skyscrapers. . .”

Climber #1: “Hey, do you campus at all? I tried it for awhile but I tweaked my tendon. I was only asking because I wanted to talk about my own training routine, anyway. Maybe I’ll order a Moon Board . . .”

If you’re a climber, this dialogue ought to sound at least a little familiar. (If you’re not a climber, how could you possibly have gotten this far into the magazine? What are you some kind of freako voyeur, or something?) The details may vary, but in skeleton form, conversations just like this one play out among climbers across the world every single day: the fixation on sequences, holds, and movements; the references to well-known and status-bearing climbing destinations; the momentary deviations from climbing cut short by inevitable regressions into more comfortable, climbing-related subject matter. The next time you’re out climbing with your friends, pay attention to how much of your discussion revolves around climbing. If you’re like my buddies and me, not only do you shift about awkwardly after every inadvertent, overly intimate spot—you also talk climbing fully ninety-nine percent of the time.

On the black day that I realized this about my crew, I just couldn’t stop noticing it. It was “climbing this…” and “climbing that…” By the end of an afternoon, the never-ending slew of climbing blahbitty-blah-blah downright exhausted me. It was all just so danged circuitous. Take the example I began with: Climber #1 and Climber #2 could have carried out a very fruitful interlocution RE: the fact that Rob Thomas from Matchbox 20 straight-up sucks and that, while Phil Collins also sort of sucks, he’s at least got that ironic, power-ballad novelty attraction going for him and he has the instant street cred of being a former member of Genesis—therefore rendering Rolling Stone’s preposterous claim laughable. Instead, our climbers got stuck in a vicious climby-talk cycle, spinning their wheels, mixing metaphors, and getting absolutely nowhere.

Kids. My dear little bros and stros. If you really want to get somewhere in this life we call life—if you want to open your world to the dialogical pleasures that only begin with Phil Collins-lauding—you’re going to have to take steps. Make an oath with your friends—using your blood and a couple choice phrases from Lord of the Rings that really made you cry (more than that steady trickle you sported throughout the film)—that for an entire day of climbing, you will not talk about climbing: not share a patronizing bit of beta, not cheer a triumphant send and demonstrate how “selfless” you are, not even describe a climbing accident scene to a 911 dispatcher (if something does go horribly wrong, you will permit each other to pantomime your communications with paramedics, who will undoubtedly appreciate and support your oath in any way they can, including allowing you or your friends to bleed out).  Stop spewing climbing while climbing, and your eardrums will immediately begin popping from the silence. At first, you’ll want to fill that void by dropping an easy “Ah, I just missed the hold…” or a “Dude, that was so funny when Chris laughed at the way Mamachichi sounded…”—but you’ll be bound by your blood oath to resist. Instead, try asking your compatriots questions that your rain of climbing spray has always snowed under, like, “What is your name?” “Are you male or female?” or “Have you always only had one leg?” Before you know it, you’ll find yourself breathing the rarified air of high society—carrying on about Cliff’s Notes, drinking fine box wines, and learning a thing or two about amputee phantom pain. Then about an hour later you’ll realize how stupid this exercise is and once again start babbling on about the only thing that really matters.