A climbing helmet is a thankless piece of gear. It doesn’t help you climb harder, it won’t bump your grade, and it doesn’t come with any highlight-reel moments—yet it plays a huge role in whether you make it back in one piece. You just need it to show up: on long days, messy approaches, at belays where rock breaks loose without warning, and during all the repeat transitions where your gear takes a beating right along with you. Black Diamond’s Capitan E fits that mindset. It’s a helmet that treats durability like a feature, not a compromise—less “ultralight showpiece,” more “workhorse for real climbing,” with a clear focus on protection and day-long comfort. The design is built for impacts—and for how climbing actually happens. Built with two kinds of impact in mind The Capitan E uses a two-part approach: a hard shell made from recycled ABS paired with DuraPET, plus a dual-foam setup with EPS and EPP. The logic is straightforward—and smart. It’s designed to handle a top hit (the classic overhead impact) differently than side or rear hits, which are often more subtle but very real in everyday climbing. Black Diamond describes an EPS “puck” at the crown, with more forgiving EPP on the sides, all wrapped in a shell meant to take abuse. The most compelling promise here is coverage: more protection around the sides and back, with an explicit aim to meet stricter UIAA requirements in those zones. No hype needed—nobody “feels” protection until the moment they absolutely need it. But in a sport where the unexpected sometimes gets the final say, taking side and rear impacts seriously makes sense, and it sets this helmet apart from some more minimal designs. A tough helmet can’t be a pain to wear A durable helmet still has to disappear on your head. Black Diamond goes with a low-profile suspension system for fine-tuning the fit, plus removable pads made with bamboo fiber. Those details matter, because they decide whether a helmet gets worn or gets stuffed in a pack (or left at home). The intent here is clear: make this an everyday helmet you can keep on for hours, without turning the day into a constant tradeoff between protection and annoyance. Ventilation stays fairly open, with a straightforward focus on breathability when it warms up. And because climbing days rarely stay neatly inside a “noon to six, perfect weather” window, the Capitan E includes headlamp clips up front and an elastic keeper in the back—simple, but genuinely useful when the day runs long or the approach happens late. Weight, sizing, standards: the numbers The Capitan E sits firmly in the “durable by design” category: 320 g in S/M and 350 g in M/L, for head circumferences of 53–59 cm and 58–63 cm. On compliance, it’s listed as CE/EN and UIAA, and it’s presented as meeting EN 12492, the reference standard for mountaineering/climbing helmets. Conclusion The Capitan E isn’t the helmet you buy to shave 50 grams off your kit. It’s the one you pick when you want something that can take hits, dials in cleanly, stays comfortable over long days, and clearly pushes harder on side and rear coverage. In a market that often chases ultralight everything, this tool-first approach feels reassuring—and, more importantly, it matches how a lot of climbers actually climb. Specs: Black Diamond Capitan E Construction:  Two-piece shell (recycled ABS + DuraPET), EPS + EPP foam Recycled materials:  30% by weight (claimed) Protection:  Increased side/rear coverage (with reference to stricter UIAA requirements) Fit system:  Low-profile suspension Headlamp attachment:  Front clips + rear elastic keeper Pads:  Removable, bamboo fiber Weight:  320 g (S/M), 350 g (M/L) Sizing:  53–59 cm (S/M), 58–63 cm (M/L) Standards:  CE/EN, UIAA (EN 12492 listed by retailers) Country of origin:  China

In the world of travel bags, a duffel is often a necessary evil: great at swallowing gear, miserable the moment you have to carry it anywhere that isn’t the trunk of a car. Osprey promises the opposite with the Transporter—a duffel designed to ride on your back as comfortably as a hiking pack. After several weeks of real use—train stations, muddy parking lots, and improvised bivies—it mostly proves one thing: comfort changes everything once you’re hauling 30-plus pounds. © Osprey Most duffels are the bulky sidekick you put up with because it’s the simplest option. You stuff it, you drag it, you curse it on stairs. But if you travel with a rope, climbing shoes, and a sleeping bag you packed in a hurry, a duffel still makes sense. With the Transporter, Osprey tries to flip the script: take a bag built for volume and make it something you can actually wear—on purpose, not as punishment. A Duffel Meant to Be Worn The Transporter’s big selling point is the harness. Where most duffels settle for token shoulder straps—fine for a two-minute shuffle across an airport—Osprey commits to real backpack-style straps: decent padding, a sternum strap, and, importantly, the ability to stow everything cleanly when you’re checking it. In practice, it changes the whole experience. Even when it’s stuffed to the ceiling, you can carry the Transporter for a few miles without feeling like you’ve got an anvil slung over one shoulder. The load sits well, the bag stays stable, and you can walk normally instead of doing that awkward, hunched-duffel wobble. It’s not a trekking pack, but in the duffel category, very few carry this convincingly—and that’s the real difference. A Fabric That Takes a Beating Osprey currently has two generations of the Transporter. The older version used a 900D polyester with a TPU coating—rugged and a bit stiff, with a “armored” vibe and a plasticky feel. The newer version, launched in 2025, switches to a fabric Osprey calls NanoTough™: 100% recycled high-tenacity nylon, with a carbonate coating meant to improve abrasion resistance and boost water repellency. You notice the change the second you handle it. The fabric feels more flexible, less like vinyl, and the bigger sizes drop a few hundred grams. It’s not a dramatic weight cut, but you’ll notice it when you’re lifting and moving the 95L or 120L. Either way, it’s a durable build, with a reinforced 840D bottom designed to handle repeated impacts—the kind of bag you can toss onto a train platform or into the bed of a pickup without overthinking it. The Transporter doesn’t have the bunker-like thickness of The North Face Base Camp, but it plays a smarter durability game: tough enough to last, flexible enough not to be annoying every time you have to handle it. Water-Repellent, Not Waterproof The zipper flaps, coating, and construction do a good job limiting water getting in. In steady rain, your stuff stays protected, and you can walk outside for fifteen minutes or push through a downpour without panicking. But it’s important to be clear: the standard Transporter is not a waterproof bag. Osprey does make a specific version, the Transporter Waterproof, rated IPX7—able to handle submersion to one meter for thirty minutes. That’s a different conversation: kayaking trips, river missions, and places where “dry” is non-negotiable. The standard duffel is built for travel and everyday abuse, not for floating down a torrent. It shrugs off rain, damp platforms, and the mud of a crag parking lot, but it’s not trying to replace a dry bag. Translation: an excellent travel-and-field companion—as long as you don’t ask it to do a job it wasn’t designed for. Minimal Organization, Done Right The Transporter stays true to duffel DNA: one big main compartment, no obsession with pockets. Access is through a wide, lockable U-shaped YKK zipper, which makes it easy to see everything you’ve thrown in there at a glance. On the outside, an end pocket holds the small essentials you want handy—keys, headlamp, train tickets—without dumping the whole bag. Inside, a zippered mesh pocket helps separate clean clothes from the stuff that’s already been worked over. No frills, but the details matter. Internal compression straps keep the load from turning into a loose, shifting mess after a few transfers. And when it’s empty, the bag packs down into the included mesh storage sack—easy to stash in a car trunk, or use as a laundry bag on the road. It’s intentionally simple, focused on function over gimmicks—which is exactly what you want from a duffel. From 30 to 150 Liters: Pick Your Lane The Transporter Duffel comes in six sizes, from 30 liters (almost a daypack) to 150 liters (closer to a soft rooftop cargo box than a “bag”). Each size points to a different use case. The 40L is the most versatile: compact enough to be considered for carry-on depending on the airline, but roomy enough for a long weekend with climbing gear. But the real sweet spot—yes, the actual sweet spot—is the 65L. It’s the balanced choice for one to two weeks on the move, with enough space for a rope, shoes, layers, and a sleeping bag without turning into an unmanageable blob. It’s still a bag you can carry on your shoulder or wear as a backpack without wrecking yourself. Go bigger—95L and 120L—and you’re in a different category: trips where you’re bringing the whole kit. You can still carry them, but these sizes are really built for checked baggage and long hauls. And the 150L is almost daring you to overpack: big enough for pads, ropes, a giant sleeping bag, and food for an expedition—while being obviously miserable if you have to navigate a crowded subway staircase. The Trade-Off That Matters The Transporter isn’t the most armored duffel out there. By feel and by looks, The North Face Base Camp still wins the “thick tarp that might survive the apocalypse” contest—and it’s reassuring, even if it comes with extra weight. Osprey takes a different approach. The Transporter doesn’t try to impress you with brute toughness. It tries to be a duffel you can actually carry, and that’s usually where the real difference shows up. You don’t remember the exact fabric weight months later. You do remember trudging across a train station with nearly 40 pounds of gear on your back. In that context, the Transporter earns its keep. It doesn’t claim to be indestructible. It just makes a strong case for being one of the most believable duffels when you need a storage bag to function like an actual carry system. It’s a deliberate compromise—and it chooses real-world usability over tough-guy marketing. Specs: Transporter Duffel 65 Capacity:  65 L Dimensions:  62 × 35 × 40 cm Weight:  1.206 kg Fabric:  NanoTough™ (recycled 630D high-tenacity nylon, carbonate coating) + 840D reinforced bottom Closure:  Lockable YKK EYL U-zip + rain flap Carry:  Stowable backpack-style straps + sternum strap Organization:  Zippered end pocket, internal mesh pocket, compression straps Water resistance:  Water-repellent, not submersible Available sizes:  30 / 40 / 65 / 95 / 120 / 150 L Made in:  Vietnam (bluesign®-certified site) MSRP:  Around €150 (varies by retailer) Best for:  Travel and expeditions, hauling bulky bouldering or sport-climbing gear, mixed road-and-crag use

In climbing, there’s this stubborn myth that your shoes are supposed  to hurt—like pain is the cover charge, proof you’re serious, some vaguely ridiculous rite of passage. In reality, your first pair of shoes is mostly about learning: how to place your feet, how to trust an edge, what sticks (usually) and what skates (sometimes). That’s exactly where the Black Diamond Women’s Momentum lands. It’s an entry-level shoe with a neutral, flat last, two Velcro straps, and a design built to stay on your feet for a long time. It’s meant to support the kind of progress that comes from hours of repetition—not an immediate hunt for millimeter-level precision. A “forgiving” build—without turning into a slipper The Momentum is built around a pretty straightforward idea: make the shoe breathable and accommodating without letting it collapse into full-on “house slipper” territory. The upper uses Black Diamond’s Engineered Knit Technology, paired with a microfiber liner in the forefoot to help limit stretch and keep a baseline of structure over time. The goal here is comfort you can actually climb in, session after session, without the shoe turning into a baggy sock. There’s also a detail that sounds like marketing until you live with it: a hemp footbed. It fits the whole point of the shoe—something you can wear long, often, and comfortably, rather than a pair you suffer through for two “performance tries” before it gets banished to the bottom of your pack. “Women’s specific” is mostly about volume Black Diamond frames this as a women’s-specific fit—meaning lower overall volume and a shape intended for certain foot morphologies. In practice, the Momentum has a pretty welcoming forefoot and an overall comfort-driven feel. That plays especially well for longer sessions—gym climbing, moderate routes, and days when you’re climbing more than you’re “projecting” (working a route over multiple tries). The flip side is predictable: a forgiving shoe forgives a lot , sometimes at the cost of a more “locked-in” feel if you’re chasing a very technical fit—especially around the heel. On sizing, Black Diamond offers guidance by goal. For “all day comfort,” the brand generally recommends sizing down modestly from your street shoe—snug, but not painful. In the real world, the most common mistake with a comfort-first shoe is overcorrecting: trying to force the compression of an aggressive, downturned model out of something that simply isn’t built for that. 4.3 mm molded rubber: durability, by design The Momentum uses a 4.3 mm outsole aimed squarely at durability, with molded rubber (rather than rubber cut from a sheet). Black Diamond positions that as a way to optimize consistency, weight, and comfort. Either way, the message is clear: this is a shoe for people still building footwork. That thicker rubber is more forgiving when you’re missing placements and grinding your toes on gym holds. It doesn’t demand the delicacy of a super-soft, ultra-sensitive shoe. There’s a known tradeoff, of course. The more rubber you put underfoot, the more you dull that fine feedback from tiny features. But for someone progressing, it’s usually the rational compromise: better a shoe that survives the learning curve than a “scalpel” that’s trashed before your feet get precise. How it feels on the wall: where it shines, where it taps out Black Diamond positions the Momentum for vertical climbing and long-wear comfort, with a “soft flex” midsole (more supple, more forgiving) and a neutral shape. In plain terms, it holds its own on: Gym climbing (slabs, volume-heavy walls, training routes) Moderate crag days where footholds are readable and generally solid Long sessions where comfort translates into consistency But once you move into very steep terrain, razor-precise edging on tiny nubs, or sequences where every millimeter matters, the Momentum calmly reminds you what it is: an entry-level shoe built to support progression, not to chase the tightest “performance fit.” Updates that target the usual weak points The Momentum isn’t stuck in time. Black Diamond lists a handful of updates aimed at the classic shortcomings of comfort-oriented shoes: an updated knit with a softer lining, softer toe rands, a reworked heel geometry for more consistent tension, and—most importantly—an updated midsole intended to improve edging ability. In other words: same DNA, but reinforced where it counts—fit security and overall coherence. Verdict: a smarter first shoe than it looks The Women’s Momentum succeeds where a lot of beginner shoes miss: it lowers the barrier to entry without turning learning into punishment. It gives you time—time to climb, repeat, adjust—and that’s what actually builds skill. Its comfort and forgiveness aren’t a flaw. They’re the method. The limits are real and worth stating clearly: this isn’t a steep-project weapon, and it’s not a micro-precision tool. But as a progression shoe, an everyday trainer, a comfortable backup, or a solid option for moderate multi-pitch days, it’s impressively consistent—and exactly what a first shoe should be. Specs: Black Diamond Women’s Momentum Last/Shape:  Neutral, flat (comfort / vertical focus) Closure:  Two Velcro straps Rubber:  4.3 mm molded outsole Midsole:  “Soft flex” (comfort / sensitivity) Upper:  Engineered Knit + microfiber forefoot liner Footbed:  Hemp Claimed weight:  440 g (US Women’s 5) Made in:  China MSRP:  Around €90 on Black Diamond Europe

On October 13, 2021, in Sydney, a climber fell roughly 40 feet from a route equipped with an auto-belay (a self-belay device) and was killed. Four years later, an Australian court fined the gym operator and two directors a combined total of about €250,000. It’s easy to fixate on the number. But the bigger point is simpler—and harder to sit with: the slack that kills isn’t always in the webbing. A lot of the time, it’s higher up the chain, in an operation that stopped tightening its own bolts. © Jonathan Chan In almost every gym, there’s that comforting sound: click-click , the strap retracting. It’s mechanical, steady, almost soothing—the noise that lets you climb without a human belayer. You pull, you let go, you start up. At Sydney Indoor Climbing Gym in St Peters, that ritual failed. The auto-belay didn’t retract. Gravity did the rest. Four years later, the ruling is a reminder to the whole community: safety isn’t just steel and nylon. It’s also habits, procedures, and a culture that has to be maintained—on purpose, every day. The facts, without the drama On the day of the incident, the workplace safety agency SafeWork NSW released an Incident Information Release with the basics: a failed auto-belay, a fall of around 13 meters (about 43 feet) at Sydney Indoor Climbing Gym in St Peters, and a death. No storytelling—just the official timeline of a tragedy. In August 2025, the Sydney court fined the operator 281,250 AUD, and two directors 84,375 AUD each . Total: 450,000 AUD, about €250,000. Some general-news coverage widely repeated 375,000 AUD for the company—a middle figure. But the final total, documented by specialized sources, is clear. In climbing and in court, it’s worth checking the last draw: that’s often where the outcome gets decided. In court, the uncomfortable obviousness The technical record doesn’t read like a freak failure. It reads like a list of warning signs that should never have been brushed off as “small stuff”: A worn lanyard with its wear indicator rubbed away. A strap jammed in the drum. Debris built up in the nozzle. A carabiner gate that no longer snapped shut cleanly. Add to that a major service overdue since July 2021, a last internal inspection dating back to January 2020, and a maintenance log that had already flagged faulty retraction in the last meters more than once. After the accident, the gym acted: it permanently removed all auto-belays, introduced daily inspections, and scheduled annual external testing. Proof, if any were needed, that fixes exist—and that they too often arrive after someone is already gone. What this says about climbers—and gyms An auto-belay is not a guardian angel. It’s not a harmless convenience, either. It’s industrial equipment, and it demands routine, rigor, and follow-through. Inspection, maintenance, documentation, training: without those four pillars, the tool becomes a trap. The judge put it bluntly: the risk was “extremely obvious,” and the measures were “readily available”—and they weren’t taken. The translation for climbers is plain: if the strap doesn’t retract, you don’t climb that line. Full stop. Safety isn’t a faded poster by the wall. It’s a system you actively run: repeatable checks, written procedures, and records you can actually produce. International echoes: “zero slack” isn’t paranoia In 2024 and again in March 2025, the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) recalled several TRUBLUE iQ / iQ+ models over a retraction defect—devices that “can fail to retract.” The guidance was simple and harsh: stop using them immediately and send them back for factory service. Different country, different legal system, same hard line: no slack tolerated. In France, the FFME updated its materials as well: a 2025 auto-belay safety poster and 2024 rules that keep hammering the same routine. Pull and release the webbing to verify retraction. Do a short hang-test about a meter off the ground on your first climb. Don’t use the unit if it doesn’t retract. Post those instructions in big, obvious places at the base of the devices. That isn’t decoration. It’s how you build habits that hold up when attention drifts. In France: tragedy, and a louder alarm On November 2, 2024, at Climb Up Lyon, a 72-year-old man died in a fall . According to local reporting, he may have forgotten to clip in. Not the same mechanism as Sydney: human error versus an operational failure. But the lesson converges anyway. Build layers—human, mechanical, procedural, technological—so that a mistake, whatever its source, never gets to finish its trajectory. Clear signage. Layouts that make clipping in unavoidable. Staff routines that don’t let a lapse slide. Alert technology that kicks in when attention drops. All of it is about the same goal: weaving more nets so a fall doesn’t turn fatal. In Nancy, more recently, another gym in the Climb Up network chose to add a loud warning before gravity gets the chance: installation of B.A.S.S. , a device that screams if someone launches without being attached. It’s not a magic fix. It’s one more behavioral barrier—a loud backstop that catches an oversight when fatigue and routine start dulling the mind. It doesn’t replace pull-and-release checks or training; it makes them more likely to happen. Three habits, one culture: zero slack The move. At the base of every auto-belay line, pull and release the webbing, test retraction over the first meter, and stop immediately if you feel any slack. It’s basic. It’s lifesaving. The eyes. Frayed webbing, a missing wear indicator, sluggish retraction? Climb down and report it. Safety is a team sport. The proof (for operators). A log for each device—photos, serial numbers, timestamps, corrective actions. Not bureaucracy. Memory that protects people, and documentation that holds up. Why write this now? Because Sydney isn’t some distant, one-off headline. It exposes a blind spot that’s everywhere: routine that lulls people to sleep. Auto-belays taught us to climb without a belayer. Now they have to teach us something else: never climb without a safety culture. And if there’s one last plain way to say it: in Sydney, the problem wasn’t just slack in the strap. It was slack in the system—habits, oversight, governance. Our job is to tighten the chain: clear checks, visible signs, regular inspections, and records that actually exist. No panic. No sermon. Just doing the smart things, on purpose.

In the United States, trans women are now barred from every women’s category in competitions sanctioned by the national climbing federation. Not after a sweep of podiums. Not after some slam-dunk scientific report. But after a political order from the top. Climbing—this sport that loves to imagine itself outside the world—just got yanked into a culture fight that has nothing to do with a simple rulebook debate. © David Pillet In a gym, pulling a hold is how you reset and set something new. But when the “hold” you remove means shutting down an entire lane and a spot on the start list, that’s not setting. That’s exclusion. This summer, that’s exactly what happened to trans women climbers in the U.S. In a curt email, the USOPC (the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Committee) directed every national governing body to bar trans women from women’s categories. USA Climbing —after eighteen months working closely with trans climbers on an inclusive policy that was nearly finished—had to shove it in a drawer. Not because anything had “gone wrong” at a competition. But because a presidential directive said so. And in Olympic-style American sport, politics isn’t in the background. It’s the head coach. “Keeping men out of women’s sports” In the American sports hierarchy, a national federation is tied to the USOPC the way a rope is tied into an anchor—your whole system depends on it. That tie is official certification and elite-sport funding. If the USOPC cuts the rope, the federation takes the fall. In February 2025, Donald Trump signed Executive Order 14201, titled “Keeping Men Out of Women’s Sports” —a policy framed as protecting women’s competition by systematically excluding trans women. Two words do all the work: Executive Order . This isn’t guidance. It’s a federal directive, and the USOPC’s job is to apply it across its affiliated federations. Refuse, and you risk losing recognition and funding—an administrative death sentence. USA Climbing, which was preparing an inclusive policy aligned with IFSC criteria (testosterone under 10 nmol/L for twelve months), was forced to abandon the work. Executive Order 14201 Signed:  February 5, 2025, by Donald Trump. Purpose:  Exclude any trans woman from women’s competitions in sports governed by USOPC-recognized national federations. Mechanism:  Compliance required to keep certification and funding. Scope:  Every discipline—from basketball to curling… and now climbing. Climbing didn’t have this “problem” Part of why this lands so hard is that climbing didn’t have a high-profile, messy precedent around trans women’s participation. To date, no American trans woman has competed in an IFSC World Cup, or in an elite national championship, or cleaned up podiums. The “problem” this rule claims to solve didn’t exist in this sport. And even on performance, the usual argument about a massive physical edge doesn’t map cleanly onto climbing. The men’s/women’s gap is smaller here than in many measured sports. Look at the outer limits: Roped climbing: the women’s benchmark is 9b+— Excalibur  by Brooke Raboutou (about 5.15c). The men’s benchmark is 9c (about 5.15d). Bouldering: the women’s benchmark is 8C+—Katie Lamb (roughly V16, with 8C+ noted once). The men’s benchmark is 9A (roughly V17). Some iconic lines were first climbed by women before men repeated them— Meltdown  (8c+/9a, about 5.14c/5.14d) put up by Beth Rodden, and Lynn Hill’s one-day free ascent of The Nose . In other words: the glass ceiling is real, but it’s cracked—and sometimes people punch right through it. Exclusion before evidence The International Olympic Committee recommends restricting participation only when there’s robust evidence of a disproportionate advantage that’s specific to the discipline. Plainly: if climbing could show trans women win reliably because of a clear, decisive physiological edge, then yes—rules could be debated on that basis. But that isn’t what’s happening here. No published study. No statistical record showing a huge imbalance in this sport. What’s driving the decision is a theoretical fear—and, more than that, a political signal. The implicit message is: whether the problem exists or not, we’re going to show we’re “fixing” it. It’s like installing a lightning rod on a blue-sky day. The consequence is immediate and concrete: a precedent where exclusion comes first, and proof is optional. In the current U.S. cultural climate, that sequence isn’t an accident. It’s the point. How does enforcement even work? Once the rule exists, you still have to enforce it. Right now, USA Climbing does not verify participants’ gender identity. Tomorrow, will they require medical letters? Hormone test results? And who collects that data, stores it, protects it? Here’s the problem: American sports federations are not bound by medical confidentiality. There’s no guarantee that a document submitted for a competition won’t be accessed or exploited by local authorities—especially in states where gender-affirming care is being criminalized. That means a trans woman climber could face legal risk simply by registering for a sanctioned event. And then there’s the part no rulebook can capture: gym culture. In climbing, people size you up by how you climb—your try-hard, your commitment—not by what’s on a form. Like that final where a trans woman competitor, frozen by the fear of actually winning, heard her rivals yell, “Go for it.” That kind of solidarity can’t be outlawed by a federal directive. Cracks in the wall Not everything is locked down. Local competitions that aren’t run by USA Climbing can still welcome whoever they choose. Groups like Trans Climbers Belong are holding onto the inclusive policy written over the last two years, ready to deploy it if and when the opening appears. And above all, there’s still the everyday culture of the gym—the one where performance is measured by the willingness to try, not by the sex marker on a certificate. That bond is the one thing no federal memo can strip off the wall. Timeline : September 2023:  USA Climbing publishes a first trans policy (testosterone < 5 nmol/L for 12 months). November 2023:  After criticism, the policy is suspended; a working group is formed with trans athletes. February 2025:  Donald Trump signs Executive Order 14201. June 2025:  The USOPC incorporates the order into its official policy. July 2025:  USA Climbing announces a total ban in women’s categories for sanctioned competitions. October 2025 (planned):  Enforcement details to be published ahead of the Youth Series.

Light like a skimo (ski mountaineering) harness, but kitted out like a do-it-all model, the WHISPER is trying to bridge two worlds that usually don’t mix. For years, ultralight harnesses have had the same problem: you put them on like emergency gear, grit your teeth for a couple minutes hanging in space, then bury them in the bottom of your pack and swear you’ll only pull them out when you absolutely have to. Whisper harness / Petzl © Petzl The WHISPER is trying to break that pattern. At well under 200 grams, it’s the kind of harness you can forget in your pack—and still actually want to use once you’re at the base. Long limestone multi-pitch, an alpine ridge with a handful of nuts and cams, or just the desire to travel light without going full monk: this harness is making a simple point. Ultralight doesn’t have to mean miserable or weirdly compromised. Light, but fully featured The first surprise is that the WHISPER doesn’t feel like it was designed in the “diet” aisle of the gear shop. In use, it feels like a real harness, not a skinny backup you tolerate out of principle. You get five properly sized gear loops: two big, stiff front loops that can handle a full set of quickdraws or a few cams without sagging; two rear loops that stay usable even with a pack on; and a fifth, softer loop for a cordalette or the small mess you always end up bringing. Add two slots for a CARITOOL—load them with an ice screw, a water bottle, or a pair of gloves—and the picture is complete. In other words, you’re not stuck playing Tetris with your rack. The WHISPER assumes you might climb with real gear, and it can handle it. That changes everything. At 170 g in a size M, you’d expect something you toss in your pack “just in case.” Here it’s the opposite: an ultralight harness that’s built for serious use, without turning climbing into a caricature of minimalism. It’s a welcome counterpoint in a world where shaving grams can become an obsession—often at the expense of what a climbing harness is actually for: carrying gear, and carrying it well. MATRYX®: the material that makes it work If the WHISPER pulls this off, it’s not magic—it’s MATRYX®, a textile that ditches the thick webbing and classic foam approach. The idea is straightforward: individually coated strands of polyamide and high-tenacity polyethylene woven into a thin but surprisingly tough grid. The result is a fabric that’s breathable, water-repellent, and durable—three traits you rarely get together in a sub-200-gram harness. On the wall and in the mountains, that shows up in the details. The harness doesn’t turn into a portable sauna when the approach is long. It dries quickly after rain or after you’ve sweat through your shirt. And it doesn’t fall apart the first time it scrapes against rock. Just as important, it packs down small—once folded, it takes up less room than a water bottle. That’s real, usable lightness. In other words, MATRYX® isn’t just a marketing badge here; it’s what lets the WHISPER be more than a “fast-and-light only” harness, and makes it legitimate for multi-pitch and technical alpine climbing. Minimal adjustments, demanding fit The WHISPER isn’t trying to please everyone. It sticks to a single waist buckle and fixed leg loops held in place by elastic. No extra adjustment points, no dangling straps. You put it on, cinch it down, and climb. The tradeoff is simple: you get a lot less wiggle room to fine-tune the fit. Sizing runs from XS (65–71 cm) to L (84–92 cm), with weight ranging from 140 to 185 g depending on size. Early feedback points to it fitting a bit small—if you’re between sizes, going up is the safer call. That isn’t a flaw so much as a choice: close fit, clean design, efficient setup. The WHISPER is dialed for people who land cleanly in the size chart, and less forgiving for in-between body types. Comfort, in the right context At under 200 grams, nobody is expecting an armchair. The WHISPER doesn’t pretend otherwise. This isn’t a sport-climbing harness you can hang in all afternoon while you work a move (working a route = repeated attempts with lots of resting on the rope). It’s a harness that disappears when you’re moving. Light, flexible, breathable—it stays out of your way on approaches and while you’re climbing. At belays, it does its job: you can sit long enough to handle transitions and rope work without suffering, as long as you don’t confuse “ultralight” with “plush hanging comfort.” The philosophy is clear. This is for climbers who value smooth movement and efficiency, not for folks who spend the whole day taking falls and hanging to suss out the crux. For that kind of repeated hanging, the SITTA still has the edge. The WHISPER is a reminder that you can’t have everything: going light has limits, and it’s better to know them before you buy. Between the FLY and the SITTA, with a real niche In Petzl’s lineup, the WHISPER lands right between two extremes. On one end is the FLY: 100 to 130 g, a stripped-down harness built for skimo and fast missions, but too minimal to carry a real rack. On the other end is the SITTA: 275 g in size M, designed to handle lots of hanging and long sessions—sport cragging, projecting, and steep multi-pitch—but less compact by nature. The WHISPER sits squarely in the middle: more capable than a minimalist harness, far lighter than a classic all-around model. It makes sense for alpinists trying to keep things light, and for multi-pitch climbers who want to cut bulk in the pack. A harness that can carry gear without feeling like an anchor—and one that hits a slot very few competitors really cover. Specs Model:  Petzl WHISPER Weight:  XS 140 g · S 155 g · M 170 g · L 185 g Sizes:  XS 65–71 cm / S 71–77 cm / M 77–84 cm / L 84–92 cm (waist) Construction:  MATRYX® (individually coated HMPE + polyamide strands), reinforced tie-in points and gear-loop zones Gear carry:  5 gear loops (2 very large rigid front, 2 rear usable with a pack, 1 soft rear) + 2 CARITOOL slots Adjustments:  1 waist buckle, fixed leg loops (elastic) Certifications:  CE EN 12277 type C · UIAA MSRP:  approx. €179.95 (sale prices around €150) Best for:  technical alpinism, fast multi-pitch, trad/adventure climbing, light climbing with a full rack

For a decade, North American indoor climbing rode an almost absurd growth wave: openings nonstop, money pouring in, a post-Olympics boom. But in 2025, the party’s over. In its annual report, Climbing Business Journal  says 73% of gym operators report worsening economic conditions. Tariffs, inflation, slipping attendance, labor tensions—the industry is entering a new era. Here’s a look inside a mini-crisis that could easily jump the Atlantic. (cc) Alexander Williams / Unsplash As usual, when she gets to work in the morning, Dana Caracciolo checks her dashboards the way you check lab results. Quick scan of day passes. A look at the retail numbers. A pulse check on memberships. The anatomy of a slowdown. In the final quarter of 2025, Dana’s coffee doesn’t taste the same. Used to double-digit growth, the manager of Doylestown Rock Gym—an independent, privately owned gym in Pennsylvania—watches the charts flatten out. The drop isn’t a cliff, but it’s enough to set off alarms. And the problem isn’t just in the spreadsheets. You can see it on the ground. “Customers aren’t buying new gear from the shop anymore,” Caracciolo told Climbing Business Journal  (CBJ). “Now they’re blunt about it—they say they can’t afford their little after-session treats. And I’m seeing more and more climbing shoes with holes in them, just trying to squeeze out one more session…” That detail lands because it’s familiar. Inside privately owned American climbing gyms, it echoes across the accounts CBJ gathered from about a hundred operators for its annual report . Published on February 8, the document functions as a reference point for the North American—arguably global—climbing industry. And the 2025 edition doesn’t bury the lead: 73% of gym leaders say their economic conditions have deteriorated. That number marks a turning point. It also answers the big question. Is the golden age of indoor climbing in the U.S. over? Yes. The Cost of the Screw As with most industry reports, the data does the talking. New gym openings haven’t collapsed—40 new gyms opened in the U.S. in 2025, down from 48 in 2024—but closures have started. Last year, 12 climbing gyms shut their doors for good. Net sector growth landed at 4.7%, down from 6.3% the year before and roughly 10% pre-pandemic. Nothing here reads like a sudden wipeout. These numbers are measured down to the decimal. But they show a clear trend line—and it’s pointing down. More worrying: attendance is slipping. CBJ reports traffic declines across every gym category. Small facilities (under 1,000 square meters) saw a 4.9% drop; mid-size gyms (1,000 to 2,300 square meters) fell 3.4%; and large gyms (over 2,300 square meters) dropped 2.1%. Even the big players aren’t immune. Meanwhile, costs are surging. Eighty-five percent of gyms say their total expenses increased. The biggest hits? Energy, insurance, and, above all, payroll. Eighty-five percent of operators had to raise wage budgets, squeezed between inflation, a shortage of skilled staff, and, in some cases, union pressure. “I think there’s been a lot of economic uncertainty this year with tariffs and other government policies that have played a role in reducing traffic to our gym” Javan Bowsher “Economic and political conditions are more difficult for most individuals and businesses,” summed up Darrell Gschwendtner, owner of Whetstone Climbing in Fort Collins, Colorado. John Pritchard, owner and CEO of Stone Co. Climbing in College Station, Texas, put it even more plainly: “The heart of the economy is weak. We’ve found ways to hang on a bit, but overall, the momentum we had in 2021 and 2022 hasn’t been there for a few years now.” Another manager—who runs a gym network and asked to remain anonymous—said it this way: “The boom years are over. It’s now much harder to be profitable if you don’t have the scale and the structure to support institutional growth or mergers and acquisitions.” Behind the downturn, the climbing world—like plenty of other industries—goes looking for culprits, sometimes half-real, sometimes half-ghost. First: tariffs. Since 2024, the Trump administration reinstated and increased a set of import taxes on goods coming from Asia and Europe. A big share of indoor climbing infrastructure—holds, modular wall panels, belay systems—is manufactured abroad. That means major chains like Movement, Touchstone, or Central Rock now face supply lines that are more expensive and less predictable. “I think there’s been a lot of economic uncertainty this year with tariffs and other government policies that have played a role in reducing traffic to our gym,” said Javan Bowsher, manager of Granite Arch Climbing Center in Rancho Cordova, California. Second: persistent inflation. Energy costs remain high, insurance premiums are climbing fast, and commercial rents keep rising in major metros. “This is obvious, but everything’s going up,” said Sharon Knorr, director of operations at MetroRock. “And people have less disposable income.” CBJ’s selected quotes converge on the same shift: customers are tightening up. In economist language, it’s a “compression of discretionary spending.” In gym reality, it’s one less beer after a session, a sandwich instead of the gym’s restaurant, and birthday parties that no longer happen under the ropes. Nathan Craft, who runs Inner Peaks, a small regional chain in North Carolina, sees the same pattern: “The dedicated climbers keep coming regularly. It’s the casual customers who are dropping off, or new people who don’t come back.” And it’s often that occasional crowd that props up a gym’s revenue—family outings, impulse merch, and birthday packages. Thanks, Boss Not every gym is taking the hit the same way. CBJ’s report shows a sharp divide between large chains and independent operations. On one side: the giants. Movement Climbing (34 locations), Central Rock (29), Touchstone (18). Often backed by investment funds or private capital, these groups are holding up better in the U.S. Their scale lets them negotiate bulk purchasing, absorb cost spikes, and keep marketing budgets aggressive. On the other side: small independent gyms. For them, the situation is critical. Trapped between inflation and chain competition, many struggle to keep staff. Some close. Others get bought. Welcome to standard economic Darwinism. CBJ notes that all 12 permanent closures in 2025 involved gyms under 1,000 square meters, mostly in rural areas. “Memberships and kids’ programs increased significantly—representing all of our growth.” Laura Bellisle That accelerated consolidation raises a deeper question: what kind of business model will end up defining American indoor climbing? Large chains—often tied to private equity (investments in privately held companies)—have to generate margins that satisfy investors. Movement, purchased in 2019 by El Cap Holdings (itself backed by an investment fund), is the clearest example. In that context, labor negotiations are showing up more often. Since 2021, 18 American climbing gyms have unionized, mainly within Movement, Touchstone, and VITAL. More and more climbing workers are asking for decent pay, protections against harassment, and safer working conditions. Management pushes back, arguing the margins are too thin. When revenue stalls and investors still want returns, somebody pays. And it’s rarely the investor. Between Fear and a Second Wind CBJ’s report also points to a few real handholds—places where operators are finding traction. The most striking: youth programs. In 2025, kids’ and teens’ enrollment surged in some regions. The Midwest saw an 84% increase in new sign-ups for group classes and competition teams. “We made youth programming a priority,” said Christopher Deal, owner of Fargo Climbing in North Dakota. “Partly because we needed more sales—and more reliable sales.” “The feeling I get from gym owners across the entire Western hemisphere is fear.” Miura Hawkins Laura Bellisle, owner of Black Hill Basecamp in South Dakota, backed that up: “Memberships and kids’ programs increased significantly—representing all of our growth.” Technology is another possible path. In 2025, several manufacturers rolled out AI-based gamification systems, height sensors for auto-belay devices, and AI-assisted route-setting management tools. The hope, for some operators, is to keep younger customers coming back and to streamline operating costs. And bouldering-only specialization keeps accelerating. In 2025, 73% of new gyms opened in North America were bouldering-only facilities. Lower build-out costs, faster customer turnover, and a wider audience. It also reflects a cultural shift: climbing isn’t just a performance sport anymore. It’s become a social, urban, accessible activity. Even with these pockets of efficiency—and the sustainability angles some operators point to, like Walltopia’s bamboo walls or EP Climbing’s eucalyptus options—61% of operators still expect revenue to increase. That headline number hides huge gaps. Big chains are betting on modest growth. Independent gyms are mostly hoping for one thing: survival. Back in Pennsylvania, Dana Caracciolo keeps checking her dashboards as part of her morning routine. In early 2026, the numbers haven’t moved. Neither has the crisis. Like many small-gym operators, she’s learned to steer by feel in an environment that’s turned unpredictable. She’s now part of a generation of founders who—often for the first time—have to accept that the era of automatic, built-in growth is over. And in a quiet, unavoidable nod to the sport itself, climbing gym managers are also relearning how to sit with a feeling they know well. Because as another industry CEO, Miura Hawkins, put it: “The feeling I get from gym owners across the entire Western hemisphere is fear.”

In the United States, a growing number of climbing gyms now require assisted-braking belay devices, betting that this will sharply reduce the risk of accidents. In France, the question remains more complicated—caught somewhere between individual choice and federation guidance. That gray area, thrown into sharp relief by a recent controversy in the city of Pau, is exactly what pushed us to dig deeper into how gyms set their belay-device policies, from the U.S. to Singapore and across Europe. © Naomi Fernandez-Martin pour Vertige Media Because a belay device is never just a piece of hardware. Every technical choice carries a safety philosophy with it: should safety rest primarily on the human side—serious training and real mastery of the tool—or should it lean on technology that’s designed to catch our very human lapses? That debate isn’t theoretical. It flared up again in Pau, where a university climbing wall abruptly moved to ban “classic” non-assisted devices—tube-style devices like the Petzl Reverso, Tubik, or the Black Diamond ATC—and instead require assisted-braking devices only. That includes both active  assisted devices with moving parts (like the iconic Petzl GriGri) and passive  assisted devices where the shape of the device helps pinch the rope (like the Mammut Smart, the ATC Pilot, or the Edelrid Jul 2). The decision was made without prior consultation with the local French federation committee (FFME), and it immediately reignited a deeper argument about what gym safety policies should be built on. It also invites a wider look—American, European, Asian—at how different places try (or fail) to balance personal responsibility with faith in “safer” tech. Assisted-Braking Devices in the U.S.: A Safety Revolution? In the U.S., there’s no national rule that settles the belay-device question in gyms. Each facility writes its own policy. In that fragmented landscape, two philosophies tend to face off: gyms that have moved to ban traditional tube-style devices (like an ATC or Reverso) in favor of assisted-braking devices only—often referred to as ABDs (assisted-braking devices)—and gyms that still allow a full range of devices, sometimes paired with specific trainings. Between those poles, many gyms land on a technical compromise: tubes may still be allowed for top-rope belaying ( top-roping , i.e., climbing with the rope already anchored from above), but an assisted-braking device is required for leading ( lead climbing , where you clip the rope into protection as you climb). That patchwork approach suggests that, in the U.S., this isn’t always about ideology. It’s often about cautious pragmatism—each gym weighing safety and responsibility in its own way. Since 2018–2019, though, the trend line has leaned noticeably toward ABDs. A wave of adoptions rolled through multiple major gyms and gym groups, often after close calls or out of a desire to align with what managers called industry “best practices.” In 2019, for example, The Front Climbing Club in Utah, Ascent Studio in Colorado, and Spire Climbing in Montana announced—around the same time—that they were moving toward broad ABD requirements . On the West Coast, the long-running gym Vertical World in Seattle joined the shift in February 2019 , saying plainly that “the industry itself is moving in this direction,” and pointing to the value of redundancy—an extra layer of protection when a belayer makes a mistake. More recently, in 2023, the operator of Source Climbing Center in Washington State noted that ABDs had become the “implicit norm” across many gyms in Washington and Oregon. In keeping with that, the gym adopted a clear policy in September 2023: assisted braking required, both for top-rope and lead. Why this steady march toward assisted braking? Gym managers typically come back to one word: safety. In a fall, an ABD—whether it relies on a mechanical cam (like a GriGri) or a geometry-based pinch (like an Edelrid Jul 2 or Mammut Smart)—adds braking power. It’s a quiet backstop that can keep a climber from decking ( decking , i.e., hitting the ground) after a belayer slip, bad hand position, or momentary distraction. The manager of Ascent Studio put it in blunt anecdotal terms : after three ground falls in his gym that, fortunately, didn’t cause major injury, he argued that all three would have been prevented by an assisted-braking device. From that perspective, requiring ABDs becomes the obvious baseline—especially since many experienced climbers had already made that switch on their own years earlier. Spire Climbing framed it as a broader, collective shift—a nationwide push meant to make sure everyone walks out of the gym in one piece after a session. There are a few counterexamples. In 2021, one small American gym reportedly tried the opposite move: requiring a standard ATC for everyone to simplify visual checks , while only staff were allowed to use a GriGri-style device. Elsewhere, an incident involving a belayer fumbling a GriGri led an insurance company to demand a temporary ban on those devices to maintain coverage . But those cases are outliers. The dominant U.S. reality today is that most climbing gyms have chosen to place real trust in mechanical or geometry-based assistance—reflecting a safety culture where technology isn’t just a helpful tool anymore, but increasingly seen as close to a requirement for indoor climbing. In France, Belaying Is Still a Question of Philosophy In France, gym policies are shaped by a more flexible approach. As of 2025, the Fédération française de la montagne et de l’escalade (FFME) has refused to impose a nationwide ban . Instead, it recommends either “an assisted-blocking belay device (with braking assistance) or a tube/bucket/plate-style belay device.” The key conditions are straightforward: the device must be certified, used according to the manufacturer’s instructions, and the belayer must master  the device they’re using. Sandrine Van Landeghem, the FFME’s director of activities, sums up the federation’s position clearly: they’re not ready to impose a single system on clubs. Any device can be safe if it’s used correctly. The priority is training—not an arbitrary ban on a category of device. That federation-level flexibility doesn’t stop local actors from considering stricter limits. That’s exactly what happened in Pau, where the university wall triggered a heated backlash by abruptly deciding to ban non-assisted systems (tube-style devices like a Reverso or classic ATC). The decision was made without prior coordination with the FFME’s local territorial committee in Pyrénées-Atlantiques, prompting a sharply critical response from its president, Gregory Poles. Speaking to Vertige Media, Poles said the decision made him “jump”—not only because the territorial committee hadn’t been invited into the technical discussion, but because requiring an assisted-braking device doesn’t automatically guarantee better safety. The real issue, he argued, remains training—not the gear. In his view, you may simply trade one kind of accident for another. Following that pushback, the university wall ultimately paused its original decision and agreed to return to the table, bringing the FFME committee into its technical review. That return to dialogue was welcomed by Alain Carrière, president of the FFME, who said the federation is actively working on the issue. He added that the data they’re collecting suggests that—contrary to some assumptions—differences in accident rates between manual devices and assisted devices remain small. What matters most is technical competence and real control of the device. Van Landeghem points to numbers that support that view: out of 445 claims recorded in 2023–2024 in FFME-affiliated clubs, only 39 involved belay errors, with no meaningful difference between assisted and non-assisted systems. The current data, she says, doesn’t allow the federation to conclude that one system is consistently better than another. There are no “bad” devices—only bad use. That stance clashes with rumors circulating among climbers about  an impending ban on tube devices . On forums like Camptocamp, some users report seeing the Reverso slowly disappear in certain gyms, replaced by informal recommendations to use assisted devices. Others point out that, historically, it was often the GriGri that got discouraged in some clubs, due to the risk of mishandling. That local variety reflects how heterogeneous French gyms are—often privately run, and free to set their own internal rules. So while there’s no federation-wide ban on the horizon, gyms can still choose, case by case, to require or discourage certain devices based on their own experience and safety philosophy. Van Landeghem argues for stronger education rather than stricter regulation: the current goal is to encourage climbers to understand their devices better, train properly, read the manuals, and move through a safe progression when switching from one system to another. For now, France is holding a pragmatic balance: individual responsibility, technical freedom, and federation recommendations. The Pau controversy, though, put the underlying question back in the spotlight—should climbing safety lean more on human education, or on technical constraints? The FFME says it wants to approach that debate calmly, grounded in facts and numbers, and with a renewed focus on training. Around the World: Different Walls, Different Rules Beyond the U.S. and France, other countries—and sometimes individual gyms—have taken strong positions on belay devices, often in response to accidents. Singapore is one of the most-cited examples. After a string of incidents—reportedly up to one ground fall per week across the country’s gyms around 2016–2017—several gyms moved in 2017 to ban tube-style belay devices entirely . Members had to re-certify on an assisted-braking device (GriGri, Smart, and similar), with a transition period of a few months. That hard shift was driven by the observation that many ground falls involved tube devices being used incorrectly. It also leaned on a 2012 study by the German Alpine Club (DAV) suggesting that belayers using assisted devices made significantly fewer handling errors. That conclusion was later tempered by the DAV’s 2025 report, which points to a much smaller difference in error rates between assisted and non-assisted devices than earlier findings suggested. Even so, Singaporean gyms reported positive results in the years that followed: the number of serious incidents (falls resulting in injuries requiring medical care) dropped sharply . One of the biggest gyms, for example, went from roughly five serious accidents per year to just one after moving away from tubes—and in that isolated case, the person injured was a bystander on the ground, not the climber. It’s also important context: Singapore didn’t only ban Reversos and ATCs. Gyms also tightened training and certification tests. The lesson there isn’t simply “ABDs fix everything,” but that pairing better training with more error-tolerant equipment can measurably improve gym safety. Singaporean gym managers also emphasized that they weren’t trying to lecture other countries—rather, they shared their results with the international climbing community. In the Philippines, Climb Central in Manila announced in 2020 that it wanted to restrict lead belaying to assisted devices only , following trends seen in Singapore and elsewhere in Asia. A few years later, that policy was softened : the gym again allows tube devices (ATC, Reverso), but only if users first pass a mandatory certification test. Across Europe, approaches also vary. In Switzerland, a gym in St. Gallen drew attention after an accident in January 2018, when a 33-year-old climber fell about 10 meters and suffered severe bruising but did not die. Believing the causes were primarily human error, the gym decided that starting in January 2019, only “error-tolerant” belay devices would be allowed —meaning tubes were banned in favor of assisted or auto-blocking devices. The gym’s statement explained that these devices can lock the rope or support braking during a fall even if the belayer lets go of the brake strand—assuming correct use. Contacted by Vertige Media, the St. Gallen gym’s director, Diego Lampugnani, confirmed that the 2019 policy remains in place and said it has been very effective: the gym tracks accident statistics, and since the policy took effect, ground falls have been divided by six. In the United Kingdom, by contrast, there’s no blanket ban on any category of belay device in climbing walls. The culture tends to emphasize belayer training and technique—often with competency tests at the door—rather than mandating a specific tool. A discussion on UK forums in 2020 suggested little appetite for banning tube devices; one commenter even called the idea “absurd,” saying they were confident British climbers would never buy into it. Some argued that mandatory ABDs are a kind of “shortcut” that clashes with the educational side of climbing—that gyms should teach beginners the fundamentals, not turn the wall into a fully padded theme park. In Germany, the DAV has contributed major studies to the discussion, but there still isn’t a universal rule requiring a certain device type in gyms. What This Debate Is Really About Globally, indoor belay practices are shifting under a mix of technological innovation and a desire to improve safety for an ever-broader audience. Assisted-braking devices are gaining ground in many gyms because, in theory, they add a margin of safety against the leading cause of accidents: human error. But they’re not a magic fix. Every expert, across systems, comes back to the same baseline : the belayer still has to stay focused and keep a hand on the brake strand. Accident prevention rests as much on training—partner checks (knot, device, harness), correct belay technique, appropriate habits—as it does on choosing equipment that’s more forgiving. As one FFME official put it: there are no bad belay devices, only bad use. Each climbing gym, shaped by its audience and its experience, ends up choosing rules that feel like the best tradeoff between pedagogy (autonomy and skill-building) and immediate safety.

In late January 2026, Indonesia’s climbing federation (PP FPTI) provisionally suspended its head coach , Hendra Basir, after internal reports alleged sexual harassment and physical violence within the national training center. An internal investigative team was formed. The move followed a formal complaint filed on January 28, 2026 by eight athletes at the national center. About a month later, PP FPTI issued an official decision placing Basir on temporary leave while the inquiry proceeds. 2024 Speed Climbing World Cup in Briançon © David Pillet Local reporting has remained careful: it confirms the existence of the complaint and the provisional suspension, but does not publish the athletes’ identities or detailed accounts of the alleged incidents. That restraint helps protect the people involved. It also means the federation controls both the pace and the scope of the process—for now. The timing lands in a specific sporting moment. Since the Paris 2024 Olympics, climbing has taken on heightened strategic importance in Indonesia’s sports policy, especially in speed—an event that has become a high-visibility international showcase. The national training center is more than a place to train. It concentrates selections, funding, and career pathways. So a provisional suspension doesn’t just open a disciplinary file; it triggers an institutional test. Eight voices, one complaint According to multiple Indonesian outlets, eight athletes submitted a complaint to federation president Yenny Wahid on January 28, 2026. The allegations involve sexual harassment and physical violence within the national training program. The same sources say the athletes were supported in the process by the program’s psychologist. Federation secretary general Wahyu Pristiawan Buntoro, quoted by the Antara news agency , said an internal investigative team had been established and that coordination had begun with the ministry responsible for women’s empowerment and child protection. He added that he could not, at that stage, comment on whether a report had been filed with police. He denies any conduct that would constitute sexual harassment and describes his coaching as “strict” At this point, the federation has not disclosed the complainants’ identities or a detailed timeline of the alleged conduct. Reporting has largely stayed within the narrow frame of what can be confirmed: a complaint was lodged, and a provisional suspension followed. The decision PP FPTI issued a formal decision—an SK (Surat Keputusan) numbered 0209/SKP/PP.NAS/II/2026—ordering Basir’s provisional suspension for the duration of the review. As summarized by detikSport , the measure is presented as a way to “ensure protection” for athletes, prevent re-victimization, and preserve the objectivity of the process. In other words, the federation is treating this as a precautionary step. It is not, on paper, a final disciplinary sanction. It is a temporary removal meant to structure the investigative period. That distinction matters: it means the federation is suspending the exercise of his duties without officially pre-judging what the investigation will conclude. The immediate impact is practical. According to Liputan6 , the decision bars Basir from leading training sessions, accessing facilities, or communicating with athletes during the inquiry. Antara adds one more element : Basir’s term was already scheduled to end on February 28, 2026, and the federation says he will not be part of the next coaching staff. The provisional suspension therefore lands at the hinge point of a planned transition. The gray zone Basir disputes the allegations. In statements reported by detikSport , he denies any conduct that would constitute sexual harassment and describes his coaching as “strict.” He points to gestures he frames as support—kissing an athlete on the forehead, hugging during emotional moments—and rejects any sexual interpretation of those actions. That defense doesn’t just argue about what did or didn’t happen. It pulls the conversation into a harder terrain: how interaction works inside a structured hierarchy. In a national training center, the coach–athlete relationship isn’t simply personal. It shapes access to competitions, team selection, funding, and sometimes international visibility. So the question isn’t only intention. It’s also the power structure the gesture sits inside. 59.7% of licensed athletes surveyed said they had experienced at least one form of violence in their current club This is where prevention policies often talk about a “gray zone”: behavior that can be experienced differently depending on where each person stands in the relationship. What one party calls normal can land very differently for the other when structural dependence is part of the picture. Performance pressure as an institutional constraint PP FPTI says the national program will not be paused. Antara reports a timeline : a reorganization of staff, a new coaching team taking over in early March, and preparation continuing for the 2026 Asian Games . The federation is explicit about continuity. In an elite system, a coaching staff isn’t only technical capacity; it’s a human, financial, and symbolic investment. Handling a serious complaint therefore happens inside a structure already built around deadlines and results. Suspend, replace, maintain—each administrative choice has to fit that architecture. The contrast with other recent cases is instructive. In an investigation we conducted into how a sexual assault report was handled within the French national team , the question of a precautionary measure was raised but not activated by the federation, despite statutory tools that could have allowed it. In Indonesia, a provisional suspension was put in place as soon as the internal review opened. The legal contexts differ. So do the regulatory frameworks. But the core question is the same: how does an institution balance presumption of innocence, protection of complainants, and the stability of an elite sports program? Recent published data on violence in sports sheds light on that structural layer. 59.7% of licensed athletes surveyed said they had experienced at least one form of violence in their current club, with higher exposure when participation becomes intensive and competitive. That gradient does not prove a simple cause-and-effect relationship. It does suggest that the most institutionalized spaces also concentrate power imbalances. The Indonesian case is not a mirror of the French cases. But it points to a constant: in elite sport, handling a complaint doesn’t only test individuals. It tests how solid the system really is.

Neutrality is a convenient fiction—one of those formulas that lets international federations keep the machine running—calendars, rules, podiums, press releases—as if geopolitics were just background noise. You take down flags, cut the anthems, invent “neutral” statuses, and tell yourself you’ve restored a clean, sanitized space where sport can keep presenting itself as a moral timeout in a world that isn’t one. It’s an appealing idea. It’s also a practical one. World Cup - World Climbing 2025 - Chamonix © David Pillet World Climbing’s latest statement (formerly the IFSC) is short. In that format, every sentence matters. It announces the lifting of the suspension on the Russian and Belarusian federations, reaffirms the policy of “neutral” athletes, specifies that no events will be held in Russia or Belarus—and then, almost as an aside, like a routine administrative note, it adds that the 2026 General Assembly will take place in Riyadh next April, with a session dedicated to the role of sport and international federations in the global geopolitical context. In other words: we’re going to debate neutrality and geopolitics from Riyadh. The setting is already doing the talking. Weeks ago, we reached out to World Climbing about “neutral” licenses and what this policy actually looks like on the ground—criteria, guardrails, red lines. So far, our message has gone unanswered. Riyadh 2026 doesn’t come out of nowhere. It extends a trajectory. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia: a state that doesn’t just host sport, but uses it—organizes it, funds it, stages it—as a strategic tool of power. Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund, the Public Investment Fund, manages more than $900 billion in assets. It pours money into European soccer, Formula 1, professional golf, a steady stream of “mega-events,” the 2034 World Cup. This industrial-scale prestige project has a name—sportswashing—because it’s not just national enthusiasm. It’s image policy. And in this case, “image” isn’t a superficial concern. It’s diplomacy. We’ve already watched this dynamic play out with the Neom Beach Games: a controversial event, athletes taking different stances, a cautious federation, and a massive political project in the background. Riyadh 2026 doesn’t come out of nowhere. It extends a trajectory. And as often happens, what stands out isn’t only what gets decided—it’s how those decisions are left hanging in a fog, with no explanation, no doctrine, no story. The problem is that neutrality, once it becomes a tool of governance, always comes with blind spots. Saudi Arabia: 196 executions in 2022 and at least 172 in 2023, according to Amnesty International. A death penalty applied at a pace that should be enough, on its own, to make the idea of a “neutral venue” hard to defend. Women’s rights activists arrested and sentenced, sometimes under anti-terrorism laws. Opponents imprisoned for what they post on social media. Same-sex relationships criminalized and therefore subject to criminal penalties, within a legal system where punishments can be extreme. And then there is the murder of Jamal Khashoggi in 2018 inside a consulate in Istanbul—a political killing that stopped being a mere “international news item” a long time ago, and that U.S. intelligence services and the UN have attributed to an operation approved at the highest levels of the state . Institutions choose procedural order over moral order; the moment “neutral” isn’t manufactured to protect sport, but to protect the continuity of a system You can argue endlessly about which outrage should rank first. What you can’t do is pretend all of this is just scenery. This is where the staging starts to feel close to obscene: athletes are told to be neutral, to show up without symbols, to carry the weight of compromises in the name of universality—while the governance of international sport accepts the welcome on offer, and treats that choice as a simple logistics detail. Neutrality becomes a discipline imposed on individuals, and flexibility granted to institutions. It regulates bodies, not money. It clears flags off podiums, but makes plenty of room for the billions that set the terms backstage. We’ve seen the same mechanism in different forms: the moment institutions choose procedural order over moral order; the moment “neutral” isn’t manufactured to protect sport, but to protect the continuity of a system; the moment the debate over values becomes a communications exercise—hosted in a place that contradicts what it claims to question. This isn’t about fantasizing a pure sport, untouched by the world. It’s about finally admitting that neutrality isn’t the absence of politics. It’s politics. And the more it’s waved around like a magic charm, the more it turns into an alibi.

January 2025, Paris. Back in the corners of the Porte de Versailles expo center, a mixed crowd sits in manufactured shadow. As the crew builds the stage, spotlights keep landing on ordinary faces: an old man with a cane, a young woman clutching a tote bag, a kid parked on the floor. The room is packed. You hear throat clears, water bottles clinking. It’s the sound of people waiting, not quite sure what for. Then everything snaps on. Flanked by two huge security guys, a wiry little man catches the low light and throws it back across the room. His outfit is so bright it practically blinds the front row. Cowboy boots. An alligator-skin suit. Long, gray hair hanging in thin strands. Alain Robert walks in like he brought his own sun. Alain, the superhero. At least that’s how the crowd sees him. To them, he’s “the French Spider-Man.” Never mind that at sixty-three, barely 110 pounds, he looks less like Peter Parker and more like a French rock singer who’s been on the road a long time. People came anyway—kids, retirees, everyone in between—to hear the flesh-and-blood version of a Marvel character: the guy known worldwide for soloing the tallest skyscrapers on Earth. And to be clear: this is free solo—climbing without a rope or any protection, no harness, no gear, nothing between you and the ground. Robert claims 250 buildings climbed “bare-handed.” More recently, past sixty, he’s been on Hekla Tower, the TotalEnergies tower in La Défense, and the Burj Khalifa in Dubai—the tallest building in the world. As the audience sits up straighter, Robert looks like a man who still isn’t sure why he’s here. The schedule promises a “non-conference.” He doesn’t really know what that’s supposed to mean, so he leans into it, half-awkward and half-amused, with that unmistakable southeast France accent: “A non-conference, for me, is mostly a conference that doesn’t pay.” The room loses it. And yet, for the last 24 hours, this sixty-something superhero has been given a real assignment: serve as patron for the first Paris edition of the Climbing Expo. He’s flown in from Bali, where he lives now. He takes it as a tribute—even if, in practice, it mostly means signing copies of his latest biography, Libre et sans attache (Laurent Belluard and David Chambre, Éditions du Mont-Blanc, 192 pages, €28.50). The rest of the time, he takes selfies, tells the same story thirty times, and wanders the aisles of Porte de Versailles with a crew that looks suspiciously like a personal security detail. Au cas où l'on aurait oublié son look et ses opinions, Alain Robert aime distiller quelques piqûres de rappel © Collection Alain Robert A Flyover Ask what place Alain Robert holds in modern climbing history and you’ll keep getting the same answer: unique . Unmatched . Unclassifiable . People run out of adjectives for a man who’s already carved his name into the sport. Today he’s one of the rare “pro” climbers with millions of followers online—and, apparently, the only climber with a statue in China. His latest book includes a foreword that pretty much suggests he might be the greatest free soloist of all time. It’s signed by someone named… Alex Honnold. The Alex Honnold—one of the most respected climbers on the planet, the guy whose 2017 documentary Free Solo  put climbing on an Oscars stage. Another strange little badge of honor: Robert is also the only climber to show up in a sports book that isn’t just about climbing— Les 100 meilleurs sportifs de tous les temps  (René Taleman, Jourdan Éds, 315 pages, €134), a list that puts him next to Pelé, Muhammad Ali, Carl Lewis, and Roger Federer. For Philippe Poulet, editor-in-chief of Vertical  magazine and a friend of Robert’s, there’s no debate: “Alain is the best free soloist in history.” In his view, nobody has matched him—“not even Honnold, not even Alexander Huber,” the man credited with the hardest free solo on the planet, graded 8b+ (about 5.14a). Robert’s biographers, David Chambre and Laurent Belluard, place him “at least in the world top three.” They point to solos like Polpot  in Verdon (7c+, roughly 5.13a), La Nuit du Lézard  in Buoux (8a+, about 5.13c), and Pour une poignée de Chamallows  in Cornas (8a/b, around 5.13b/c). Chambre calls them “the most daring free solos in history.” The proof, he says, is simple: even today’s boldest high-wire walkers want nothing to do with those routes. Honnold—again—once wrote that doing Polpot  is like “rolling the dice.” Alea iacta est.  The die is cast. That might be the cleanest way to sum up Alain Robert’s operating system: every time he stepped past his own Rubicon, 1,000 feet above the ground. When we meet him the day after the expo, in a hotel room at the top of a Paris high-rise, Robert hasn’t changed outfits. Same reptile-skin suit. Same oversized back patch: “One word: badass.” Only the drink is different. Yesterday it was bottled water. Today it’s champagne—his favorite. Between sips, the rock-star act drops into something sharper. “That ‘French Spider-Man’ nickname pisses me off,” he says right out of the gate. “The building stuff completely pushed my rock climbing career into the background.” Is it the booze talking? Not really. This is a constant with him. Even with all the praise, even coming off an event that treated him like a legend, Alain Robert complains—like yesterday’s celebration gets instantly replaced by today’s frustration. Hardly a day goes by without him posting on Facebook or going live on Instagram to remind people what he’s done. The sheer volume points to one obsession: getting his legitimacy back. But which legitimacy? “It takes two minutes to see Alain has a huge recognition problem,” Poulet says. “And sometimes—yeah—it’s true, he can sound like an old guy who won’t let it go.” So how do you explain it? Maybe it’s the thirty years between his peak rock achievements and the present day. Maybe the media circus around the building climbs really did erase his life on stone. Maybe it’s the Alain Robert character itself—the odd duck of climbing, too alone, too reckless, too strong. The answer probably lives somewhere in all of that at once. And to find it, you have to untangle the thread of a life that plays out almost like a comic-book plot: one revenge after another. Next episode.

Gilles Rotillon died on July 11 at 78. He wrote for Vertige Media, but more than that, he was one of the sharpest minds to ever take French climbing seriously as a subject worth thinking about—its growth, its contradictions, its promises, and the problems it keeps creating as it gets bigger. This is a portrait in tribute, written at human height. Gilles Rotillon to the right of his brother Noël, surrounded by friends from the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois club © Coll. Rotillon family Everything is quiet. The talk should have started already, but a low-grade drift hangs in the half-lit room at the 2025 Salon de l’Escalade. The program promises a “masterclass” by Lucien Martinez—then editor-in-chief of Grimper  magazine—on the growth of climbing, framed as a simple question: good news or bad? But nothing’s moving. Because, clearly, everyone’s waiting for someone. Gilles’ gift A few minutes later, an elderly man comes in like he’s been dropped into the room mid-step. His neck looks stiff. He’s carrying a book and a few loose sheets tucked under his arm. He doesn’t scan the audience. He seems locked on one target only: the chair waiting for him. He sits down, unhurried. Only then does Lucien Martinez begin. “I was supposed to do this on my own,” he says, “but we changed plans at the last minute.” Then he adds, plainly: “I couldn’t do it without Gilles Rotillon.” Since July 11, though, everyone has had to do it without him. Rotillon died of a stroke. People often introduced him as a “theorist of climbing.” He was also a professor emeritus in economics, a longtime member of the FSGT (Fédération Sportive et Gymnique du Travail), a founding member of the FFME (Fédération Française de la Montagne et de l’Escalade), the author of several reference books on how climbing evolved and spread in France, and an unrelenting columnist on the world of climbing. Across all of it, one thread holds: he spent his life giving intellectual structure to a sport that was expanding fast—asking what made it tick, where it was heading, what it got right, what it broke, and what it refused to see. A former climber with a deep love for the practice, he also carried a lifelong commitment to left-wing politics, militant since adolescence against what he called “the drift of a capitalist society that is pushing humanity into an increasingly catastrophic situation.” “Gilles was clearly an intellectual,” warns Yves Renoux, a longtime FSGT member and a friend of 40 years. “But—careful. At heart he was a math guy. He moved into economics, but he kept that logical mind. So yes, a theorist. But a theorist who turns ideas into action.” Renoux knows exactly what he means. He joined Rotillon’s FSGT climbing club after seeing, in the most concrete way possible, what “making climbing popular” could look like: bringing a climbing wall into the city. It happened at the Fête de l’Huma in 1976. “The first wall at the Fête de l’Huma was in 1955,” Renoux says, precise as ever. “But I met the FSGT, their ideas, Gilles Rotillon, by first seeing a wall with holds. That’s Gilles to me. Ideas—but above all, real proposals. Otherwise what’s left? Just talk.” « It’s true we liked ticking boxes, but for us, climbing was still more about pleasure than pure performance  » Noël Rotillon, brother of Gilles Rotillon’s own first encounter with climbing came a decade earlier, in Saint-Geneviève-des-Bois. He was 18 when the town’s youth center—the Maison des Jeunes et de la Culture—opened its doors. “The first director came from the Ivry section,” says his brother Noël, 18 months younger. “Her husband was an aspiring mountain guide, so one of the first sections they created was the climbing section.” In 1963, the two brothers discovered varappe—old-school French for rock climbing—at the same time. The next year, they went on their first trip to Fontainebleau. This was France in the Trente Glorieuses, when mass leisure was spreading—but climbing was still a small world, reserved for a social and technical elite. For the Rotillon brothers, it wasn’t only a sport. It was also fertile ground for political thinking. “Our father was a Communist activist,” Noël says, “elected first deputy mayor of Saint-Geneviève-des-Bois. We grew up in a very left-wing environment.” The era’s events pushed them toward activism, the intellectual rush of May ’68, and the mountains. Gilles Rotillon © Coll. Caroline Rotillon Friends, games, and getting good—fast Rotillon fell hard for the discipline. From his first days on rock, he approached the mountains with a methodical, almost scientific focus. “The most striking thing,” Noël remembers, “was that he knew the topos—the guidebooks—by heart. If he’d done a route or a crag, he remembered every move. Standing at the base, even if it was thirty pitches, he already knew which pitches he’d lead—climb on lead, with the rope running up above you—and which he’d follow.” That attention to detail carried him quickly into the big classics: the Dru, the Walker Spur on the Grandes Jorasses. He stacked alpine routes, ticked off some of the “100 finest” from Gaston Rébuffat—one of the era’s true bibles, a list of legendary Alpine climbs. “It’s true we liked ticking boxes,” Noël says. “But for us, climbing was still more about pleasure than pure performance.” And yet: it was Rotillon’s mountain résumé that pulled in teenagers from the Paris region—kids who saw what was possible and wanted in. One of them was Pascal Étienne, who would become one of Rotillon’s closest friends. In 1975, he was 16 when he stumbled on an article in La Marseillaise de l’Essonne about two climbers from the Saint-Geneviève-des-Bois FSGT club. “It was a full-page story about a small feat,” Étienne recalls, “two climbers, including Gilles, who had climbed the Directe Américaine on the Dru.” He joined a club soon after. On his very first outing, he helped write a footnote in climbing history. “A guy from the club went to Fontainebleau to pick mushrooms,” says Étienne, now a climbing instructor, “and tells us he found a new passage on a nice boulder. It was Roche aux Sabots—this little area to us back then that’s now internationally famous.” The story says something about the FSGT’s early, exploratory spirit. But what struck Étienne most was the club itself. The article on Gilles Rotillon's performances in La Marseillaise de l'Essonne © coll. Pascal Étienne «  Every Tuesday night, Gilles brought me to the FSGT headquarters in Pantin. I was just a kid, but I listened hard. The flood of ideas was incredible. I felt like I was watching a revolution. » Pascal Étienne, friend of Gilles Rotillon “Gilles was kind of the guru at the time,” he says. “At 30, he was an excellent climber, an excellent alpinist. He could’ve just coasted on that. Instead, with his brother, they created a collective momentum that really hit us teenagers.” The Rotillon brothers built a whole training system designed to raise everyone’s level quickly. And they were willing to touch what was taboo. “I think they created some of the first competitions,” Étienne says, “back when competitions were basically forbidden in the culture.” At the club entrance, they put up a grid—names along one axis, and “all the sixes of Cuvier” on the other, a famous Fontainebleau sector. In the boxes: French bouldering grades—6A, 6B, 6C, up through “G,” because “7” didn’t exist yet in their system (roughly what many climbers would map to today’s V-scale mindset, even if the labels were different). They’d go out, climb, and check them off. And in that grid were already the Rotillons’ own checkmarks. For the kids, the goal became simple: catch them. The effect was immediate. “Honestly, we went at it harder than ever with our friends,” Étienne says. “I think it raised the club’s level a lot.” The energy was everywhere—on Bleau boulders, in the club, and most of all, in people’s heads. By then, the FSGT already had a slogan with teeth: “Ni guide, ni client”—neither guide nor client. “For us, coming from working-class backgrounds,” Étienne says, “that spoke to us. It motivated us.” Behind the slogan was a social project: make it possible for people who couldn’t afford guides to still do alpinism—to climb and learn without being priced out. “We must have done a thousand routes with volunteer leaders,” Noël says, “without any problems beyond minor sprains.” It’s impossible now to count how many young climbers learned independent, self-sufficient climbing through the FSGT—but it’s clearly in the thousands. In the early 1980s, the federation created the Commission Fédérale de la Montagne (CFM), which Rotillon would lead. “I remember he took me under his wing,” Étienne says. “Every Tuesday night, Gilles brought me to the FSGT headquarters in Pantin. I was just a kid, but I listened hard. The flood of ideas was incredible. I felt like I was watching a revolution.” The making of modern climbing Forty years later, Yves Renoux still uses that word—revolution—without blinking. For him, the FSGT’s projects changed the sport from the ground up. He points to “Les 24h de Bleau,” a popular event that still matters today, where beginners and experienced climbers link up boulder problems across the forest. He points to the “yellow circuits” in Fontainebleau, designed to guide newcomers through some of the best rock with a clear, progressive path. And he points, especially, to the “Hauteroche cliff,” nicknamed the “falaise à l’aise,” which laid the groundwork for what many now think of as modern sport-climbing training cliffs. “Gilles was one of the main drivers,” Renoux says. “I love that project because it contains the whole flavor of our ideas.” In 1974, FSGT members bolted—or, in the older language, “equipped”—that cliff in Côte-d’Or with a clear concept: allow people to climb on lead from the very beginning of their learning. “That meant breaking with the alpinism mindset,” Renoux explains. “Before that, the people equipping cliffs were all climbing at least ‘6.’ They’d place pitons when they got scared. If you were a beginner, you had to be out of your mind to lead. Nothing was built for you.”  « It was the first time we separated the two disciplines that firmly, Climbing had always been seen as training for alpinism. For Gilles, it had to break free. » Noël, brother of Gilles Rotillon Alongside the push to popularize crag climbing, the FSGT also challenged the elitist logic that kept the “leader”—the first on the rope—at the top of a social pyramid. “What we wanted,” Renoux says, “was to show that being first on the rope is something anyone can do.” Hauteroche held, in miniature, what would shape the FSGT’s ideological backbone into the next century: climbing that was both popular and autonomous. Renoux himself would help bring those ideas to life. In the early 1980s, as a PE teacher, he and his students built the first climbing wall in a school setting, in Corbeil-Essonnes. But again, he points back to Rotillon’s influence. “It was him and Jean-Marc Blanche who first pushed the idea of climbing walls,” Renoux says. Blanche, a young architect at the time, designed mobile bouldering structures they hauled to Montreuil to get kids from working-class neighborhoods climbing. Étienne confirms it. He joined a study trip to England with Blanche. “We visited walls over there,” he says. “Either they were university setups hacked together by climbers, or they were private facilities. When we came back and brought it to the CFM with Jean-Marc, we decided to develop it in the public sector. We built walls in housing projects, schools, for events… and that matters, because unlike the UK, France’s history shows public climbing walls appearing before private gyms.” Produced by the FSGT, Des montagnes dans nos villes (Mountains in Our Cities) tells the story of how climbing became accessible to a wider audience, thanks in particular to the construction of artificial walls. The unaligned intellectual For Rotillon’s friends, there’s no debate: he was ahead of his time. In the 1980s, he was everywhere—inside every committee, every structure. In 1985, he helped create the Fédération Française d’Escalade (FFE). Two years later, when the FFME was created, he took leadership of its climbing sports committee. For ten years, he defended a vision of climbing as a common good—something that should be accessible to everyone. But by the 1990s, the sport was shifting. Competitions multiplied. The FFME looked more and more toward competitive climbing. Too much for Rotillon. At the federation’s 1997 general assembly in Avignon, he was pushed out. “He fought tooth and nail for what we’d done at Hauteroche,” Étienne says. “For him, the federation should’ve put money there—scaled the experiment.” Rare image of Gilles Rotillon not reading © Coll. Noël Rotillon Rotillon’s fights left marks—first in the people who knew him, and then, enduringly, in writing. Many of the people Vertige Media spoke with called him an intellectual. “I think he was born an intellectual when he met the FSGT,” his brother Noël says. After May ’68, Rotillon read constantly, argued constantly, thought constantly. Beyond federation work, he distinguished himself on the terrain of ideas. His first major book, L’Alpinisme laisse béton, was published in 1985 with Louis Louvel. In it, the two theorists argued—perhaps for the first time with that level of bluntness in France—that alpinism is a practice that kills. By contrast, climbing, through thoughtful bolting and the deliberate reduction of risk, could become popular. “It was the first time we separated the two disciplines that firmly,” Noël says. “Climbing had always been seen as training for alpinism. For Gilles, it had to break free.” The book landed hard in a small, tight world. “Let’s say the alpinists didn’t love it,” Étienne says with a smile. But it broadcast Rotillon’s central idea—the one he carried for life: climbing had to leave elitist circles. That thread runs straight into his 2016 book—arguably his most complete—La leçon d’Aristote, where he reworked and republished his theories. «  He read constantly, with an unbelievable ability to focus. He could read books while we drove 800 kilometers, while someone mowed the lawn right next to him, while his granddaughters pulled his hair » Françoise Rotillon, Gilles' wife His writing didn’t just document him; it defined him. “I immediately saw it was his thing,” says Françoise Rotillon, his wife. “When Louis came to work on their first book on Wednesdays at the house, they’d shut themselves in all day to talk, think, debate.” She adds: “He read constantly, with an unbelievable ability to focus. He could read books while we drove 800 kilometers, while someone mowed the lawn right next to him, while his granddaughters pulled his hair.” He wrote constantly, too. Near the end of his life, when his body kept him from climbing the way he used to, he poured his free time into analysis and debate about society. He was part of the Economists at Large (économistes atterrés), made videos for Xerfi Canal where he could summarize the myth of capitalism in four minutes, and starting in 2020 published a weekly column on Mediapart. As if that weren’t enough, he gathered his love of film into a book titled Goûts et Dégoûts cinématographiques. And of course, the climber never stopped writing for climbing outlets—Grimper, Alpine Mag, Vertige Media. “His secret?” Étienne says. “He didn’t sleep. How do you produce that much if you sleep? He knew everything about everything—the latest climbing performances, some new video, some institutional report… he amazed me. When you look at his life, you honestly wonder how he managed all his responsibilities.” Masterclass If you look at the core of “Rotillon,” the intellectual never left his path. “Today, events prove him right,” Renoux says. “His left-wing, Marxist vision—which is also the FSGT’s—still inspires everyone in the federation. I’m convinced the way we carry Gilles’ work forward will be collective.” Reading his columns, listening to his public remarks, you have to admit how modern his positions were—on ecology, economics, gender. He was a relentless observer of modern society. “Recently,” Françoise Rotillon says, “I’d even say that’s almost all he did. The day he went to the ER in the afternoon, up until one o’clock he was at his computer, writing things.” Not necessarily optimistic things, given the times. “For me, he was a bit like our Frédéric Lordon,” Renoux says—meaning someone who understood that things weren’t necessarily moving in the right direction, and who sensed we might not find the fix in time. “He often said to his granddaughters, ‘I hope Papou is wrong,’” Noël says. “The way the world was changing, the future for his children and grandchildren—it didn’t make him happy.” And maybe because of that, Rotillon never stopped climbing. After a ski accident, Noël says, he couldn’t lift his head anymore. “We used to say he climbed in Braille,” his brother recalls, “because he was feeling for holds. But he climbed—again and again.” Étienne, who watched him on walls and cliffs for fifty years, still can’t quite process it. “He was in rough shape at the end,” he says. “But he never quit. He always showed up at the wall. I’ve never seen anyone that motivated, that passionate.” If you’d only seen the limping outline, you might not have guessed that a many-layered legacy of French climbing was still moving through the world in that body. So when you picture that old man settling into his chair in front of the Salon de l’Escalade crowd, you can’t help but smile again at what Gilles Rotillon gave people—and kept giving, right to the end. Because after an hour, the schedule held. It really was a masterclass.