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While climbing absolutely can be an end in itself, I am fascinated by leveraging it to make a positive impact on the world.
Moving to Fontainebleau, France, I was solely focused on improving my athletic performance, and I didn’t anticipate how much more could be gained through bouldering, living closer to nature and becoming a member of the local community. I am naturally a solitary person. Our individualistic culture doesn’t encourage meaningful connections, and climbing can be an antidote for that. I want access to these experiences to be open to everybody.
Climbing is also an uncannily accurate lens for scrutinizing society: The impulse for launching the Women’s Bouldering Festival came from witnessing the lack of diversity at the Fontainebleau crags. Creating an environment welcoming of various genders, ethnicities, abilities, etc. is crucial to our survival on this planet—a whole lot of studies make that clear—so contributing my tiny share through diversifying climbing seems like a sensible idea, especially since outdoor-related opportunities are still limited to the lucky few.
In my early 30s, I was diagnosed with autism, and soon after with ADHD. As the festival’s director, I want to show up as my “unedited” self—a neurodiverse, nonbinary individual with a history of mental disorders—and further normalize a multitude of valid, beautiful ways of being human.
From indoor competitions to campaigning for the protection of local crags, climbing is so much more than one thing, and there is no one way to do it right. At the same time, I believe that there’s always room for improvement, and that there’s immense value in reflecting on it. An intersectional approach to the complexities of climbing was the inspiration for my book, Born to Climb: From Rock Climbing Pioneers to Olympic Athletes. It is a blend of classic adventure stories, some social science geekery and an attempt at fair representation—which incidentally is a pretty accurate description of my interests.
Photo: Zofia Reych warms up on one of the many boulders scattered throughout the Forest Fontainebleau. Once the domain of royalty, it is now a nature preserve with many caves and Paleolithic rock carvings 30 miles southeast of Paris, France. CRISTINA BAUSSAN
While climbing absolutely can be an end in itself, I am fascinated by leveraging it to make a positive impact on the world.
Moving to Fontainebleau, France, I was solely focused on improving my athletic performance, and I didn’t anticipate how much more could be gained through bouldering, living closer to nature and becoming a member of the local community. I am naturally a solitary person. Our individualistic culture doesn’t encourage meaningful connections, and climbing can be an antidote for that. I want access to these experiences to be open to everybody.
Climbing is also an uncannily accurate lens for scrutinizing society: The impulse for launching the Women’s Bouldering Festival came from witnessing the lack of diversity at the Fontainebleau crags. Creating an environment welcoming of various genders, ethnicities, abilities, etc. is crucial to our survival on this planet—a whole lot of studies make that clear—so contributing my tiny share through diversifying climbing seems like a sensible idea, especially since outdoor-related opportunities are still limited to the lucky few.
In my early 30s, I was diagnosed with autism, and soon after with ADHD. As the festival’s director, I want to show up as my “unedited” self—a neurodiverse, nonbinary individual with a history of mental disorders—and further normalize a multitude of valid, beautiful ways of being human.
From indoor competitions to campaigning for the protection of local crags, climbing is so much more than one thing, and there is no one way to do it right. At the same time, I believe that there’s always room for improvement, and that there’s immense value in reflecting on it. An intersectional approach to the complexities of climbing was the inspiration for my book, Born to Climb: From Rock Climbing Pioneers to Olympic Athletes. It is a blend of classic adventure stories, some social science geekery and an attempt at fair representation—which incidentally is a pretty accurate description of my interests.
Photo: Zofia Reych warms up on one of the many boulders scattered throughout the Forest Fontainebleau. Once the domain of royalty, it is now a nature preserve with many caves and Paleolithic rock carvings 30 miles southeast of Paris, France. CRISTINA BAUSSAN
I first learned about mutual aid and solidarity organizations by circumstances. I had a small group of friends who had deep ties with activist groups, and during the summer of 2020, we organized a handful of protests throughout the city of Atlanta. We had reached a burnout point toward the end of the summer but found that giving our support to solidarity groups was a great follow-up to our previous efforts.
Mutual aid is about members of a community coming together to support each other and work toward common goals. It’s actually a lot like climbing—climbers often rely on shared knowledge and expertise to help them navigate challenging routes and create a sense of connection and belonging. They both require trust, cooperation, community and a willingness to take risks for the benefit of oneself and others.
Legislation is obviously an impactful way for communities to make the changes they need happen, but measures take a lot of time to come to fruition and sometimes don’t even benefit the people they’re meant to. Climbers have created local climbing organizations, which have a much better grasp of the immediate needs of their communities and can help with issues that need a faster response and on-the-ground knowledge. Likewise, mutual aid organizations provide quick and effective assistance to those in need, without having to wait for outside powers to determine whether the issues are worth their time at all. Mutual aid organizations can also provide additional or special assistance to those who are often overlooked, like individuals who are marginalized due to their ethnicity, gender or income status.
I am physically close to the communities I want to help; however, my rapport and engagement may not be as established as someone who is leading an organization. So I provide financial support or supplies (e.g. food donations, blankets and warm clothing during the winter months, tarp and tents, etc.), which leaves the good-doing up to an organization or cause that is more knowledgeable about the work that needs to be done and how to do it.
Photo: Brandon Belcher trusts the process. After years of climbing, he now approaches new projects with the confidence to try, fail, try and fail again, before he tops out. Chattanooga, Tennessee. DREW SMITH
I first learned about mutual aid and solidarity organizations by circumstances. I had a small group of friends who had deep ties with activist groups, and during the summer of 2020, we organized a handful of protests throughout the city of Atlanta. We had reached a burnout point toward the end of the summer but found that giving our support to solidarity groups was a great follow-up to our previous efforts.
Mutual aid is about members of a community coming together to support each other and work toward common goals. It’s actually a lot like climbing—climbers often rely on shared knowledge and expertise to help them navigate challenging routes and create a sense of connection and belonging. They both require trust, cooperation, community and a willingness to take risks for the benefit of oneself and others.
Legislation is obviously an impactful way for communities to make the changes they need happen, but measures take a lot of time to come to fruition and sometimes don’t even benefit the people they’re meant to. Climbers have created local climbing organizations, which have a much better grasp of the immediate needs of their communities and can help with issues that need a faster response and on-the-ground knowledge. Likewise, mutual aid organizations provide quick and effective assistance to those in need, without having to wait for outside powers to determine whether the issues are worth their time at all. Mutual aid organizations can also provide additional or special assistance to those who are often overlooked, like individuals who are marginalized due to their ethnicity, gender or income status.
I am physically close to the communities I want to help; however, my rapport and engagement may not be as established as someone who is leading an organization. So I provide financial support or supplies (e.g. food donations, blankets and warm clothing during the winter months, tarp and tents, etc.), which leaves the good-doing up to an organization or cause that is more knowledgeable about the work that needs to be done and how to do it.
Photo: Brandon Belcher trusts the process. After years of climbing, he now approaches new projects with the confidence to try, fail, try and fail again, before he tops out. Chattanooga, Tennessee. DREW SMITH
When I was learning to climb, I idolized Yosemite and the slow, almost methodical, progression of skills it offered. From big wall epics to technical granite boulders, Yosemite provided a path from total novice to granite wizard that I aspired to follow. A few years into my Yosemite obsession, I landed a job as a climbing ranger there and worked in the park for eight seasons. During those years, I had my own big-wall adventures and repeated iconic boulders, but I also learned that as much as we think of our climbing story as unique, our impacts never are. Seeing thousands of climbers follow a similar trajectory each year clarified the importance of seeing our individual impacts as a part of a broader story of climbers’ impact on a landscape.
As climbing rangers, we relied on education—both cautionary and inspirational—to encourage people to tread lightly. To better achieve that goal, we developed a volunteer program, the Climber Stewards, that has since spread across the country and formed lasting grassroots partnerships between land managers and the climbing community. Besides important work like building trails and cleaning up trash, Climber Stewards enabled ongoing communication between land managers and the climbing population. Though I no longer work in Yosemite, climbing continues to be a source of perspective in my life—helping me consider what it means to be an individual within a community and what it means to be a steward to the natural world. As much as I can, I try to carry this perspective into the visual storytelling I do now.
Photo: With Yosemite Falls raging behind them, Eric Bissell climbs pitch ten of the Lost Arrow Spire Direct VI 5.12c A0 while Jane Jackson belays. Yosemite National Park, California. DREW SMITH
When I was learning to climb, I idolized Yosemite and the slow, almost methodical, progression of skills it offered. From big wall epics to technical granite boulders, Yosemite provided a path from total novice to granite wizard that I aspired to follow. A few years into my Yosemite obsession, I landed a job as a climbing ranger there and worked in the park for eight seasons. During those years, I had my own big-wall adventures and repeated iconic boulders, but I also learned that as much as we think of our climbing story as unique, our impacts never are. Seeing thousands of climbers follow a similar trajectory each year clarified the importance of seeing our individual impacts as a part of a broader story of climbers’ impact on a landscape.
As climbing rangers, we relied on education—both cautionary and inspirational—to encourage people to tread lightly. To better achieve that goal, we developed a volunteer program, the Climber Stewards, that has since spread across the country and formed lasting grassroots partnerships between land managers and the climbing community. Besides important work like building trails and cleaning up trash, Climber Stewards enabled ongoing communication between land managers and the climbing population. Though I no longer work in Yosemite, climbing continues to be a source of perspective in my life—helping me consider what it means to be an individual within a community and what it means to be a steward to the natural world. As much as I can, I try to carry this perspective into the visual storytelling I do now.
Photo: With Yosemite Falls raging behind them, Eric Bissell climbs pitch ten of the Lost Arrow Spire Direct VI 5.12c A0 while Jane Jackson belays. Yosemite National Park, California. DREW SMITH
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