One very convenient line tends to blind people the moment climbing is asked to look at its darker corners. Behind “just climb” lies a fiction: the idea that a sport can somehow float outside the real world. (cc) Mark McGregor / Unsplash It comes back again and again, usually as soon as climbing is forced to stop admiring itself in the mirror: “We’re just here to climb, not to get political.” On the surface, the line sounds reasonable. At first, it even sounds kind of appealing: the wish for a simple sport, a practice that works like a refuge, a boulder problem—the short, ropeless climb itself—as a break from everything else. It is a seductive idea. It is also very useful. Because behind the call to “just climb” there is often something else: the desire to keep enjoying a sport without having to look at what, inside that sport, also produces exclusion, silence, domination, or violence. No Climbing Is an Island The desire is understandable. No one walks into a climbing gym to think about federation failures, sexual violence, conflicts of interest, market forces, power dynamics, or the image strategies of institutions and companies. People come looking for a line to figure out, a body to test, a community that feels reassuring, a kind of fatigue that makes more sense than everyday exhaustion. They come to climb, fall, laugh, and try again. They come for that almost childlike promise: here, at least, things are simple. But things are never simple. Climbing is not an island. It is not a moral safe zone protected by chalk, thick mats, and endless talk about “community.” It is a sport, which means it is also a social space. There are clubs, gyms, federations, coaches, national teams, minors, contracts, selections, funding streams, brands, investors, economic interests, careers that begin early, and dependencies that form quickly. There are places where people learn, places where people perform, places where people wait to be chosen. And wherever there is authority, access, recognition, or money, there is also the possibility of abuse. There is something strange about watching certain players in the climbing world talk endlessly about accessibility, inclusion, community, openness—and then get annoyed the moment a media outlet takes those words seriously. Saying that is not “politicizing” climbing. It is simply refusing to describe it as a feel-good story for adults in climbing shoes. In these discussions, the word “political” often works like a scarecrow. It appears as soon as a subject becomes uncomfortable enough that it can no longer be filed away as a harmless anecdote. Talking about sexual violence? Political. Questioning federation governance? Political. Asking about sportswashing? Political. Investigating working conditions in climbing gyms? Political. Showing that the accessibility promised by some market players sometimes stops at the door of social reality? Political again. After a while, the word no longer describes an ideology. It describes everything people would rather not see. It is a very effective way to move the problem somewhere else. We stop discussing the facts. We start discussing whether anyone has the right to talk about them. That is exactly where “just climb” becomes a convenient fiction. Not because climbing for pleasure is somehow suspect—thankfully, climbing is still that too—but because the phrase turns the comfort of the bystander into a general principle. You can “just climb” when the gym still feels like a refuge. When the club remains welcoming. When the coach stays in their lane. When the institution responds. When your body has not been exposed, threatened, dismissed, or made vulnerable by the very people who were supposed to support you. For those who are harmed, climbing is no longer a break from the world. Sometimes it becomes the place where the problem lives. “Climbing would be better off if [we] jumped off a bridge.” Excerpt from a conversation with one of the managers of a network of climbing gyms When the Varnish Cracks That is what our investigation last December made clear through the testimony of a climber from the French national team, who denounced a sexual assault and the way the FFME handled her case. It is also what recent cases have shown, in radically different contexts, in Indonesia, where eight athletes reported sexual harassment and physical violence involving their head coach, and in the United States, where a USA Climbing staff member was arrested in a case involving child sexual abuse material. The facts are not the same. The legal procedures are not the same either. But they all damage the same illusion: the idea that climbing can assume it is naturally healthy simply because it tells itself it is free. There is something strange about watching certain players in the climbing world talk endlessly about accessibility, inclusion, community, openness—and then get annoyed the moment a media outlet takes those words seriously. As long as accessibility remains a brand promise, a line in a manifesto, a hiring argument, or a pretty value posted on Instagram, everything is fine. But the moment someone asks who can actually enter, stay, speak, report, be believed, and be protected, the conversation suddenly becomes too heavy, too negative, too political. Sometimes the varnish cracks wide open. A manager from one of the major climbing gym chains in Paris once told us that “climbing would be better off if [we] jumped off a bridge.” The line matters less for its violence than for what it reveals: in an industry that loves to talk about kindness, some people only tolerate critical speech when it asks nothing of them. But making climbing accessible to everyone is not just about opening more gyms, simplifying memberships, or producing soft-lit images of happy beginners. It also means making sure no one has to stay silent in order to remain part of the group. That is where the word “protect” stops being administrative language. To protect people is not to wait for the courts to say everything before taking reports seriously. It is not to confuse legal caution with moral paralysis. It is not to set the presumption of innocence against the immediate safety of the people involved. To protect people is to build a space where performance does not come before vulnerability, where an institution’s reputation is not worth more than an athlete’s account, and where keeping the system running does not become the quiet argument for leaving everything untouched. Looking these subjects in the face is not politicizing our sport. It is making sure the sport remains usable for everyone. Not just for those who can afford not to see anything. Not just for evening climbers, comfortable witnesses, and companies that love climbing’s values as long as those values stay vague enough to demand nothing. Not just for people who want the sport to be a refuge for them, while accepting that it stops being one for others. For everyone. Maybe that is what some people call “political”: the moment we take seriously the words they had been using as decoration. Accessibility. Community. Trust. Freedom. And if climbing wants to keep telling that story about itself, then it has to accept that, from time to time, someone is going to check whether the story still holds up.

A study published in March 2026 has put a number, for the first time, on the economic impact of climbing in the Fontainebleau forest: between €23 million and €26 million in annual spending. A global destination, a local playground for the Paris region, a UNESCO biosphere reserve under pressure: according to the report’s authors, that money is still scattered across a kind of “foraging economy,” with no shared strategy and no real governance. (cc) Barthelemy de Mazenod / Unsplash The world capital of outdoor bouldering — climbing short, ropeless problems close to the ground — Fontainebleau has been the undisputed center of the discipline for more than a century. Each year, the forest generates between €23 million and €26 million in direct economic impact. The figure comes from a study published in March 2026 by Seine-et-Marne Attractivité and Essonne Tourisme, and it gives hard economic weight to a legendary area that sees between 1.1 million and 1.3 million climbing days per year. In the report’s terms, one climbing day means one individual day of practice: two people climbing for one day equals two climbing days. That massive traffic, driven by Fontainebleau’s global reputation, makes Bleau a singular case study: a bucket-list destination for climbers from all over the world, an everyday playground for tens of thousands of people in the Paris region, and a UNESCO biosphere reserve already under strain. A Well-Off Audience That the Region Hasn’t Fully Captured The €23 million to €26 million in annual spending breaks down across lodging at 28%, grocery and food shops at 24%, restaurants and bars at 16%, transportation at 16%, and climbing gear at 10%. The rest flows into the everyday local economy: physical therapists, village cafés, gas stations. “This is an upper-income professional clientele with fairly high spending power, but only part of that benefits the region because we do not offer all the services they need” Pascal Gouhoury, President of Seine-et-Marne Attractivité The report identifies three main groups of climbers. About 74,000 tourists come each year, 75% to 80% of them from abroad, and stay an average of nine to 10 nights in the area. Some 400,000 day-trippers from the Paris region come for the day, often by RER, the regional rail system, or by carpool. Roughly 7,000 local climbers log as many as 50 sessions a year. It is also a largely upper-income, professional audience, as Pascal Gouhoury, president of Seine-et-Marne Attractivité, told Le Nouvel Économiste: “This is an upper-income professional clientele with fairly high spending power, but only part of that benefits the region because we do not offer all the services they need.” According to the report, average spending varies by profile: €32 per day for a tourist, €19.50 for a day-tripper, and €14.50 for a local climber. Those amounts may look modest. Multiplied by more than a million climbing days, they become serious money for the local economy. For comparison, a study on the economic weight of surfing in Nouvelle-Aquitaine — another mass outdoor sport — put average spending at €48 per surfer per day, 50% more than a climbing tourist spends in Fontainebleau. The gap points to the destination’s untapped economic potential. In the Fontainebleau-Milly-la-Forêt-Nemours triangle, which the report identifies as the “core area,” 28% of businesses say climbers are part of their customer base. In some sectors, climbers account for as much as 32% of annual revenue. Climbers come to Bleau naturally, without much promotion. Some stay three weeks, shop in small grocery stores, and eat in front of the boulders before climbing. In short, this is a quiet, diffuse economy feeding small businesses without making much noise. A Foraging Economy The survey, conducted from December 2024 to November 2025 among 3,779 climbers and 1,037 local businesses, shows that Fontainebleau’s pull comes from its historic reputation, amplified by noncommercial digital tools such as Boolder and bleau.info. No major institutional marketing campaigns. No big promotional budget. Fontainebleau runs on myth. That is exactly what the report calls an “economy of picking.” The destination has no collective strategy, no shared governance, and no clearly identified offer. Climbers arrive, spend money, and leave, without the region truly capturing the value of that flow. Gouhoury has floated possible paths forward: shuttles between lodging and climbing areas, on-site gear sales, physical therapy services, wellness activities. According to the report, climbing also acts as a valuable buffer against seasonality. Because it happens year-round, with peaks in spring and fall, it smooths out activity for small businesses beyond the summer season. But without more structure, that potential remains underused, spread across many businesses that do not always recognize climbing as a strategic market. The Forest Behind the Numbers Fontainebleau is a UNESCO biosphere reserve and part of the Gâtinais français Regional Natural Park. It is also taking the full hit of climate change: heat waves, rising wildfire risk, and soil erosion. According to the report, heavy visitation — from climbers, hikers, mountain bikers, and tourists — is weakening this unique ecosystem. The study identifies several pressure points: vehicle traffic, trash, human waste left on-site, trail erosion, and ecological disturbance. Environmental awareness varies widely. Local climbers tend to be more vigilant and often act as informal sentinels on the ground. Paris-area day-trippers are less sensitive. Foreign tourists are even less so. In recent months, several climbing influencers have crystallized those tensions. Prime, a French climber followed by hundreds of thousands of people, posted a video in November 2025 showing him climbing at night in Fontainebleau, shouting after each successful ascent and disturbing nocturnal wildlife. A French influencer, Jeanne Toinon, was called out for camping in a strictly prohibited area, even though bivouacking is tightly regulated in the Fontainebleau forest. These practices, widely shared on social media, have fed concerns that bad behavior is becoming normalized. According to the report, Fontainebleau generates €25 million a year through climbing, yet has no mechanism for reinvesting part of that wealth into protecting the site. Unlike Margalef, the Catalan village that introduced paid barriers to help fund cliff maintenance, Bleau remains entirely free and open, with no economic regulation. That raises a harder question: is Fontainebleau meant to become a climbers’ park like Yosemite, with cafés, lodges, restrooms, dense road networks, paved parking lots, and reservation-based traffic systems? The American model of a highly structured outdoor destination — heavy infrastructure, developed commercial services, and price-based regulation — does not sit easily in the French context of a state-owned forest classified by UNESCO. Nor does it fit neatly with the imagination of climbers attached to a free, open style of practice. The report ends with a cautious promise: “The challenge for 2026 will now be to begin, with all local stakeholders, the co-construction of a structuring action plan.” It is careful wording. It gives no specific timeline, no budget, and no clear political lead. Still, the numbers are there, backed by a year-long survey. The question now is whether those numbers will become a real lever for the region, or whether Fontainebleau will keep generating major money in the blind spot of public policy, as environmental tensions build and the millions continue to scatter. What happens next will depend on the ability of local players — elected officials, businesses, climbers’ associations, and forest managers — to build a shared model that fully acknowledges what Fontainebleau already is: a world capital of bouldering, a major economic destination, and a biosphere reserve that has to be protected.

Matthew Maddison, USA Climbing’s Speed Team Manager and Strength and Conditioning Coach, was arrested on April 28, 2026, in Utah. He faces 10 counts of sexual exploitation of a minor. The case has shaken a discipline still riding the momentum of its Olympic rise. Matthew Maddison © USA Climbing A grim case has landed at the center of American climbing. According to local outlets KSL, TownLift, and ABC4, Matthew Maddison, 37, USA Climbing’s Speed Team Manager and Strength and Conditioning Coach, was taken into custody following an investigation by the Utah Internet Crimes Against Children Task Force. USA Climbing, the sport’s national governing body in the United States, immediately placed him on administrative suspension. The federation said that, at this stage, the alleged conduct appears unrelated to his USA Climbing duties. Still, the arrest of a national-level staff member raises an increasingly urgent question in elite sport: how to protect athletes from the very adults placed closest to them. Crimes and Charges The investigation reportedly began with a tip sent to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children through a social media platform. The report flagged the alleged upload of CSAM, or child sexual abuse material. In plain terms: criminal material involving children. An IP address and email account allegedly led investigators to Utah. During a search of Maddison’s home on April 28, 2026, investigators say they identified more than 30 suspected child sexual abuse files that had been uploaded or shared through the account in question. According to the police affidavit cited by KSL and TownLift, Maddison allegedly acknowledged that the account and email address belonged to him. The federation said that, at this stage, the alleged conduct appears unrelated to his USA Climbing duties Maddison now faces 10 counts of sexual exploitation of a minor, a second-degree felony in Utah. If convicted, each count can carry a sentence of one to 15 years in prison and a fine of up to $10,000. Court documents also describe online exchanges in which he allegedly discussed abuse involving prepubescent children. ABC4 reported that investigators also noted Maddison worked directly with young athletes and regularly traveled internationally. At this stage, he is presumed innocent. Maddison was not a peripheral figure in American climbing. USA Climbing officially listed him as the speed climbing team manager and strength and conditioning coach. In February 2024, the federation said he led a national speed camp in Salt Lake City with 24 of the country’s top speed specialists, including athletes who had already qualified for the Paris 2024 Olympics, among them Emma Hunt, Piper Kelly, and Sam Watson. There is no available evidence connecting those athletes to the alleged conduct. Their names matter here only because they show Maddison’s position inside the upper ranks of American high-performance climbing. His role, documented by Tempus Magazine in July 2024, included managing schedules, travel, and national training plans. In a statement sent to local media, USA Climbing said it was “deeply troubled” by the allegations and had placed Maddison on unpaid administrative leave, while also saying it was cooperating with law enforcement. From France to Indonesia, Athlete Protection Under Pressure The case comes at a time when sports federations are under growing scrutiny over athlete safety. It also echoes several recent cases covered by Vertige Media. In France, on December 14, 2025, a member of the French national climbing team sent an email to all FFME members alleging that she had been sexually assaulted by another member of the national team. The facts are different, but both cases raise the same institutional question: how do federations respond when the people involved sit inside the highest levels of the sport? Another recent case, this time in Indonesia, points to the same issue. In late January 2026, eight athletes from Indonesia’s national training center reportedly contacted federation president Yenny Wahid to report alleged sexual harassment and physical violence involving head coach Hendra Basir. The Indonesian climbing federation then placed him under provisional suspension. According to local media reports, that interim measure barred him from leading training sessions, entering the facilities, and communicating with athletes while the case was being reviewed. USA Climbing, the sport’s national governing body in the United States, immediately placed him on administrative suspension In the United States, USA Climbing relies on policies designed to govern interactions between adults and minor athletes. The federation also says its employees undergo background checks. But in a policy updated in October 2025, USA Climbing also notes that a background check with no disqualifying findings is not a “certification of safety.” It is a small but important line, and it quietly points to the limits of administrative safeguards. These three cases are not the same. But each one puts sports institutions on the same narrow ledge: how do you protect complainants and other athletes without prejudging the outcome of a legal or disciplinary process? For now, the institutional responses all circle the same core issue: the role of immediate protection in environments built around performance, selection, and dependence on coaches and staff. As Olympic climbing continues to professionalize, the Maddison case is a reminder that an institution’s maturity is not measured only by its ability to produce medals. It is also measured by its ability to prevent harm, respond to risk, and protect athletes. The next stage in the case against Matthew Maddison will now unfold in Utah’s courts.

The strongest climbers often claim the right to decide the grade. But are they actually right? Between philosophy of perception, collective intelligence, and beef carcasses, a few well-tested ideas suggest that the climbing crowd may be more reliable than the elite. Grades are not aristocratic. They are democratic. Here is why. (cc) Frederick Shaws / Unsplash A while back, a new route had just gone up at my gym. As usual, everyone could try it before the grade was announced. I sent it — climbed it cleanly, without falling — but it felt harder than it had looked from the ground. I had to fight all the way to the anchor. Trying to be careful, I suggested 5.11c, maybe 5.11d — roughly 6c+/7a in French grades. That triggered a small storm of sharp comments: “Why not call it 5.12b while you’re at it?” The grade was set at 5.11b. End of discussion. Holds and Biases That little episode captures the tension between two ways of thinking about grades. The first is basically aristocratic. It assumes that the “right” grade should reflect the simplest possible method, and therefore the lowest reasonable proposal. But the stronger you are, the easier the climb will feel. So the strongest climbers end up setting the grade for everyone else. Across from that is a more democratic model. It starts from a much simpler premise: everyone gets a say, regardless of ability, and the grade should settle around the average of those opinions. That means the final grade may be higher than what the strongest climbers think. Of course, you will often hear strong climbers defend the first approach. That makes sense. They are protecting their turf. As for me, I lean toward the democratic model. Partly because I am not one of them, and I have no desire to be steamrolled by the strongest people in the room. But mostly because there are serious arguments against the aristocratic view. Start with the word itself. Aristocracy means rule by “the best.” But as a friend once reminded me, a climber can be very strong and still be almost impressively stupid. So it is not clear why physical ability should give their opinion any extra weight. The obvious reply is that getting strong takes time. It means climbing a lot, encountering different styles, and building experience. So maybe the strong climber — or more accurately, the experienced climber — can claim a special status. The strong climber is not just physically strong. They are a better climber because they have climbed more. It is entirely possible that stronger and more experienced climbers perceive holds as bigger than they actually are Which brings me to my second point. In Phenomenology of Perception, Maurice Merleau-Ponty argues that our perceptions are not neutral reflections of the objects around us. They are shaped by our bodies, our histories, our experience, and everything we have learned to do. And because perception comes first, it affects our ideas and judgments about the world. This idea, often discussed in English as “embodied perception,” sits at the center of a 2014 study by Rob Gray, published in the International Review of Sport and Exercise Psychology and cited in an excellent video by Kris Hampton, the American climber, coach, and content creator. Gray argues that what we perceive is not a faithful picture of “what is out there,” but rather a reflection of our ability to act on the objects around us. In sports, that means experts and less advanced athletes may literally perceive the same objects differently. To show this, Gray draws on several experiments. In one example, golfers perceive the hole as larger or smaller depending on their own ability. Kris Hampton's video Grades: A Fool's Trap There is no reason to believe climbers are magically exempt from these biases. On the contrary, as Hampton points out, it is entirely possible that stronger and more experienced climbers perceive holds as bigger than they actually are. For them, the difficulty shrinks in proportion. So we have to let go of the idea that the strongest climbers are automatically better at grading. Their strength and experience may actually push them to underestimate the difficulty. The same is true in the other direction. Beginners and weaker climbers will tend to overestimate it. In short, no one has a clean, objective ability to judge the difficulty of a movement, whether we are talking about hitting a golf drive or climbing 5.10a. “Basically, the routesetter proposes a grade. They do not grade it. After that, the whole group of climbers determines the grade. So it is the community that gives the grade” A climber interviewed So much for the aristocratic model. The strongest climbers are not “better” simply because they are strong. Their voices do not get special treatment. Does that mean we should prefer a democratic grade, where every voice counts equally? Maybe. But then we have to accept that Gary, two months into climbing and three 5.10a sends to his name, is just as relevant as Claudine, whose tick list is packed with 5.12b routes. Rejecting the aristocratic model means admitting that beginners and bad climbers get the same say as the best and strongest climbers. Is that really reasonable? Grade-A Beef In one passage of Politics, Aristotle argues that the opinion of an uninformed crowd can be better than the opinion of the best person in that crowd. Bring together a large number of people with different views, let them speak freely, and you will hear all kinds of opinions. Among them, the best answer is more likely to appear than it would be if you asked only one or two specialists. The crowd increases the odds of finding the right answer because it multiplies the number of answers. A kind of collective intelligence emerges from all that individual ignorance. Sir Francis Galton confirmed this by accident at the end of the 19th century. Galton, an English aristocrat who wanted to prove that crowds were stupid and that power should be given to “the best,” came up with a small experiment. At a country fair, he asked people to estimate the weight of an ox carcass. Among the 787 guesses he kept, some were more ridiculous than others. But against all expectations, and much to our aristocrat’s disappointment, the crowd’s average estimate was accurate to within a pound. The expert butchers were farther off. With grades, as with beef, we might conclude that the crowd’s opinion is actually the better one. The average of the beginners, the strong climbers, the tall, the short, the young, the old, the disabled climbers, everyone — assuming each person gives the most honest and independent opinion possible — is more reliable than the view of the strong climbers, the experienced climbers, the 5.13 and 5.14 climbers, and everyone else who claims to be “better” and reserves for themselves one very specific power: the power to “call the grade,” the way others claim the right to “lay down the law.” Because grading is power. It is a tool of control, a way for a few people to impose their opinion and judgment on everyone else. That is why grading cannot be an individual act. As one climber told me recently, “Basically, the routesetter proposes a grade. They do not grade it. After that, the whole group of climbers determines the grade. So it is the community that gives the grade.” In that sense, grading looks a lot like voting. Each person proposes, just as each person votes. But the grade itself is like the election. It belongs to the group, based on all the opinions expressed. Grading is the sovereign act of the whole community. It cannot be seized by a minority on the grounds of special competence, because the group as a whole is always better than even its best individuals. So the next time you wonder how hard the thing you just climbed really was, give your most honest opinion without letting yourself be influenced by everyone else. Then compare it with as many other opinions as possible. Because the sum of your judgments will be far more reliable than the word of the best climber in the world. And in doing so, you will have fulfilled your duty as a climber-citizen.

In every climbing gym, there is a quiet figure asked to create movement, desire, progress, and meaning, while calmly absorbing the frustrations of the people who will consume that work. This is one routesetter’s imagined inner monologue. Blocbuster Courbevoie © Vertige Media It is 7:12 a.m., and if I’m being completely honest, I already hate you. Not you personally. I haven’t met you yet. I hate the person you will become by 7 p.m. I hate your little comments in advance. Your mat-side expertise. Your firm opinions about what “works” and what “doesn’t.” Your very modern ability to turn a failed boulder problem — a short climbing sequence set low over pads — into a conceptual crisis. Your refusal to consider that, if you can’t do a move, it may not be proof that French routesetting has collapsed as an idea. I get to the gym before you, obviously. That is one of the few perks of the job: a few minutes in a room that is still empty, before the great parade of self-appointed judges walks in. The volumes are still asleep. The holds still have that temporary neutrality they lose the second a human being starts projecting hip-position neuroses onto them. My back already hurts a little. We strip. We sort. We clean. We screw things in. We unscrew them. We hesitate. We start over. Routesetting is a strange kind of cooking: part construction work, part choreography, part controlled sadism, part customer service you can already see coming. You have to think about the move, the read, the progression, different bodies, different levels, the gym’s identity, the need for fresh sets, the boredom of strong climbers, the fear of beginners. In short, you have to govern. A setter complaining about a problem he just set is basically research and development A routesetter is the gym’s unofficial minister of internal affairs. Like it or not, the setter manages traffic, tension, complaints, and the borders of what people can tolerate. We draw mental lanes. We distribute hope by color. We organize frustration so it stays useful. We design small crises you can come out of stronger, or annoyed, but ideally not both for very long. Yes, we have to create difficulty. But mostly, we have to create meaning. And in gyms, meaning has become a fussy little commodity. Around 10 a.m., the first coworker tests a dyno — a jump move between holds. He falls. He tries again. He complains. Excellent sign. A setter complaining about a problem he just set is basically research and development. We refine it. We swap a foothold. We make the start a little less intense. We keep the ugly move in the middle, because there are limits to kindness. You arrive around noon. I recognize you immediately. First come the evaluators. The people who cannot climb a problem without immediately handing down a verdict. “That’s not a red.” Thank you, Brian. Truly. I was waiting for your opinion. I tried to convene an international committee, but you happened to be standing by the water fountain with questionable tape on your middle finger and floral shorts, so we’ll go with your expertise. Climbers’ relationship to grades is its own comic novel. You demand them like you are demanding truth, then treat them like a personal insult. If the grade is too soft, it insults your level. If it is too hard, it insults your intelligence. If it happens to match what you usually climb, suddenly the grading is “pretty fair.” Imagine that. You said you wanted a measurement. What you really wanted was a mirror. You turned 20 seconds of experience into IKEA assembly instructions A little later, the beta sprayer appears. The beta sprayer never climbs alone. She is always accompanied by her own voice, explaining — usually too fast and too loud — how to do the problem. Beta is climbing advice, the sequence or trick that helps unlock a move. She cannot imagine that a boulder problem might be a private search, an intimate little confrontation with one’s temporary uselessness. No. It must be narrated. “No, so actually here you have to commit with your left hand, then heel hook, then go for the crimp.” Thank you. You turned 20 seconds of experience into IKEA assembly instructions. The worst part is that she genuinely thinks she is helping. Then come the aesthetes, who almost always become restaurant critics. They are more refined, but just as exhausting. They want problems that are “coordination-based but not parkour,” “powerful but subtle,” “morpho for everyone” — meaning fair to every body type, which is a noble idea and an impossible demand. When they fail, they never say, “I didn’t like it.” They say, “I understand the intention, but…” That “but” is their kingdom. After that, anything can happen. “I feel like it lacks continuity.” “The finish move isn’t very interesting.” “There’s a break in the proposal.” A break in the proposal. Incredible. You sound like a grant-funded video art curator explaining an installation in Brooklyn. The problem is that a boulder, like any serious form, sometimes needs to be a little unfair to be memorable. Unfair in the sense that it does not apologize for existing. It forces you out of your lane. But many of you want to be pushed, as long as the push has already been approved by your habits. So you judge the set with the calm authority of people who risked nothing. You didn’t bolt anything on. You didn’t test anything. You didn’t stand behind anything. You didn’t hand it over to the public. You are just standing in front of a piece of resin, explaining that “the set is kind of uneven this week.” Maybe the problem is not that I hate climbers. Maybe the problem is that I know them too well I have not forgotten the missing brushers. Or rather, the people who should be brushing but have chosen another path. They climb a chalk-black problem, watch it turn back into a fossil bed of attempts, then walk away as if they have just passed through a public space maintained by no one. Not brushing is one of the cleanest little summaries of modern indoor climbing. You want a premium experience, but keeping that experience premium should always be someone else’s job. Preferably someone invisible. That is when you understand that routesetting is not just creative work. It is service work. You create the conditions for other people’s fun, then watch those people treat that fun like something they are owed. The routesetter is part author, part mover, part safety technician, part convenient container for everyone’s frustration. When the session goes well, nobody remembers your name. When it goes badly, everyone knows exactly who to blame. Obviously, I am exaggerating. You also make it very easy. Still, there are climbers who actually look. Climbers who can feel when a line is offering something. Climbers who understand the difference between a bad move and a demanding one. They exist. They are the only reason I have not retrained as a plumber or started raising goats. Because despite everything, routesetting remains one of the strangest and most beautiful jobs in this little vertical theater. You write sentences that other people read with their fingers, hips, and fear. You get to watch sudden breakthroughs, clean little flashes of joy. A well-set gym is not just a gym with new problems. It is a place where hundreds of people can work through a set of questions designed for them, without being designed exactly around them. By 7:30 p.m., the gym is full. I pretend to clean up. A teenage girl immediately finds the method that three muscular adults missed. A beginner sticks a move she had sworn was impossible and comes down wearing the kind of pure expression someone should patent. And I think, as I always do, that maybe the problem is not that I hate climbers. Maybe the problem is that I know them too well. So no, I do not quite hate you. Let’s say I find you exhausting with great precision. And that is exactly why I keep setting.

Former director of Westway, the UK’s largest climbing centre, and now a consultant for the sector, Jez Tapping has spent the past decade watching an industry that never stops reinventing itself. Between accelerated consolidation, forced professionalisation, and increasingly diversified business models, the UK climbing gym market is going through changes as profound as they are specific. It took a proper cup of tea to make sense of it all. A well-steeped conversation. Jez Tapping © Courtesy of Jez Tapping Vertige Media: How would you summarise the current state of indoor climbing in the UK? Jez Tapping : Last year, the sector saw a revenue drop of between 11 and 15%. This year, the first quarter has been solid, but we are clearly moving out of the expansion phase and into a maturation phase. That translates into a lot of mergers and acquisitions — larger structures buying up smaller ones. We’re also seeing increased professionalisation among independent operators: those passionate climbers who set up their own gyms now need to level up in key areas like HR and financial management. A climbing gym no longer runs itself. It’s a complex business that needs to be properly understood and managed. “In London, we went from 15 gyms before Covid to 34 today” Vertige Media : What concrete phenomena reflect this increasing complexity? Jez Tapping : The major phenomenon, to my mind, is the erosion of the middle segment. Gyms are now focusing on beginners on one side, and advanced climbers on the other. Average climbers — people like you and me — are a little forgotten. And then there’s another fundamental shift: the decoupling of footfall from revenue. Having more people through the door no longer automatically means making more money. Vertige Media : How do you explain the rapid economic growth, followed by the stagnation, of climbing gyms? Jez Tapping : The Olympics accelerated a dynamic that was already underway. But the arrival of capital accelerated everything. In London, we went from 15 gyms before Covid to 34 today. That growth came primarily from chains that already had financial resources. The Verlinvest fund acquired The Hangar in the UK and Boulders in Denmark, making it the world’s largest operator with over 40 sites. Without that, this expansion would have taken 15 to 20 years. Investors compressed it into five. Last year, several British chains were acquired by French or British groups. These consolidation moves are a sign of a market that is stabilising and restructuring. Vertige Media : Which business models truly work over the long term? Jez Tapping : The real revolution is the diversification of offerings — just like in the fitness sector over the past 25 years. We’re seeing very distinct positionings emerge: premium centres with high-end coaching and personalised services; community-oriented, convivial centres, where 90% of the market sits; and minimalist, low-price structures that are highly individualistic and rely on volume. Youth coaching has become central. At Westway, 50% of our revenue came from coaching, with 500 young people every week. It’s a strongly growing segment, especially in bouldering, where it was underexploited. In a context where household purchasing power is declining, adults are cutting back on their own leisure spending, but they continue to invest in their children’s activities. That’s a stable, resilient market. But be careful: memberships are no longer the main revenue line in most gyms. It’s now either junior coaching or new casual climbers. That makes the business model more fragile, more transitional, with fewer guaranteed recurring revenues. Vertige Media : You mentioned fitness. What lessons can climbing learn from that sector? Jez Tapping : The fitness industry has about a 40-year head start on climbing in terms of commercial structuring. Segmentation is crucial: premium versus low-cost, paid coaching, tailored programming. You need to clearly define your positioning. Are you a “third place” with a café and a sense of community? Or a minimalist venue focused purely on climbing? “The sector’s improvement over the next five years will come primarily from technology and intelligent use of data, not from new holds” The other major lesson is data. Five years ago, you had to wade through complicated spreadsheets just to know your average basket size or visits per member. Today, with the proliferation of customer management systems, that information is instantly accessible. These tools allow for decisions based on real data rather than intuition. The sector’s improvement over the next five years will come primarily from technology and intelligent use of data, not from new holds. Vertige Media : Have bouldering and auto-belays revolutionised accessibility? Jez Tapping : Absolutely. The big challenge for gyms is off-peak utilisation. Between 9am and 4pm on weekdays, the walls are underused. Bouldering has solved that problem for individual climbers. Auto-belays now allow rope walls to compete in that time slot, offering the same kind of autonomy. “Many operators set up their gym as a hobby, not as a structured business” Innovations like the Pro-grade lead auto-belay — which allows climbers to lead with an auto-belay device — show that there is a growing market. But return on investment remains a critical question given how expensive this equipment is. The biggest market for auto-belays today is what we call Clip & Climb: colourful, playful climbing structures for children. In the UK, it has become a real industry, with spaces entirely dedicated to this family audience. Vertige Media : What are the main medium-term challenges for the sector? Jez Tapping : The first challenge is professionalisation. Many operators set up their gym as a hobby, not as a structured business. This resistance to change is a real obstacle at a time when the market demands rigorous management. At the same time, we’re seeing rapid homogenisation: in five years, we’ve gone from a sector dominated by independents to one dominated by chains, with a real risk of standardisation. But the most critical challenge is operators not understanding their own revenue streams. Many don’t realise that the entry fee is no longer their main source of turnover. They keep making anecdotal decisions instead of relying on data. The membership churn rate in our gyms now mirrors that of traditional sports facilities — eight to ten months on average. You absolutely have to understand why people are leaving and invest heavily in acquisition and retention. It’s a matter of survival. “Climbing is far more embedded in French culture than in the UK” Vertige Media : Are we seeing unionisation among climbing gym staff, as in France or the US? Jez Tapping : Not really in the UK. The majority of employees — around 80% — are between 15 and 25 years old. It’s a very young sector, with few long-term careers, except in route setting or management. There’s no climbing-specific union because there simply aren’t enough people to justify one. I don’t see that dynamic emerging here in the next decade. Vertige Media : How do you look at the French market? Jez Tapping : What strikes me is that the French Federation is very well developed, and there are an enormous number of walls in schools and educational institutions. This culture of clubs and non-commercial practice gives the French commercial market enormous growth potential compared to ours. Climbing is far more embedded in French culture than in the UK. That creates a solid base of people who know and practise the sport from a young age. The challenge will be turning that base into a clientele for commercial centres without undermining the existing club culture. Vertige Media : What should climbing gym managers anticipate in 2026? Jez Tapping : There is now enough data, experience and precedent in our sector. Ten years ago, we were fumbling in the dark. Today, you need to go out and seek information from those who have that experience, while staying aware of everyone’s biases. But the fundamental advice is: define your business precisely. Don’t just say, “I’m going to set up a climbing gym.” Define who you’re building for, with what exact concept, and how you’re going to generate revenue sustainably. Which market segment are you targeting? What unique experience will you offer? How will you differentiate yourself? Without a clear direction and a strong identity, you won’t get investment and you won’t have a viable strategy in an increasingly competitive and segmented market. The era when you could just “build a wall and they will come” is definitively over.

A defining figure in world climbing and the first woman to send Action Directe, the legendary 5.14d in Germany, Mélissa Le Nevé has always carried both mystery and intensity. Behind the résumé is an athlete fiercely attached to freedom, someone who turned climbing into a way of understanding life and nature into her safest refuge. An unusually quiet encounter. Mélissa Le Nevé © Rémi Fabregue The Paris climbing gym is still mostly empty early in the day. Before the launch of the La Sportiva Climb World Tour, the front desk at Climb Up Porte d’Italie is filled with little more than a conversation between Caroline Ciavaldini, Mélissa Le Nevé, and a pair of bloggers dressed head to toe by the Italian gear brand. The handshake is polite, but Le Nevé is clearly guarded. It takes a little proof of good faith, and the promise that her words will be handled carefully, before she lets the wall down. A few moments later, she smiles at herself for it. As the interview begins, she admits: “I showed up very suspicious. I’m a bit of a wild animal. I need to be tamed.” From the Vosges to Bordeaux Asphalt To understand the Le Nevé puzzle, you have to go back to the beginning, near Gérardmer, in the Vosges. She describes it as a “little piece of paradise,” the place where she lived a dream childhood shaped by total freedom and a deep, physical connection to the outdoors. Then, just before she turned 10, that original balance broke. Her father, an engineer specializing in wood resistance, was transferred to Gironde. For the young girl, the landing was rough. “When I arrived in Bordeaux, I had a lot of trouble fitting in,” she says. “A big city, so different from Gérardmer... I had trouble integrating, understanding the codes.” “I was someone who had trouble breathing. I shook. I was afraid of a lot of things” Uprooted and introverted, she looked for a place to belong. The ocean called to her, but without the money to buy a surfboard or cover the back-and-forth trips, she put her name, almost by chance, on the waitlist for a climbing club in Cestas. A year later, when she got in, it felt like a revelation. “It really was love at first sight when I started climbing. I immediately felt like I was in the right place,” she remembers. More than a sport, climbing gave her mentors: young retirees who helped run the club, took her outside for the first time in Ariège, and passed on a deep love of nature. Mélissa Le Nevé © Rémi Fabregue Most of all, climbing became an unexpected antidote to the anxiety that was starting to take hold. “I was someone who had trouble breathing. I shook. I was afraid of a lot of things,” she says. Climbing gave her a safe ecosystem and a place to land. A lifeline for a young girl hungry for experience, who kept collecting passions: pole vault on Wednesdays with the woman who would become “her sister,” climber and vaulter Alizée Dufraisse, and a serious musical education that eventually led her to play Carmen as a solo clarinetist. Competition as a Mirror Against the cliché of the competitive machine, Mélissa Le Nevé entered competitions with an almost clinical interest in her own weak spots. Deeply prone to stress, she treated the circuit as a place to learn herself. “I put myself in those stress-management situations to try to understand who I was,” she says now. She draws an interesting parallel between being uprooted in Bordeaux and entering the competition world, seeing in both the same search for belonging. “Isn’t competition, in the end, a situation of integration?” she asks. “It’s being socially part of something moving in the same direction.” “And what if it’s the men who are scared?” The holds and the wall became tools for self-examination. “For me, climbing is a mirror,” she says. “It allowed me to get a little distance, to breathe better, to face certain fears, to manage certain emotions.” Every route became an inner dialogue, a way to break down her own blocks. The benefits reached far beyond results: competition simply taught her how to open up to the world, how to face other people’s eyes “without turning red as a tomato and stuttering.” Still, that private, healing search sometimes collided with the demands of high performance. After one competition where she had just won two silver medals, France’s national technical director asked her bluntly: “When are you going to win gold?” She learned to build a sealed-off bubble around herself. Performance would never be the point. It would be a tool. “There are rituals where young warriors go into the forest to meet all the power of nature,” she says. “That’s how I see it.” Climbing as a “Feminine Force” That careful reading of herself inevitably shapes the way Le Nevé sees the evolution of her sport. As the first woman to climb Action Directe, the mythic 5.14d that helped define modern sport climbing, she watches with fascination as a new generation narrows the gap with men in a way that feels almost unprecedented. But when the conversation turns to the sometimes awkward media treatment around women’s achievements, she steps out of the argument with a mischievous edge. “And what if it’s the men who are scared?” she says, amused. More than comparison for comparison’s sake, what excites her is the larger movement underneath. “I really see climbing as a feminine force moving forward and setting an example of parity. With several real role models, with strong personalities, it’s incredibly interesting,” she says. It is a whole generation breaking free and rewriting the codes of performance on rock, drawing strength from one another, proving there does not need to be one queen at the top, but many possible lines. “I like relationships that are deep, really connected” Training has played a major role, of course. But Le Nevé also believes the nature of climbing itself helps push the sport toward parity. Modern climbing has lowered the altar of pure muscle and put better movement in its place. “Because of gravity, I think we can be more or less equal,” she says. “There is movement, flexibility, decision-making, the mind, emotional management.” The Pull of Open Air Le Nevé left the competition circuit at the end of 2016 to focus on rock, and she has built a particularly rich private world far from the usual concerns of the climbing scene. She reads the psychoanalyst Carl Jung. For a while, she became fascinated by Eastern European literature, from Bulgakov to writers from the former Yugoslavia, because she was “fascinated by how so much suffering could create so many masterpieces.” “What makes me happy is seeing a bird fly” Ethnology studies and deeply formative trips to Malawi and Madagascar even led her, when she was younger, to consider becoming a foreign correspondent. But faced with the noise of the world and the scale of its social problems, the athlete eventually chose a kind of deliberate simplicity, with no trace of cynicism. “I feel like, as an ant, I’m not going to move the whole path forward,” she says. That realization allowed her to accept that her place in the world was, above all, to be happy in it, and to inspire others through her passion rather than through grand speeches. That choice pushes her to focus her energy on real human connection, and to avoid the empty comfort of social performance. Small talk is not her thing. “I like relationships that are deep, really connected. Superficiality is something I can handle now. I’m a frank and direct person. I try to be calm and choose my words.” It is a radical search for meaning, and it shapes her encounters in climbing as much as in everyday life. Now based near L’Argentière-la-Bessée, at the edge of the Écrins, she lives days that feel like her, without chaining herself to one fixed point on the map. In her own words, it becomes almost an aphorism: “I really am a free bird.” Mélissa Le Nevé © Rémi Fabregue Most of all, air has replaced rock in more ways than one. Since the pandemic, she has developed an all-consuming passion for paragliding. Asked what truly feeds her day to day, her answer bypasses both plastic holds and cliffs. “What makes me happy is seeing a bird fly. What I love is sitting down before I unfold my paraglider and watching the birds,” she says. Her eyes light up as she describes a flight over the Vercors. “I found myself face to face with a bearded vulture. It’s huge. I honestly think it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. To fly, to have that chance.” The climber who was on alert in the first minutes has given way to a contemplative woman, relieved to have walked paths other than pure athletic performance. Still, even rare birds have to deal with the ordinary laws of time. The hour is getting late, and Mélissa Le Nevé has a train to catch. However much you want to keep the flight suspended, eventually, it is time to come back down to earth.

World Climbing has just crossed the symbolic milestone of one million euros in prize money for its 2026 season. A spectacular progression that raises as many questions as it answers. We posed them to Piero Redaubengo, Secretary General of the international federation, who reveals the behind-the-scenes of the decision, defends his model against private leagues, and outlines his vision for the future of competitive climbing. And watch out—a few revelations slip between the lines. Oriane Bertone, Janja Garnbret and Melissa Costanza © Nakajima/Timmerman/World Climbing. Vertige Media : Crossing the one million euro prize money mark is a symbolic milestone that many have celebrated. How was the decision made? Piero Rebaudengo : The decision was done in 2024, when we started a plan to increase the prize money in some competition, having the goal to increase all in 2026. It's a need, and it's also a way to stay in the market. We grew a lot and the growing is something that has to be measurable. And the prize money of the athletes is one of these pillars. Vertige Media : Which market are you talking about exactly? Piero Rebaudengo : In the market of the sport environment, the sport events environment, which weighs billions of euros. In 2020, close to the COVID, we started with a strategic plan which we call the 2028. On this strategic plan was a focus of competitions on events. And it was a clear statement saying that we have to increase the level of our events, increase the level of the visibility of our events. One is the prize money and the other one was to try to go to big cities. The other one is to increase the level of the setup of the competition. Personally, I am quite satisfied because we reached—we can do better, for sure—but if we turn around and turn back on the event of 2019 and 2020, the few we had, we are satisfied on the level of our organizers, on the level of the performance of the athletes, on the level of the perception of the public on our events. Vertige Media : What specific issue does this decision to increase prize money address? Piero Rebaudengo : The first goal, of course, is to give the athletes the possibility to compete and having the possibility to—I want to speak about work. Work is not a sport world, but being compensated with a reasonable, according to the value, amount of money. We also have to say something on the difference between some of our federations because some of our federations are providing cost of the athletes or the travel, accommodation and so on. Some do not do it and leave to the athletes the duty to pay by themselves and that is also something that we have to take care of. Piero Redaubengo writing the future © World Climbing Vertige Media : Many athletes still cannot make a living solely from competition climbing. In Germany, for example, climbers launched a crowdfunding appeal in 2025 to finance their travel. How does this increase change that reality? Piero Rebaudengo : It's a reality we know. But beyond the prize money, we must also establish concrete services for the athletes. "We are not a sport who has a queue out of our door. But the most interesting item is that the door is open, is not closed" Vertige Media : Precisely, will you establish mandatory minimum services at each event: guaranteed accommodation reimbursement, meals, physio on site, travel grants, etc.? Piero Rebaudengo : It's an objective, yes. We want to increase the level and the standard of our events, and that passes through better services for athletes. If we increase the standard and the level of the event, then for that we need an increasement of the organizers, and they will receive a new event, a better event that they can internally resell because they have some rights to cover some costs. Vertige Media : Let's talk funding. How is this increase concretely financed? Piero Rebaudengo : We increase the finances through media rights, through sponsorship rights, and through event rights. These are the three pillars of which we are working with. On media rights, we have more viewers. We cannot share any figures, but we are satisfied. They are satisfied (Eurosport/Discovery in Europe and Bilibili in China, editor's note) because one year ago, one year and a half ago, we negotiated another contract until the end of 2028 based on an increase of the revenues from our side. We are one of the few new sport that had an increase of the contract. Vertige Media : And on the sponsor side? Piero Rebaudengo : Both. We have more sponsors and the sponsors we have are putting more money. Up to now, we had endemic sponsors (belonging to the same sector as climbing, editor's note). We open to general sponsor and we are now negotiating with different sponsors. We are not a sport who has a queue out of our door, knocking on our door "how much you need or how much you want." But the most interesting item is that the door is open, is not closed. Vertige Media : Is this triptych—media rights, sponsors, local organizers—the model you want to keep for the future? Piero Rebaudengo : Up to now, we are planning to have at least until '28 the same model. And then being keen on the fact that the sport events environment is an evolution model. We cannot stay quiet. We have to think about how to propose maybe with some different discipline or same discipline with different model of proposal, which is the case of the four-lane speed, is the case of the team events, is the case of the boulder mix event. We are not stuck on the tradition. I mean, tradition is fundamental. It's the pillar of our sport. But trying to offer different models of events gives us the possibility to be more open. "One of our goals to organize a World Cup event in Paris. It's a pity that we cannot propose to Paris again climbing. We are working on it. And I think that it will happen sooner or later" Vertige Media : You mentioned "big cities." Can we imagine that in France, for example, a World Cup event would take place in Paris rather than Chamonix? Piero Rebaudengo : Yes, this is one of our goals. And we are very close to the French Federation to do it together because it's a mutual goal. It's also a goal after Paris Olympics. It's a pity that we cannot propose to Paris again climbing. And we are working on it. And I think that it will happen sooner or later. Vertige Media : Some organizers, like in Switzerland or Czech Republic, charge tickets. Is this a model you encourage? Piero Rebaudengo : It is a process we left to the organizer the freedom to do it. Some are doing and some are very satisfied on it. Personally, I agree. We have not to be in a hurry to do it, but we have not also to be shy on it. Vertige Media : Where does the prestige of a competitive sport come from, in your view? Piero Rebaudengo : I think it comes from the athletes. I see climbing is having a more mature approach on the sport, having this goal that a young kid or young girl can see and can watch Janja Garnbret taking the Olympics and having two Olympic medals, two gold medals in Olympic and approach the sport. Instead of having one million per event prize money. I think this is the big difference between us and tennis. "Our climbers are nice, are clean, are passionate" We have a lot of work to do with the athletes, bringing them with us together, being a role model, being available to meet young climbers before the competition, after the competition. The NBA has a contract with all the athletes obliging them to take time to be role models with schools, with the kids, with spectators. And this is also important. We are far away to be in this way, but this is a target. Because they are nice. Our climbers are nice, are clean, are passionate. Most of them are students, have an intellectual level, high level. And they combine their life with the sport, with an elite sport. And this is the role model. Piero Rebaudengo © World Climbing Vertige Media : There is also a private league in climbing, the very recent Pro Climbing League, which offers £10,000 to the winner in a single event, with expenses covered for headliners. Did this competition weigh in your decision to increase prizes? Piero Rebaudengo : Competitors are necessary to grow and to improve. In the monopoly, you do not improve. Our performance, our athletes' performance is based on the goal to be Olympic champion. And probably the Pro League is far away to be in the system, but we are very keen on these models. We can also discuss with them. Vertige Media : You've already had conversations? Piero Rebaudengo : Yes, we see them. We monitor, of course, as we are monitored by them, of course. And we are on the spot. Conversation based on performances, on how to make athletes happier, how to make athletes safer, more safe, and how to have also a calendar of the competitions. Vertige Media : Will paraclimbing competitions also have guaranteed and public prize money? Piero Rebaudengo : We are working on it. We are working to clarify something with the paraclimbing movement which are the number of classification that are in the environment. It's also a cultural approach for us as for all sports who are doing para-sport. We want to have athletes. We do not want to do benevolent. We want to have performance. And this is the reason why we are in the Paralympic Games. Not to hope that, okay, we have a person on wheelchair, let's do climbing. Maybe it's not climbing the best sport for you to stay out of home. Maybe it's another, but we need to know their needs and what they want. Vertige Media : If you had to envision 2030, what scenario would you hope for the World Climbing circuit? Piero Rebaudengo : With a magic wand, I would like to have additional medals in Brisbane (host city of the 2032 Summer Olympics, editor's note), with a team event, a mixed team event, because it's one of the key points to push our national federation to invest in athletes. The work of the National Federation means some athletes are giving to the National Federation the possibility to have this performance goal. But if we have also a team opportunity, we can attract more National Federation. And they are obliged to bring the athletes and to pay for the athletes to bring the athletes to the competition. It's a virtuous system because it creates champions. Alberto Tomba (nicknamed "la Bomba," one of the most decorated Italian skiers in history, editor's note) was not a product of a research of the Italian Federation. It was the Italian star that shined, emerging naturally from a federal system. Stars don't emerge by chance. And it's difficult to find Janja Garnbret on the street.

Killed in a 2015 accident in Yosemite, Dean Potter remains one of climbing’s most haunted legends. So much so that HBO has now devoted a four-part series to him. In this exclusive interview, directors Peter Mortimer and Nick Rosen talk about the man behind the myth. © Andy Anderson May 16, 2015. Dean Potter and Graham Hunt step off Taft Point above Yosemite Valley in wingsuits. They are attempting one of the hardest lines imaginable in BASE jumping: flying through the Notch, a razor-thin gap in a rocky ridgeline. It is a tiny target. Hunt clips the wall. Potter makes it through the gap, then crashes a few yards later. Both men die on impact. “Such an important story” Peter Mortimer and Nick Rosen filmed Dean Potter for years. Admirers of the climber, they first set out to make a short tribute film after his death. Using their archive footage, they drew interest from a festival, then from Elizabeth Potter, Dean’s sister, who controls his estate. By then, Mortimer and Rosen were hardly unknowns. In the U.S., they are about as established as it gets in climbing film, with credits including Valley Uprising and The Alpinist. It did not take long for them to convince HBO to back their new project: a four-part series about one of climbing’s most mystical legends. Then came three years of post-production. “Without doubt, it was the most challenging, the most complex project of our career,” says Peter Mortimer from Colorado. “We felt like the stakes were really high. This is such an important story. So we really felt like we had to get it right. Like go really deep and get it right.” The result is four intense hours inside the life of one of the most troubled climbers of his generation. Available since April 14 on HBO Max, The Dark Wizard tries to illuminate the blind spots of an elusive figure who seemed to live by reinvention, illusion, and risk. “I think he’s kind of like—it’s almost like Kurt Cobain to music in the ’90s” Peter Mortimer, co-director of The Dark Wizard Dean Potter’s story unfolds like a distinctly American one. His past is rooted in a difficult childhood that pushed him early toward rebellion, all in an era when the rough edge was still part of free climbing in the 1990s. Young Potter came up smoking weed, taking mushrooms on his portaledge—a hanging ledge used on big walls—and dangling out over the void with friends who were just as wrecked as he was. “I think he’s kind of like—it’s almost like Kurt Cobain to music in the ’90s,” Mortimer says. “He represents a different era in life and society and climbing, when it was just wilder. It was more adventure. It was more just kind of uncurated. It was just a wilder time. And I think he’s the iconic representation of that time.” © Dean Fildeman Among Yosemite’s trails, still crowded with dirtbags—climbers living cheaply and loosely around the sport—Potter built a serious résumé. The climber who could sometimes carry himself like Zlatan Ibrahimović held the speed record on the Nose of El Capitan for years. He also invented free-basing, a hybrid of free soloing—climbing without a rope—and BASE jumping, a style he used on the north face of the Eiger. Unroped highlines at nearly 3,000 feet, BASE jumps, speed records: it is hard to argue Dean Potter was ever just a climber. “There’s a difference between, you know, Dean’s own kind of like self, like personally crafted kind of identity and persona and mythology, and maybe who Dean really was,” says Nick Rosen. “And I think, clearly, Dean saw from early on, saw himself as more than just a climber. He was striving for something maybe bigger or more or different than just the pursuit of climbing up rocks.” For Rosen, Potter’s climbing became “both a kind of a tool for him, a way for him to sort of like interface with risk and danger and the threat against life and the possibility of death, and try to face that and come through that would allow him some moment of psychic peace, you know.” In the series, Potter even calls himself a “performance artist,” a kind of avant-garde figure trying not only to pull off huge athletic feats but to reshape the disciplines themselves. “He wasn’t competing with anyone in a serious way, he wasn’t famous, he was just driven to do this stuff,” Rosen says. “He triggers a process that drives him to dig deep inside himself and confront his demons…” The Marauder’s Map To tell Potter’s story, Mortimer and Rosen had three main sources. First, the footage: hundreds of hours shot by them and others. Then the interviews: friends, former partners, climbers who knew him well. And then there were the notebooks, where Potter wrote about himself with startling openness. Part diary, part holding tank for his wildest ideas, they became a treasure for the filmmakers and, naturally enough, the thread that runs through the series. “Dean in interviews was very building the mystique of Dean Potter a lot of times,” Mortimer says. “And it wasn’t like he wasn’t pulling back the curtain most of the time. And then we had these really intimate, amazing interviews with his friends and the people who knew him best. And I think when we saw the journals and read through all of them, that immediately was a third element. This was the Dean that you didn’t get in the interviews, like the wrestling, the vulnerability, the self-doubt.” “I thought he’s amazing. Other times I thought he was being a bully and was really, really stressful to work with.” Nick Rosen, co-director of The Dark Wizard. In plenty of archival footage, Potter projects the opposite. On camera, friends often describe him as an “alpha silverback,” meaning the dominant male in the room. “He had a public persona that people really looked up to him as this like alpha silverback,” Mortimer says. “And so I think having access to that and being like as third-party filmmakers, we were able to show this side of Dean that he wanted to show the world but could never do himself. And I think it just makes him so much more compassionate and relatable.” Because in reality, Potter’s career was marked by rupture. In 2006, he illegally climbed Delicate Arch, the protected natural landmark in Utah. The “performance” sparked public outrage. He lost his sponsor, Patagonia, and, by extension, his marriage to climber Steph Davis. Six years later, after alienating many of his friends, Potter went to China to walk a highline above the void. Broadcast live on television, the stunt was supposed to earn him €200,000. Badly prepared, he nearly fell several times, somehow made it across, then burst into tears at the end, completely spent. The sequence, heavily featured in the series, is as gripping as it is revealing. “I thought he’s amazing,” Rosen says. “Other times I thought he was being a bully and was really, really stressful to work with.” Though they were close to Potter in real life, the directors had to create some distance from that relationship. “Our mission is not a personal mission,” Rosen says. “We’re trying to tell the world a story about Dean Potter.” A supersized ego, up against Alex Honnold In The Dark Wizard, the filmmakers devote plenty of space to the thing that shaped nearly everything in Potter’s life and climbing: his ego. “Dean was, he had this incredible motivation to go, like, right, to push into his fear, to go further than, like, any of us would go, to, like, risk his life, to achieve these incredible things,” Mortimer says. Was it really motivation? Self-expression? A need to be better than everyone else? “The answer is all of the above,” Mortimer says. One thing is clear: that ego flared up most when someone else challenged him. That is why the arrival of Alex Honnold in Yosemite changed everything. At first, the two men looked like opposites. Potter was explosive, tortured, poetic, and already saw himself as king of the Valley. Honnold was still a rookie, but he was also gifted, confident, and deeply analytical. Dismissed by Potter and his friends as a total dork, the young soloist would end up souring Potter on climbing by sending his projects before him—and doing them better. For the filmmakers, the series also reveals something about Honnold’s psychology, and how hard he could be. In one episode, Potter describes him as “a competitive twerp.” But in the end, it is Potter who seems most damaged by the rivalry. “Our point of view was trying to tell a story that was quite honest and maybe went below the layers of Dean’s public persona” Nick Rosen “Dean’s inability to accept that his like his monstrous ego is something is maybe could be argued is the problem,” Rosen says. “Like someone else who was a bit a little bit less, you know, sort of obsessed with being the best could have just stepped aside and had a graceful transition and a mentorship with someone like Alex Honnold.” According to Mortimer, “Dean always believed he was more of a visionary than Alex. And he talked about that and his friends all talked about that. And I think he always felt, he felt like he had one more trick up his sleeve. But eventually, you know, he realized that, you know, he was aging and Alex was just getting better and better.” Potter’s ego was powerful enough to reshape his whole personality. “I think his ego and that darkness and his competitive edge was—at times, it served him really well,” Mortimer says. “And I think at times, as we kind of see later, I think it really harmed him. And I think it really caused him to lose track and lose track of who he wanted to be and what his pure motivation was.” Far from hagiography, The Dark Wizard aims to tell what the filmmakers see as a more honest story. “Our point of view was trying to tell a story that was quite honest and maybe went below the layers of Dean’s public persona and almost kind of mythos, to something that was maybe a story that was kind of untold still,” Rosen says. “Dean’s really personal story.” Elsewhere, he describes the challenge as “balancing what we really thought was really heroic about Dean with the sort of other side that we thought was like quite human, but also at times dark and tragic.” Do you think it'll work? © Heinz Zak It is not the first time Mortimer and Rosen have tried to understand a deeply complicated climber driven to outrun his own demons through extreme risk. In The Alpinist, they were already exploring the inner life of the late Canadian climber Marc-André Leclerc. “They just lived these incredible lives that were so true to their spirits,” Mortimer says. And now, he adds, “that ability to like fulfill, you know, what you want to do and like what your spirit like calls you to do—I think I do understand that. It’s very powerful.” Even if it never lasts very long. About his childhood, Potter never shared much beyond the constant moving, the loneliness, and one dream he said came back again and again. A dream that now feels impossible to hear without a chill. “When I was a little boy, my first memory was a flying dream,” Potter says in the series. “In my dream, I flew and I also fell. And I always wondered as I got older if it was some premonition of me falling to my death.” See: The Dark Wizard on HBO Max (one episode each week since April 14)

The rescue of an 18-month-old girl exposed to the cold on Mount Ungaran has sparked a fierce debate in Indonesia. Beyond the shock prompted by the rescue footage, the incident has led medical authorities and the country’s child protection commission to call for clearer rules around outdoor activities with very young children. (cc) Omar Ramadan / Unsplash SEMARANG — Une vidéo virale, un bébé enveloppé dans une couverture de survie et des secouristes s’activant dans le brouillard humide d’une montagne javanaise. Ces images, tournées le samedi 11 avril 2026 sur les pentes du mont Ungaran, dans le district de Semarang, auraient pu se dissoudre dans le flux ordinaire des réseaux sociaux. Elles ont au contraire suffi à faire basculer un incident local dans un débat bien plus large sur l’âge, la responsabilité parentale et les limites de la pratique de la montagne avec de très jeunes enfants. SEMARANG — A viral video, a baby wrapped in an emergency blanket, and rescuers moving through the wet fog on a mountain in Central Java. The footage, shot on Saturday, April 11, 2026, on the slopes of Mount Ungaran in the Semarang district, could have disappeared into the usual churn of social media. Instead, it turned a local incident into a much broader debate about age, parental responsibility, and the limits of taking very young children into the mountains. The basic facts are relatively straightforward. A family, accompanied by their 18-month-old daughter, identified only by the initial L., reached the Puncak Bondolan area at around 2 p.m. The weather then deteriorated quickly, with rain and a sharp drop in temperature. According to early accounts picked up by local media, the child began showing signs of hypothermia and had to be treated by rescuers before being brought back down alive. If the worst was avoided, it was also partly because of timing. Several local outlets reported that rescue teams were already on site for the Semarang Mountain Race 2026, a trail-running competition held that same weekend on the mountain, which allowed for a rapid response. From a Scare to a Wider Reckoning Dwi Purnomo, the manager of the Perantunan base camp — one of the official trailheads where hikers are required to register — later offered a more nuanced, and more uncomfortable, account. According to him, the parents had initially said they did not necessarily plan to reach the summit, but only intended to go as far as posts 3 or 4, intermediate shelters along the trail. He also said a disagreement reportedly emerged between the parents when the weather began to turn. The mother chose to head back, while the father decided to continue upward alone with the child. That split helps explain what came next in Purnomo’s version of events. In an apparent attempt to play down the seriousness of the situation, he said the girl was crying when she was rescued mostly because she had been separated from her mother and wanted to be reunited with her, minimizing the idea that she was suffering from severe hypothermia. But that defense also came with a significant admission: the child was wet, exposed to the cold, and rescuers did in fact have to use an emergency blanket to keep her condition from getting worse. By Monday, April 13, the Indonesian Pediatric Society, Ikatan Dokter Anak Indonesia, had spoken out publicly. Its message was blunt: a child is not “a miniature adult,” and children under 3 are especially vulnerable to cold, damp conditions, and rapid heat loss, particularly when their clothes stay wet for too long. The organization urged extreme caution and stressed that toddlers should not be exposed to this kind of environment unless conditions are tightly controlled. Tolerance Runs Out The next day, Indonesia’s Child Protection Commission, the KPAI, pushed the point further. Commissioner Ai Rahmayanti said the case should serve as a collective lesson and called for discussion of age limits and clearer child-protection standards on mountain routes. In other words, the debate was no longer just about one couple’s judgment. It had already shifted to the lack of explicit rules in places where parental responsibility alone now appears far too fragile a safeguard. At least locally, that message appears to have landed. The Perantunan base camp announced tighter access rules. Until now, there had been no clearly fixed age threshold, and children could still be allowed to start the ascent if they were accompanied by their parents. Going forward, balita — toddlers — will no longer be admitted, and the minimum age now being discussed is roughly the age at which children begin elementary school, still under parental supervision.

Raúl Antón is not your typical climbing coach. His classes aim at progress, yes, but also at introspection. Without any grand claims, the Spanish thinker sends out a weekly text unpacking a philosophical idea tied to climbing. More than 500 people receive this “weekly card” on WhatsApp. We spoke with a climber for whom climbing is a real-world lab for understanding yourself—and rethinking the society around you. (cc) Riccardo Pitzalis / Unsplash Vertige Media: How did you come to combine philosophy and climbing? Raúl Antón : Philosophy is a lens for trying to understand the world. When you study it—which I have—it ends up finding its way into every part of life: friendships, romantic relationships, work, and of course climbing. For me, it’s just natural. Every time I teach, philosophical ideas come up, because that’s how I speak and how I think. Vertige Media : So climbing becomes a way to talk about philosophy? Raúl Antón : At the entrance to the Temple of Apollo, the words “Know thyself” are carved in stone. That’s one of the foundations of Greek thought when it comes to understanding the world. In that sense, philosophy looks like the broader form of knowledge, and climbing like a simple practical tool. But take a concept like a growth mindset: focusing not on the final result, but on the process that gets you there. A climber gets that idea right away, because it’s built into daily life. You might put 50 attempts into a project—the route you’re working—before finally sending it. And once you clip the chains, the anchor at the top, you realize the most valuable part was actually those two weeks spent trying to link the route, along with all the smaller goals you set along the way. In a case like that, is climbing a philosophical tool—or is philosophy a way of understanding climbing? "Climbers spend a huge amount of time asking themselves how to manage their mind. There aren’t many sports where fear, anxiety, insecurity, but also strength and self-esteem, are so openly present, and those are deeply philosophical ideas" Vertige Media : Couldn’t you say the same thing about any sport? Raúl Antón : Everyone has to learn to know themselves in order to become a better athlete, just as they do to become a better father or mother, citizen, or politician. So yes, you can talk about philosophy in soccer just as easily as in golf. That said, I think climbing has something different about it, something almost magical. Vertige Media : How would you describe that difference? Raúl Antón : The mind plays a fundamental role in climbing. If a climber neglects that part of it, they won’t improve. Someone who is afraid of heights and never works on that fear won’t get more than 10 feet off the ground. Climbers spend a huge amount of time asking themselves how to manage their mind. There aren’t many sports where fear, anxiety, insecurity, but also strength and self-esteem, are so openly present, and those are deeply philosophical ideas. On a soccer field, I can hide my lack of confidence from my teammates. In climbing, if I’m scared, I’m going to feel it completely. I’ll sweat, I’ll lose my breath, and I’ll feel that fear all the way through the route. I can’t hide it. Vertige Media : People often say there’s a philosophy of life behind climbing. Do you agree with that phrase? Raúl Antón : That expression is often misused to describe a lifestyle. Climbers often make life choices around their passion: taking a job that may be unstable but flexible, so they have more freedom to climb. There’s also that familiar image of the athlete traveling around in a van and striking up a conversation with anyone in the parking lot at a crag. In that sense, climbers do form a kind of tribe. Raúl Antón, out for a walk © Courtesy of Raúl Antón Vertige Media : In one of your weekly cards, you talk about the idea of community. Why did you choose to unpack that? Raúl Antón : It’s especially true in climbing: other people are not your rivals. They’re the reason the whole thing is possible. I need someone to belay me, or to spot me on a boulder problem—a person helping protect a fall. I’m competing with myself, regardless of what anyone else is doing. And the people around me are the ones looking out for me so I can push past my limits. That feeling is both a little wild and completely logical, and it’s also a deeply countercultural philosophical value. Vertige Media : What do you mean by that? Raúl Antón : The society we live in pushes us to compete with other people, whether at work, in our social lives, or anywhere else. That’s the basic logic of capitalism. Climbing breaks with that dominant way of thinking, the one that teaches us to see others as opponents. A lot of climbers are stronger than I am. Watching Dani Andrada, the Spanish pro climber, tick his 30th 5.14b (8c) of the year makes me want to do my own first climb at that level. That kind of competition with yourself forces you to know yourself better and work on your self-esteem, your identity, and your physical condition. It can make you a stronger, more resilient person—and help you use that strength whether you’re trying to send a project, nail a job interview, or survive your next Tinder date.

On May 20, 2025, ranger and biologist Shannon “SJ” Joslin hung a trans pride flag on El Capitan on their day off. Three months later, they were fired by the National Park Service. As the Trump administration intensifies its assault on LGBTQ+ rights and federal workers, Joslin’s story shows how political power can reshape daily life in one of America’s most iconic climbing landscapes—and why visibility remains an act of resistance. Shannon SJ Joslin © Ryan Moon Vertige Media: You worked at Yosemite for four and a half years. What was your role there? Shannon SJ Joslin : I had two major roles. First, I managed the big wall bat program, developing methods to study bats along cliffs, because historically, bat research stopped when researchers hit a cliff. They’re scientists, not climbers. Yosemite was this unique place where we had scientists who were also climbers. Second, I managed all terrestrial wildlife data for the park—mammals and birds. I built database systems so researchers could effectively work with data from long-term studies and endangered species projects. But I’d been connected to Yosemite since 2008. I wrote the Yosemite bouldering guidebook in 2013, so every weekend I wasn’t working for the park, I was there anyway. Vertige Media : How did your identity as a trans and nonbinary person intersect with your work before the Trump administration? Shannon SJ Joslin : I was hired when Biden was president. The Park Service and Department of the Interior had real DEI initiatives promoting inclusion. The head of Interior was actually an Indigenous person—very progressive, taking steps in the right direction. In that atmosphere, celebrating Pride and LGBT rights was supported. Yosemite has one of the bigger Pride celebrations in the park service. But as soon as there was a hint Trump could be elected again in 2024, things tightened up. We started having issues getting the same Pride events approved. There was this sense of fear, and it made people forget that LGBT rights and supporting marginalized groups is still important. "There’s a natural heart feature on El Capitan, this iconic granite monolith. I thought, what better way to celebrate ourselves than hanging this flag of acceptance and identity at the base of that heart?" Then once Trump was inaugurated in 2025, it became concrete. Rules were put in place limiting how we could support people, what words we could use in reports, how we could hire, what groups we could have. All the DEI groups that tried to broaden recruitment—all of that came to a halt. Vertige Media : How did the idea of flying a trans pride flag on El Capitan come up? Shannon SJ Joslin : I was on my way to a protest in the park—we have First Amendment areas where protests are allowed. This one was against the recent federal layoffs, when thousands of workers were laid off for no reason. The Trump administration was also pushing legislation specifically targeting trans people. I think the LGBT community is so beautiful. We’re born into a world where all these traditions tell us we’re supposed to be a certain way, and you have to fight through that to figure out you’re gay, or that your body doesn’t match your brain. It’s a beautiful process of self-discovery. And to me, when someone tries to oppress you, the best thing you can do for yourself—and against them—is celebrate yourself. Smile in their faces. Because they’re trying to crush you, and if you can say, “It doesn’t matter what you think of me, I will always celebrate myself,” then you’ve already pushed back. So I wanted this gesture of celebrating our community despite all these regulations trying to dim our light. There’s a natural heart feature on El Capitan, this iconic granite monolith. I thought, what better way to celebrate ourselves than hanging this flag of acceptance and identity at the base of that heart? We’d climb up, take photos just like anyone else does in the park, and share them within the trans community to celebrate ourselves. Vertige Media : Did you know you were taking a risk? Shannon SJ Joslin : No. I didn’t think I was risking anything, because we’re supposed to have all our freedoms on our own time. We had First Amendment training in the park. I consulted with colleagues who told me, “Don’t do it on a day you work, and you’re supposed to have all your First Amendment rights that day.” “SJ” on El Capitan next to the trans flag she hung with friends © courtesy of “SJ” There was historic precedent for flags on El Capitan—even NPS workers off the clock hanging flags, and it being okay. We did it on a Tuesday morning, when not many people are looking at El Cap. We didn’t advertise it. The flag was up for just under three hours, then we took it down. Everything fell into place so perfectly. At one point, the light hit the flag while the rock was still gray, and it was just glowing. It was beautiful—this silently waving flag expressing something so beautiful. It was incredible. Vertige Media : Other flags have been hung on El Capitan—a “Stop the Genocide” banner in 2024, an inverted American flag in February 2025. Why was yours treated differently? Shannon SJ Joslin : It’s ironic. This flag is a flag of identity, whereas those other flags are flags of ideology. As much as I support them, they’re opinions—that America is in disarray, that we should stop the genocide. They’re both correct, in my eyes. But this flag is just about identity. It’s like if you’re from France and you bring your French flag up the wall—it’s who I am, celebrating myself while doing something big. The reason this flag got singled out is because the Trump administration knows the best way to group people together and create tribalism for MAGA is to position itself against an enemy. They’re making trans people the enemy, villainizing us. That’s because most people don’t know someone who’s trans, so they don’t know we’re just people trying to exist and go unnoticed. If it were up to us, we would never want to be noticed. We just want to go about our lives. But because we don’t have equal rights and we’re being attacked, we have to take these stands. Until we’re equal, we have to advocate for ourselves. Vertige Media : What happened after you came down? Shannon SJ Joslin : The next day, I got notice of a new law in the Superintendent’s Compendium—the park’s rulebook. They tried to backdate it to the day we hung the flag, which was fishy. Then a couple days later, I was notified I was under criminal investigation. I thought it was posturing. A couple weeks after that, they said I was also under administrative review. That’s when I really started wondering whether this would affect my job. A month after the flag, they interrogated me. They were fishing: “Did you get paid to hang the flag? Did you give Pattie Gonia the hat?” Wild questions. I was like, “No, I just wanted to celebrate myself.” "When I got fired, I felt like I lost the love of my life. Like someone murdered the love of my life and I could do nothing about it. Tremendous grief and loss. I lay on the floor for two days in disbelief" A month or two later, I got called into the acting deputy superintendent’s office. She introduced herself, shook my hand, and handed me a letter saying I was fired. This was August 12, 2025. Vertige Media : The superintendents are chosen by Washington, not by people who understand the parks. How does that political link work? Shannon SJ Joslin : Exactly. The two people at the top of all parks—the superintendent and deputy superintendent—are chosen by Washington. They’re political officials, not people chosen by those who understand the place. When Trump got into office, our progressive superintendent and deputy were eliminated. We got Ray McPatton, a good old boy with a military background. Classic situation—he’s worked at multiple parks, has a terrible reputation, but keeps getting promoted because instead of prioritizing what the park needs, he prioritizes what Washington wants. Vertige Media : How did the firing affect you emotionally? Shannon SJ Joslin : Overwhelmingly. People who work for the Park Service don’t make much money. We live in rural areas. We sacrifice a lot to steward the place we love. It becomes our whole life—we surround ourselves with coworkers, live in tiny towns. What motivates us every day is that sense of awe. When I got fired, I felt like I lost the love of my life. Like someone murdered the love of my life and I could do nothing about it. Tremendous grief and loss. I lay on the floor for two days in disbelief. That was my dream job. I’m a scientist, I love bats, I love data. That position was what my life had been building toward. Suddenly, this place where I thought, “I’m going to live here for the rest of my career,” was no longer secure. I live in a town where I break bread with people, where I want to watch their kids grow up, where I want to be part of the community. We literally build each other’s houses. And all of that was put at risk because I didn’t know whether I’d be able to get another job and still live where I live. "But I’ve even tried to apply for volunteer positions and didn’t even get an interview. Because of this climate of fear, I’m untouchable now" Shannon SJ Joslin, from when they was still employed by Yosemite National Park © courtesy of “SJ” Vertige Media : How did you rebuild? Shannon SJ Joslin : My old colleagues and neighbors pulled me back up. I had a friend who would show up, lie on the floor with me, and say, “All right, we’re going to hang some shelves today.” My colleagues started a GoFundMe so I could take some time to figure things out instead of immediately needing another job. But I’ve even tried to apply for volunteer positions. I’m way overqualified for search and rescue—I’ve been coming to the park for 17 years, I’m a swiftwater rescue technician, a wilderness first responder, and I have advanced rope training. I applied to Tuolumne Search and Rescue and didn’t even get an interview. Because of this climate of fear, I’m untouchable now. People are so scared they feel like they have to turn their backs on their friend. That’s incredibly upsetting—this sense of loss for all of us. Vertige Media : How did the climbing community respond? Shannon SJ Joslin : This is kind of a funny answer, but I think because the climbing community isn’t a marginalized community, certain people posted about it, but by and large, the people who helped and were the most vocal were other marginalized communities. That’s something we see often in the States. It’s disheartening because as someone who takes care of a climbing mecca, it would be nice to see more professional climbers engage politically. Our jobs have been politicized, but we just don’t see that from a lot of climbers. Some were great, especially local climbers. But it’s hard—we spend so much time making sure people can keep climbing here, and then to see them not support us when so much of what we do is about supporting them, that hurts. Some cis, straight, white male pro climber who uses Yosemite to land sponsorships—it’s so hard to get that person to make any public statement about federal workers being laid off. They just go silent. Vertige Media : Where are you now legally, and what are you fighting for beyond your own situation? Shannon SJ Joslin : I’m suing the federal government. Part of the lawsuit is about defending federal workers’ First Amendment rights. If we win on that front, it would strengthen our protections. "Celebrating who you are isn’t political. It’s human" We’ve also unionized in the Park Service. I was actually fired during the unionization process, which isn’t supposed to happen. And we’re in a trans rights movement right now. We need to secure trans rights in this country the same way we did with civil rights and gay rights. And that takes allies showing up. The gay rights movement would not have happened unless straight people stood with us. The civil rights movement would not have happened unless white people fought to end segregation. Trans rights won’t happen unless more people advocate for us, because we’re such a small part of the population—maybe 1 or 2 percent—and we’re being villainized. The same goes for federal workers’ rights. Hopefully what comes out of this is that we gain more rights, those rights get solidified, and we’re protected in more ways. We filed our briefing, and now we’re waiting for the government’s response. The next hearing, or the judge’s decision, is set for May 14. Vertige Media : What would you say to someone reading this and thinking, “This doesn’t concern me—I just want to climb”? Shannon SJ Joslin : If the government is working well for you, you don’t think about the government. But when it stops working, when it starts targeting people, we all have a responsibility to speak up. Climbing happens on public lands that we all help steward. When the people protecting those lands are silenced, fired, or forced out for who they are, it affects everyone. Celebrating who you are isn’t political. It’s human. And when celebration becomes an act of resistance, that’s when we need allies most.