Holding On To Letting Go

Sometimes a line just draws you in. I’ll visit it on rest days to test a theory, or a new grip position, or simply get a closer look at a potential foothold. I’ll obsess over the fingertips and muscles that could hold me back. I’m careful not to think of it before bed at the risk of a sleepless night.

There’s comfort in fully committing to something so clear and tangible. It brings purpose to each day, and as the doubts ebb away, I relax into the familiar process of unpicking another complex physical puzzle.

No other time has satisfied this feeling as much as the early months of 2024. I was revisiting Arrival of the Birds, a beautiful unclimbed project tucked away in a remote Swiss valley. The climb suited me well—an almost blank face of river-polished rock featuring small edges and poor footholds. Yet my early efforts felt futile. Rarely had I been so tested in this style, and the challenge inspired me. I knew I’d need to put more energy into my preparation than I had ever done before. I got to work.

I moved back to the Lake District, the remote English landscape I grew up in, and poured myself into training on my home board. My path became clear. But as I made progress indoors, a new project caught my eye in the hills on my doorstep.

I committed myself to training for the Swiss project, while also climbing outside on an incredible boulder that would become Spots of Time. My solitude seemed like an asset, and there was space for little else beyond mental and physical preparation. Despite the isolation, I was content.

Hard effort was followed by reward, and I completed both projects. I was satisfied and proud but all of a sudden I felt directionless.

It’s a difficult feeling to prepare for. These climbs came to represent the passion I felt for my sport, alongside the lessons I’d learned along the way. But here I was experiencing loss for the clarity they offered.

In my deep dive into these climbs, I hadn’t realised the extent at which I’d disconnected from two elements of climbing that are so valuable to me: adventure and people. I had closed myself off to new experiences for the sake of the relaxing presence of certainty, and had drifted from the community I cared so much for.

With this in mind, I set about lightening my relationship with climbing. I followed my day-to-day motivations, and slowly began to challenge the habits I formed in the name of performance. I made a commitment to myself to climb in new places or with other people. I travelled the UK in my van, gaining an insight into the huge variety of rock types and climbing styles we have here.

I climbed in remote areas of Scotland on a small road trip with my sister, relishing in the awe she felt for the landscapes. I climbed on the dramatic coast of South Wales. I climbed in Cornwall with a young local, Solly, and sampled a handful of new projects—alongside making a new friend.

A good day was no longer measured by progression, but the experience as a whole. Whether it was the fun I had climbing on new moves, the beautiful places these lines took me, or the memories I made with good friends and family—all of it showed climbing as something far beyond the lonely physical pursuit I’d been immersed in for so long.

In 2020 I made a commitment not to fly, so the prospect of a trip to the US always meant sailing. This means of travel would take around eight weeks—a period of time I’d never before been willing to sacrifice away from actual climbing. But I was looking for new experiences. It was radical and filled with unknowns, so in search of adventure, I set aside my doubts and decided to go for it. The trip would be six months long, and with two months of travel by boat either side, I was committing to almost a year away from home.

I rode trains through Europe to southern Spain. A boat to the Canary Islands united me with the crew of nine, and we sailed south to Cabo Verde off the coast of West Africa. We then crossed the Atlantic to reach Panama. From here I parted from my crew and weaved through Central America on buses.

At sea, other than a group dinner and the shared night watch, our days had no structure. So, without a rock in sight, I found comfort in the rituals of training. I’d play on a small footless panel we built with wooden holds from my home wall in the Lake District. The wall constantly moved, so there was no metric to be self critical. A series of bands and edges formed a rudimentary training setup which I’d use twice each day. But with nothing specific to train for, I was driven by the enjoyment and therapeutic nature of the practice itself.

Our crossing was calm and our crew worked together effortlessly. The boat had a warm family feel—we each happily offered what help we could, and the mix of sailors and climbers was harmonious.

The friendships I made at sea were special, even if I won’t see many of my crew again. We had to wholly accept each other in the knowledge that we were together for weeks, regardless of our differences. I was excited for the journey ahead, but would miss the honest connection with such a kind group of people.

Upon reaching North America, my first stop was Yosemite Valley. An area far off the map as a pure bouldering destination, it’s rich with climbing history but the timeline seemingly stopped when modern bouldering began. I’d been dreaming of the Buttermilk boulders of Bishop or the dramatic red sandstone of Las Vegas on my way here, but my friends were raving about the magic of the Valley, and with some newfound curiosity, I was interested to see it for myself.

Day one took me to The Dark Side, a climb my friend Katie Lamb had been projecting the previous year with a local named Randy. It was the start of the season, and the pair were reacquainting themselves with the boulder’s delicate moves. They brought me into their process, and we explored new options together. I quickly understood the value of three minds over one. I felt pretty humbled, but to be having so much fun and collectively learning meant that I just wanted to keep going back—a very different feeling to the solitary months of early 2024.

In the weeks that followed, I climbed a lot with these two. I was welcomed into the home of Randy, his partner Beth, and their son, Theo, who I stayed with throughout the winter. Their kind family accepted me so readily that I immediately felt grounded in this unfamiliar place. Beth needs no introduction. If you’ve heard of Yosemite climbing, you’ve likely heard of Beth Rodden. But the more I flicked through the guidebook, the more I noticed Randy Puro’s name stamped underneath hundreds of problems throughout the Valley.

We tried a lot of new projects of various styles together, each with our own different skill sets, and each learning from one another. The process of uncovering the method of these climbs became as much a collective endeavour as a personal one. My drive to complete a problem didn’t fade, but whether or not anyone sent seemed secondary to the day out as a group.

I was soon moving well on the subtle sloping holds and pieced together the first repeat of The Dark Side. I was proud of it, but as much as climbing well, the ascent reiterated that letting people into my process wasn’t just beneficial to my performance—it was also a lot more fun. I felt sad to have wrapped up this chapter with Katie and Randy but understood that, even without climbing myself, to share ideas and see their breakthroughs can feel as fulfilling as my own.

The Dark Side sits in Yosemite’s Camp 4, a place famous for a number of historical testpieces. Early in my trip, I was introduced to an amazing scooped face of poor holds rising diagonally to a crisp lip. The 6 Degrees project. I wasn’t hooked from day one (or sure if it was something I could ever do), but I enjoyed the uncertainty—and each session gave me a small, encouraging glimpse into its possibility. Both Katie and Randy spotted me numerous times, pushing me through moves and helping me test positions.

Despite me being the only one trying, it rarely felt like climbing solo. The excitement of a new high point or a bigger link was something we all came to share. I had discovered a new project—perhaps more ambitious than anything I’d tried previously—but I viewed it through a totally different lens. My days out were not just my own. I would support my friends and they would support me in a way which made detaching from the outcome of my performance feel easy and organic. I was pushing myself as much as ever, but the weight and seriousness of climbing alone was gone.

We are each on our own paths in climbing. Goals and personal milestones aren’t going anywhere. But if we open up our definition of success to include that of others, there’s a joy to be found that can transcend even the biggest individual achievements. To feel invested in someone else’s ambitions. Their efforts. Their strengths. When we let go of our ego and share our passion, the rewards can be endless—and the future of climbing seems that bit brighter.