Priceless

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Let’s run the numbers.

Replacing the key crux stopper, 4 times: $36

3 ropes beaten to worthless fuzz: $450

Gas to drive from my home to the trailhead (I’m guessing at least 20 times): $150

Visits to my physical therapist to undo the damage of repeatedly thrashing myself on the powerful fingerlock crux: $640

6 months of gym membership strictly to train for one route: $480

And then there are the costs beyond the financial:

  • the hours spent beating my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit my fat fingers deep enough into the crack to make upward progress
  • the sleepless nights, discouraged that I wasn’t good enough and then, when it seemed in reach, fretting about a perfect execution of the moves
  • the meals and massages I offered to my wife for not climbing where she wanted and instead belaying me, again, and again (and again)
  • the shreds of skin and drops of blood
  • all the other routes I could have climbed instead of falling off the same one over and over again

The calculus of a rock climbing obsession is tough to equalize. We give up all kinds of things for what amounts to little more than monkeying around, silly games on a high-stakes playing field. We ask a lot of our partners, both in climbing and in other aspects of life. They sit silently tethered to the end of our rope while we swing around hoping to sketch together a series of usable holds, or patiently rewarm dinner when we come home late and dejected from not making “progress” and swallow the worry that our tardiness was an omen of something worse than failing to stick the crux moves.

But our obsession also reflects our commitment to a goal, an ideal. We strip everything down, chisel our life to a precise myopia. The minutia, finding just the right position for a foot jammed in the crack or combination of crystals on which to hang the skin of our fingers to generate upward movement, becomes the lever to lift our spirit. And if we focus, obsess, fret, and dream about that one thing, we might get lucky enough for it, for a fleeting moment, to be our universe, when the next breath, making one move higher, becomes all that is.

That moment, when we let that beast of obsession out in a long guttural scream and look down to see that we just did what we thought we’d never be able to do, is, you know, priceless.

Entering the crux of China Doll (5.14a). Photo by Noah Gostout

Entering the crux of China Doll (5.14a). Photo by Noah Gostout

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Retrospective: My First Trip to Yosemite

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In 2006, I made for first pilgrimage to Yosemite Valley. I had big dreams and was pretty humbled. I wrote about my trials and tribulations in the 2006 edition of the Colorado College Alpine Journal. You can find it in the link below, on page 33, called “Face Down in the Ditch with a Slice of Humble Pie.” There are also lots of other great stories in the edition (and the even more excellent recent editions).

Today, I leave for yet another trip to Yosemite, this time with even bigger goals. I’m sure it’ll also be a good learning experience.

CCAJ2006

http://issuu.com/erikrieger/docs/alpine2006final

Trad Climbing: The Finer Points

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Mountain Project just released its “School of Rock” pages, an entire section of the website dedicated to instructional content to learn to climb. It’s hard to make an argument that this is any different than Freedom of the Hills and Learning to Rock Climb, only in an electronic form. Maybe that’s better, as it is more accessible to more folks, especially ambitious but moronic teenagers (i.e. ones like me at fourteen). As tempting as it is to use my time to critique, on both technical and philosophical levels, the problems with this pseudo-democratic, erroneously constructivist attempt at distributing discrete knowledge, I’m not going to. I’ll just say, buyer beware (it’s free).

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There’s a section on traditional climbing, which is, disappointingly, not very funny, even in an ironic way. Admittedly, I haven’t scoured the whole section, so maybe there are some gems in there somewhere. I also can’t vouch for accuracy and exact content, but I would bet my #7 stopper (which is my lucky one, for reference) that it isn’t a whole lot different than the other tomes of climbing’s technical skills. I’ve come to believe that all of these instructional manuals are missing some important aspects of being a successful traditional rock climber, and I’m here today to give them to you: the finer points of traditional rock climbing.

Note: Some of these may not be specific to trad climbing and could be applied to various other forms of our sport.

  • Use your partner’s name with commands, like “Belay off, Hans.” Unless you’re alone on a wall in an unexplored region of Baffin Island, there’s a very good chance someone else will be climbing nearby. Hearing their name also helps wake up your partner as they nod off from low blood sugar.
  • Don’t say “I’m off” when you fall. Say “falling” or nothing at all. Usually, your belay knows what’s happening. 150 feet up a windy, hard-to-see pitch, “I’m off” could get confusing and even catastrophic.
  • Place bomber gear, and as best you can, place gear that your partner can get out, you tiny-handed people.
  • Everyone hears about extending slings on pieces to minimize rope drag, which is a good idea, but the seasoned trad climber eyes a pitch from the belay and plans ahead for the parts that will need slings. Generally, it’s mentally easier to sling pro long at the bottom of a pitch (hard moves above ledges aside), when we’re fresh and confident, than at the top. A rope that innocently runs over a small rooflet down low can become a Titanic of drag at the top.
  • Always place the best piece you can at the moment. Not placing a bomber piece here just in case you might need that piece there is a risky gamble at best. When in doubt, place the bigger piece.*
  • * This is, of course, assuming you don’t certainly know you need that given piece up higher. In that case, place the best you can get otherwise, then keep your wits about you until you get the good one in.
  • Almost all the time, do the shorter rappel. Also, knots in the end are a great idea, but it can be even better to clip the ends of the rope(s) to your harness rather than throw them down to get them stuck in a crack.
  • If the route is long enough, you’re going to have to pee. The best time to do so is when your partner is off belay after leading the next pitch. If you can, pee down the wall, preferably not on the power pitches, where the sun will dry it off quickly. Peeing on people below you is sometimes unavoidable, which leads me to –
  • Get over yourself and let faster parties pass. Sure, it’s cold and you’re already on track to get benighted; these are minor penalties for being slow. It’s unlikely that those will change much if you let the party blasting up the route behind you go by. Just humbly smile, and let their prowess be an inspiration to not get benighted the next time. If you’re going to bail and there’s a party close behind, let them climb through, then bail. Just like on trails, uphill travel gets the right-of-way.
  • Things like puffy jackets, extra water, real food (instead of bars and gels), a lightweight tarp big enough to wrap around your legs, and gloves can make a long day up a hard route way more fun. And if the route is steep and clean enough, hauling the bag instead of climbing with it can further increase the fun quotient.
  • Climbing in a team three on big routes can also be super fun. There are several strategies to minimize the extra time involved with three climbers, making the added social atmosphere totally worth it.
  • Get good at placing passive pro. When placed well, they’re stronger than cams, but they are a little more nuanced. Placing them efficiently will help you send.
  • Put yourself in situations in which you can practice falling on gear. Climbing manufacturing isn’t a multi-billion dollar industry to make shiny training weight. Those widgets work! Start small and conservatively, but place good gear (back it up if you must) and fall on it. At some point, trying to redpoint challenging trad climbs will probably be part of the progression.
  • There’s a fine line between running it out to move quickly and placing enough gear to climb confidently. If you’re gripped, you won’t climb well.
  • And finally, for God’s sake, double check the basics – harness, knot, and belay – before you leave the ground. I’ve seen too many folks get fixated on making sure they have 17 hand-sized cams organized perfectly on their gear loops but neglect to check the buckle. Don’t lose sight of the most important parts of the system.

The Hail Mary

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW4w1uLLPY8

The Hail Mary play is nearly mythical in the football world. It is an act of heroism: glory or failure, all or nothing. I mean, just imagine if Florida State’s receiver had actually caught the ball. The Hail Mary isn’t about optimizing, hedging bets, or playing it safe. It’s about putting all the chips on the table and seeing what we’re made of in one singular effort, even if the outcome is as much dependent on luck as it is on prowess. In climbing, I think we also have Hail Mary plays, and I think they deserve a similar mythical status – for better and worse – as they do in football.

I should start by distinguishing a Hail Mary attempt from other climbing tactics. In my definition, one could throw a Hail Mary on any route for which the stakes (whether physical or emotional) are high. Sure, it could be trying to onsight a hard route, but it could also be an end-of-the-trip, go-for-broke attempt on a project. Or maybe it’s a place-a-good-cam-and-climb-like-a-badger-to-the-jug or hike-up-your-feet-and-dyno-and-hope-it’s-a-good-hold. What these all have in common is that in each situation (and other variations), we balance the pendulum of success against a universe of unlikely odds, then put every shred of our being into trying to get it to swing our way.

There are some other criteria for a Hail Mary attempt. First, the game has to be close. If my team is, say, on track to set a record for one of the greatest point spreads in Super Bowl history, a Hail Mary would seem absurd at best. Likewise, I won’t be making a Hail Mary attempt on the Dawn Wall or La Dura Dura. Telling my belayer I’m going for it and then skittering off just above the first bolt demands criticism for grandiosity.

Second, the stakes have to be greater than in the individual act. For example, if I am hangdogging up a route and decide to try a huge dyno rather than crimp through a sequence, I’m just dynoing. But if I try to redpoint the same route, and because I’m so pumped I can’t grab the crimpers and desperately leap for the finishing jug, that’s a Hail Mary.

I go into all this because I’ve recently had some experience with the Hail Mary play. My wife and I drove west in early March for a grand desert adventure – nearly four weeks on the road, a good, old fashioned American road trip which took us back to our younger days as dedicated dirt bags. How the various vectors of our professional lives had crossed (or diverged?) to allow for this month of few enough responsibilities for this trip is a whole different discussion.

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We first headed to the center of dirtbag gravitational pull, Indian Creek. The Creek was once the place my wife and I went to feel good about ourselves. The cracks once felt friendly, straightforward, and satisfyingly positive. Now, because we’re older and softer, the Creek just hurts. We spent several days wincing, taping, retaping, gluing the tape to our fingers, changing shoes, avoiding gobies from certain size cracks, and complaining. Basically, we got totally shut down.

My Creek experience over that last eight years or so has been tethered to one particular line: Air Swedin. At 5.13 R with unavoidable forty-plus-foot falls off the crux, it is a definitive Creek testpiece. The splitter crack and arête that make up the route loom over the approach trail to the Battle of the Bulge Buttress – one of the Creek’s most popular cliffs. In 2006, I got the wacky idea in my head that I could climb this thing. It suffices to say that at that time, it was well above my pay grade. But because of its position, basically the gatekeeper into Indian Creek, it captured me. Over the years I’ve put in several attempts, often trying it multiple times over a season, getting close to sending it, only to have uncontrollables get in the way and having to leave it behind. The last time I tried it, in the fall of 2011, I climbed all the way through the crux, only to have a foot slip higher, and fell. What should have been a mild 15-footer turned into a nearly 50-foot fall when the small cams, blindly placed in a pod, ripped. I badly bruised my foot in the fall and hobbled away discouraged and shaken.

Fast forward to this March, and our return to the Creek. I decided – after much fretting – to try Air Swedin again. After a few attempts on top-rope, which only served to make me feel more doubtful, I decided to lead it. This was no Hail Mary; it was arm-wrestling a demon, not trying to win but hoping to make a good showing. I managed to climb further than I expected, but slipped off the last hard move of the crux. The fall, while big, was fine. As I hung on the rope, I told Becca, “I think I’m done with this route. I just needed to take that fall one more time.”

The day after, as we took stock of our wounded hands and feet, we decided to leave the Creek. It was all for the better, as I already felt the lingering call back to Air Swedin, but I knew that asking Becca to go up there again would tax our partnership (and maybe our marriage) too much. So we headed to Red Rocks, NV, and enjoyed much more forgiving cracks and plenty of sport climbing. We even rented a house through AirBnb for part of the time. It was luxurious and reminded us that we are not the dirtbags we used to be.

We took a guide course in Red Rocks and had a few days off before our next engagement. We decided to go to Zion to try Moonlight Buttress. Becca and I have wanted to try Moonlight for years. It’s unparalleled for its aesthetics (one crack for 600 feet!) and quality. More importantly, it’s a big, hard route that we could do together as the nature of the climbing plays to both of our strengths.

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Our initial plan was to work the route over a few days. We’d start to climb from the bottom, redpointing each pitch as we could. If we needed, we could then rappel in from the top to focus on climbing the upper pitches on a second or third day. Then we checked the weather forecast. We had one day before the rain set in. We opted for the Hail Mary and set our alarm for 6:30am.

After the exhilarating foot-soak crossing the Virgin River, we scrambled to the base and started climbing. The first several pitches, a range of cracks and face climbing from 5.10 to 5.12, all went easily. Even though we still had many hard pitches to go, our confidence increased and the gitters subsided. I started up the crux pitch, and the next forty feet of power laybacking sucked away all the confidence that the prior five hundred had provided. The crack, banged out from years of nailing pins and prying on stuck cams, offered great fingerlocks, but I struggled to blindly place good cams in the smaller crack between the scars. Midway through the crux, I tried to stuff a small cam, and the crack refused it. Desperately, I tried a smaller one, only to have this one rip out of the crack when I tugged on it. Pumped and discouraged, I sagged onto a lower piece.

I managed to find better gear and climb through the crux with a few hangs and then climbed the rest of the pitch without any falls. I knew that I could send the pitch if I tried it again, but there were four more 5.12 pitches above, and so we decided to continue up rather than burning up energy and our one good day of weather on one pitch. Becca followed the crux pitch cleanly and with confidence. I managed to onsight the rest of the pitches of the route, which felt like a huge accomplishment on its own. We topped out in the late afternoon and sauntered down the Angel’s Landing trail, deeply tired and satisfied with one of the best and most challenging days we’ve had together.

I chewed on our Hail Mary on Moonlight for a while afterwards. We hucked the ball down the field, dove into the end zone, and watched the ball bounce off our fingertips. While it was a truly incredible experience to climb the route onsight in a day, technical speaking we didn’t get the touchdown. I hung at the crux, and Becca hung on a higher pitch. It was a mythical attempt, the stakes were high, but we came up just slightly short.

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But, it rained, and so we didn’t try it again. We went back to Red Rocks to meet friends and climb smaller rocks. A week later, it was time to drive home. Some other friends were in Indian Creek, and we decided to break up the drive by stopping there. It wasn’t totally on the way, and we were road weary, but I couldn’t help but want another go, a Hail Mary attempt, on Air Swedin.

We arrived in the evening, and it was easy to persuade our crew to climb at Battle of the Bulge the next day. I knew I had one good attempt, so I spent most of that day relaxing, only climbing enough to stay warm and fresh, and encouraging others to try hard. Around 5pm, the crux arête of Air Swedin went into the shade, and I tied in. This was a familiar ritual: wait for the shade, tie in, climb the crack, pull out to the arête, fall, untie, walk down, drive home. 

But this time was different. I pulled on the arête. I didn’t feel confident. My feet slipped a few times, but I stayed on the slopey sidepulls. I paused just before making the final throw to a jug. I reached for it, years of failure weighing me down, but I grabbed the hold. I desperately tossed my other hand onto the hold and pulled my feet up and stood into the rest. I’d made it through. The rest of the route, maybe fifty feet of odd 5.11 climbing, was surreal. Untying was surreal. Driving home was surreal. Most of the time, the Hail Mary play is one that makes people smile and shake their heads: “That would have been cool.” And sometimes, every once in a while, it makes you feel like a champion.

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Part way up the arete. Photo by Craig Muderlak

The Anti-List: The Top Ten Things I Didn’t Do in 2013

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End-of-year lists are so clichéd that making fun of end-of-year lists is, at this point, equally so. I suppose there is something reassuring to us about distilling an entire year of ephemeral experiences, however unrelated, remote, and insignificant they may or may not be, into a succinct and far less complicated list of items, preferably that fit onto a single typed page (or a computer screen so folks don’t have to scroll down). It’s even better when, like those on the tablet God gave to Moses, they happen to fall into an erosion-resistant number, like three, ten, or one hundred.

The climbing world is inundated with similar distillations, from personal posts of “What I Did This Year” to the headline piece on the January 1 Rock and Ice email blast. In the non-climbing media, end-of-year lists contain a variety of significant events, from things people did (say, an NSA contractor leaking a bunch of secret files) to things that just happened (like a 1000-year rain storm). Climbing’s lists, on the other hand, almost entirely focus on accomplishment. They’re all about what someone did. Sure, many of these successes are worth celebrating, but for every success, there are many more failures. For every dream climb or trip we do, there are many more that we don’t. So that’s what my list is about, a celebration of failures, of the things that didn’t happen in 2013.

Thus, in the great tradition of end-of-year lists, I would like to submit mine:

The Top Ten Things I Didn’t Do in 2013

10. The Arete Project at Nathaniel’ Boulders. Little rocks don’t compel me that much. I’m not slamming bouldering here, but it’s hard for me to care enough to try as hard as many of these little gymnastic challenges require. Still, falling off the last enormous dyno at the top of this arête over a dozen times turned this little chunk of rock into a big obsession. I never stuck it from the sit start, and there it remains, in obsession.

Dyno

Coming up short, again.

9. Onsight Burden of Immortality at Tensleep. I’ll preface this one with noting that making excuses about failed onsights invites scoff. Still, I’m going with it. This failed attempt represented the culmination of a string of failed onsight attempts over four days up there this past August. It happened the same way each time: climb up into what I thought was the crux, confidently stuff two of my fat fingers irreversibly into a pocket, pull up, then quickly realize I had exactly the wrong hand in the pocket. Here’s to second try.

8. Ice climbing. I got a pair of ice tools last winter, just before I hurt by arm, so they hung in my garage unused. While I don’t have some grand idea of even becoming slightly good at ice climbing, it seemed like a good way to give my tendons a break from grabbing tiny holds. Still, I never made it out. It’s so easy to find other things to do than go into the cold, slam your fingers against an even colder surface, hang off a face that could collapse at any moment, all while doing something you are certifiably incompetent at. I guess winter has just begun, so maybe I’ll get a chance.

7. Climb in Turkey, China, southern France, Italy, Australia. Sure there are tons of places around the world that have spectacular climbing, but these are the ones, potentially for very arbitrary reasons (like particularly pretty pictures in a magazine article years ago or something), that are on my list. And I didn’t go to any of these this year.

6. Redpoint a certain somewhat secret project at a not-so secret area in the South. Yes, I’m being vague, but years ago I tried an unclimbed line that was everything I love about climbing: hard, scary, and beautiful. It is a plum line up the biggest, proudest section of the wall. And there it waits. Living out West, it’s hard to justify such a long commute for one pitch. Trust me, this one is worth at least one more visit.

5. Surfing. Though I did manage to ride one proper wave this year, I’m still about a 5.5 surfer. I say surfing is at least as cool as rock climbing and probably much more so, especially to the rest of the world (the movie Blue Crush being strong evidence; imagine the same premise but with climbers – not that cool). At this point, I’m not about to move to the beach nor trade a trip to Yosemite for one to Baja. Still, surfing gets at something transcendent in the same way that climbing does. You try hard, deal with fatigue and fear, and every once in a while, your brain shuts up, your body and soul work together, and you get a breath of perfection.

Waiting for the perfect wave, or getting attacked by Flipper.

Waiting for the perfect wave, or getting attacked by Flipper.

4. Climb Fitzroy. I didn’t even make it to Patagonia, which would have been the whole point of ice climbing in the first place. I’d written this place off years ago, saying, “I can’t travel that far to sit in a tent and watch it rain.” For several reasons (a new, beautiful guidebook, primarily), I’ve changed my tune. Fitzroy is a massive chunk of some of the most aesthetic rock in the universe. Added to the bucket list.

3. Climb for the first eleven weeks of the year. I got biceps surgery on January 4. By April, I was back to climbing and even able to climb kind of hard, too. But there was a big chunk of time that I didn’t climb at all. There were also a few weeks over the summer when I was backpacking and didn’t climb. Then there was the week at the beach (see #5). Oh yeah, and there were the two weeks in November when I got pneumonia. In total, I spent about fifteen weeks away from climbing this year. Without climbing, I had a lot more free time, which (once I exhausted my Netflix “Watch Instantly” allowance) gave me the opportunity to explore some other really great ways to spend a day. I also learned a bit about how not to be a climber, how to find satisfaction, physical challenge, adventure, among other things, without climbing.

2. Free climb the West Face of the Leaning Tower. But man, was I close. I freed the hardest pitches, but a fall on each of the last two pitches (trying to onsight them) cost the true send. After pulling on about eighty bolts up a blank wall just to get to the free climbing, it became a bit easier to excuse myself from a “perfect” ascent. Quibbles aside, the West Face was a big deal for me; it was on my list (my lifetime list, not my end-of-year list). Having to reckon with the fact that perfection was more work than I was willing to give wasn’t easy, but the experience eventually settled into something I could stomach. Now, it is an accomplishment, with an asterisk.

1. Try Realization. Nor will I probably ever. I’m not ashamed to freely admit that it’s out of my league. Anyone who watched climbing videos in the early 2000s can remember the original Dosage. The indelible footage of Sharma’s attempts and eventual redpoint of the climb came closer to true climbing porn that anything before, with visceral details of the difficulty of the climb and a candid look at what it took for him to climb it.

So why would a climb that I’ll never even try be on my list (and why, of all the climbs that I’ll never try, this one)? There are climbs that capture climbers’ imaginations, and Realization was the one that captured mine. Realization is a gift because it stands as evidence that there is no ceiling to the challenge that climbing can offer.

That’s what this list is about. Of course, we should celebrate our accomplishments. I certainly do, usually with chocolate chip cookies. But what if I didn’t have a list of failures? What if I earned myself a Golden Piton for being awesome and managed to do it all. I often philosophize about the lessons climbing teaches us about life, usually with a bit of an eye roll from my wife. But I think this one is useful. We get more out of our struggles, our bumps into weakness and limitation – our failures – than we do from our successes. Besides, if climbing were easy, we’d call it “golf.”

The Tenaya Masai: Sometimes you really can be good at it all

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So the saying goes: jack of all trades, master of none. We’re so familiar with this concept that, when we hear the term “all-arounder,” it has almost a euphemistic feel. Do we really remember anything about Deion Sanders other than that fact that he played football and baseball? Even worse is “well-rounded,” which reverberates from high school superlative awards as little more than a consolation prize.

With outdoor equipment, the label carries no fewer connotations, especially when it comes to climbing shoes. Tell me a pair of shoes does it all, and I’ll tell you it does nothing well. Fortunately, there is at least one exception: the Masai from Tenaya. From eeking up microscopic dents on a slab to toeing down hard on a sharp pocket, the Masai inspires confidence and, simply put, performs under a wide range of demands.

The Masai comes from a strong line-up of shoes from Tenaya recently released in the United States and distributed by Trango. For more history of the company and information about the other shoes, check out Trango’s site, the English version of Tenaya’s site, and this review.

I got the Masai in mid-summer. Sitting in Trango’s office, I went through a few different sizes trying to gauge how snug I wanted the fit. Ultimately, with an upcoming trip to the Bugaboos, I went with a more comfortable size. I’ll admit that I was kind of thinking “Sure, I’ll climb most stuff with these, but for the hard, thin pitches, these are not nearly tight enough to perform.” Since then, I’ve worn the Masai on a wide range of climbs: steep limestone, cracks of all sizes (tips to OW), blank stemming corners, slabs, and technical granite faces. The shoes never disappointed. By the time we were packing for the Bugaboos (after climbing in Rifle, Boulder Canyon, the Tetons, Index, and Squamish), I was confident that I only needed to bring one climbing shoe in with me.

While the Masai performs well in a nearly all climbing styles, it excels in a few particulars. First, I love it for longer routes, especially ones that are more difficult. The Masai’s fairly neutral camber makes it comfortable enough to wear for relatively long periods of time (I could consistently wear mine for two pitches unless I was really pushing hard on my feet), but its precision worked well on the technical climbing that difficult granite climbing demands. In general, I have found the Masai to climb very well on just less than vertical to just past vertical rock than involves a combination of hard edging and smearing and/or jamming.

From toe to heel, the shoe feels fairly soft, helping it conform to delicate smears, but across the toe, it is quite stiff, which allows for more power when edging and more stability in cracks. This lateral stiffness also gives good support when wearing the shoes for a long time. The uppers feel pretty soft, which makes the shoe even more comfortable. I had my concerns about the durability of this synthetic material, but aside from a bit of fuzziness, the shoes are still in great shape after probably 5000+ vertical feet of climbing, much of that on abrasive cracks in Squamish and the Bugs.

For bouldering and extremely steep climbing, the Masai is a bit on the stiff side, but the toe box does have a slight bevel giving it the little “power pocket” that is usually only available in severely downturned (read: painful) shoes. This power pocket allows the shoe to still be able to grab incut holds on steeper rock.

I really did try to be a skeptic with these shoes. I would climb a pitch in the Masai then try the pitch again later with one of my old standby shoes. Performance wise, if there was ever a difference, it was the Masai that felt more solid. What I really couldn’t get over was how much less my feet hurt at the end of the pitch. With my other shoes, I was pulling them off as I lowered down, but wearing the Masai, I came down, de-racked, sipped some water, and happily slipped them off.

The short version: If you need a pair of shoes to do it all: edge, smear, jam, hook, whatever and still deliver plenty of power without making your toes scream, the Masai is the shoe for you.