Bolt Choppin; From The Perspective Of A Sport Climber

Copyright: Indy, 1999

Well, I reckon I have a story to tell. Unlike my other climbing stories, this one is not too happy. No, this tale’s about the worst kinda scum you can imagine; the kinda scum you wouldn’t want your pretty, virgin, daughter goin out with on a date. The characters involved have no moral rank, due to their lowly cultural standing. Heck, their mothers probably don’t even like em. The only thing about em that is "rank" is their ensuing smell. Got any idea who I’m talkin about? That’s right! It’s them God damn traditional climbers. I wouldn’t give one of em air if he were trapped in a jug. This story is full of hate, rage, and Bosh drills. Hell, it ain’t very politically correct, either. I was there and saw the whole thing with my own two eyes. I nearly shit in my lycra when I saw what these fellas were doin. I had to take pictures. It’s such a despicable tale that no one would believe me if I didn’t have proof. If you are easily offended, you’ll probably want to stop now; it only gets worse from here. Them damn, sons of bitches, trad. climbers! I’d better start before I get my self too excited to continue. Hold on tight!

My day of climbing started like any other day of climbing; my mother woke me up, cooked me breakfast, kissed me on my cheek, any I was on my way. Since I don’t work, I had to borrow my daddy’s new SUV. I loaded up my four dogs (Mocha, Java, Dill, Do) and started the drive. The drive down was difficult since I didn’t get much sleep the night before. ESPN was playing the "greatest hits" from the X Games. It was really radical! Well, anyway, I soon arrived at the Jackson Falls parking area. I was really excited to see that my loyal Access Fund had done so many improvements; the gravel road, expansion of the parking lot, and the building of a shitter, all added to my outdoor experience. I quickly loaded my new North Face daypack with quick draws, stick clips, GriGri’s, and other essential sport climbing gear.

My first experience of horrors started at the "fixed line" climb. Some damn, trad climber, "do gooder" had cut the fixed lines. Damn! Those lines had only been there for a few months. They were in really good shape. Instead of opting for the "walk in" I decided to replace the fixed line with one of my own retired ropes. To ensure that no weenie could take my precious line, I put a new lapide on (finger tight). "That otta hold," I thought to myself. Well, on to the climb.

I had heard that some way cool dudes had bolted a few new climbs rated 5.16d. I was stoked by the idea of shiny, new bolts up a wall of jugs. I ran down the trail with enthusiasm. I was so excited that I decided to save energy by not saying "hello" to any other climbers; salutations eat up lots of energy. As I approached the new climbs, I heard a sound that I had never heard before. It was definitely metal, sounded heavy, but there was a lot of it. Finally, true terror gripped me! I listened as climbers laughed and enjoyed their selves. I thought, "This is sport climbing. How can you have time for fun! Sport climbing is all about conquering and destroying." As I turned the corner, I discovered the source of the mysterious metal sound. "A rack! And a damn big one, too!" I had heard of trad. racks, but had never seen one. Surrounding this large pile of gear were 35, no, let me restate. There were 135 trad. climbers. They were big, ugly, sweaty, oh, and they really stunk. They looked at me like they wanted to tear off my arm and feed it to me. Suddenly, my attention was drawn to the wall. A trad climber (wearing the other half of the rack) was dancing slowly up the new 5.16d. He had a crazed, "mad man" look on his face. His laugh was a vengeful bellow that started deep in his soul and roared loudly out of his open mouth. As I observed the climb that he had finished, I fell to my knees in desperation. "No! For the love of anything holy! Not that!" The climber had lead the spot route without using the bolts. To make matters worse, he had placed an atomic piece of gear within three feet of every bolt.

Now I was really scared. The other trad. climbers started to laugh and chant. They spoke in tongues as one of them revealed "the kit." As the kit was hoisted to the top of the climb, I knew that the end was near. Finally, the kit arrived at the top of the climb. The leader, slowly, but deliberately, opened the pouch and revealed...oh, the horror. It’s too despicable to mention. It....it was...a crowbar and a hammer! He was going to chop every one of those bolts. I screamed like a little bitch, "AAAAHHHHHHH!" The leader, in silence, turned, and looked dead at me. As the leader gave me a smile, I was held silent in my tracks. I was helpless.

Then, he started. There are three steps to proper bolt choppin: 1) loosen, 2) turn, and 3) chop. To loosen the bolts, the leader used the crowbar. A few swift blows and the hanger spun freely. Next the leader used a pair of pliers to turn out the bolt. Finally, the bolt can be removed by hand. After every chop, the leader would lean over and kiss the rock, as if to say, "Sorry. Sport climbers can’t hurt you any more." He pulled every bolt.

Hit it hard to loosen it!
That crazed, "mad man!"
Turn it out!
Chop it!
Kiss it!

Often he would stop and have climbers from the crowd test his trad gear. One time he had two climbers test the gear, together. Another time he had a climber stand on the ground and touch the first bolt. That son of a bitch pulled six bolts! When he descended back to the ground, he further insulted the SCC (Sport Climbing Community) by saying "That Damn climb’s only 5.5. My gimp grandmother could climb that with two wooden legs." A victory dance ensued. The leader, with a crazed look, held the tools and the bolts. I fainted.

When I awoke, the trad climbers had moved on. My dogies were gone; the "hard core" trad climbers had killed and eaten them. From the sound of their distant laughter, I could tell that more bolts were falling prey to this posy of vengeful traditional climbers. On their second climb, it was rumored that the leader found more bolts of one of his old boulder problems. He was so pissed that he "on sight," "free soloed" the climb in his Birkenstocks. After his fit of madness, he chopped another six bolts. To quiet the crowd, the leader belayed four other climbers up this desperate route. All of them wore their street shoes. Personally, I think that’s a crock of shit. No one can climb in their regular shoes.

While the trad climbers were consumed by "choppin," I slithered away into the night. It is a day that I will never forget. As legend goes, those same climbers stayed up late into the night drinking large amounts of Fat Tire Ale and watching "Strange Brew." You never know, but if you go out into the woods, late at night, and listen, sometimes, and I mean sometimes, the familiar chant of "Yaki Soba" can still be heard.

Although, written as fiction, this story is true. Several years ago, I led the first ascent of these climbs in traditional style. With my bolt chopping, I restored the climbs to their original condition. No one ever asked if the lines had been climbed. The bolters assumed that any face could not (or had not) been done in traditional style. I was acting well within my limits. I challenge any climber who would dare contest my motives or actions. Sport climbers need to act more responsibly. Both of the climbs described were no harder than 5.6. The cliff is no place for climbers to experiment with bolting. A climb should never be lowered to the ability level of the climber. Modern sport climbers do not consider the abilities of other, more advanced climbers, but prefer to degrade and humble the rock to suite their personal abilities and goals. Just because a route is above your personal levels, it does not mean that it is above all climbers’ abilities. The most bold and extreme climbs should be reserved for the technical masters, not the bolt masters. Any fool who can read has the ability to become a bolt master; simply read the instruction manual that comes with the cordless drill. To become a technical master requires years of practice, utter devotion, the ability to admit small failures, but finally, an extreme desire to constantly stride for personal improvement and betterment. Success is not achieved overnight. Sometimes climbers are gifted with raw talent, but to be a technical master requires years of hard work, not minutes of easy drilling.

As a whole, traditional climbing is dying. New climbers could care less about movement, ethics, and style; the art of placing traditional gear is no longer respected. The current trend is to bolt a plethora of direttissimatic climbs, climb them once, brag to other climbers, and finally, grow tired of the sport all together. All too late will the sport climber realize that their unfortunate acts have unnecessarily closed all climbing to all climbers; the traditionalist, mountaineer, ice climber, boulderer, aid climber, and, yes, the sport climber, too, will be forced, all alike, to hang their shoes and ropes only to remember of "what we had and how it was." Landowners are gathering with alarming haste to stop the prolific bolting that continues. It’s not that the landowners hate climbers, but the liability of "a blind eye towards bolting" is too great. The advancing sport climber will charge unknowingly against the dying sport of climbing. There will be no mercy, no remorse; only determined spoken lines of hatred, endless droves of Access Fund lawyers, and an eventual grid pattern of bolts upon all rock faces is all that will remain. The only possible solution to this great problem is through education. As is true with all history, how can you know where you are, if you don’t know where you have been. Grassroots climbing must be retaught to the younger generations of climbers. A strong knowledge and understanding of traditional climbing practices is essential. Each climber must show that they have some sense of style and ethics. Finally climbers must show an outward sign of emotion and friendship to other climbers and landowners, alike. The fathers of American climbing have stated that climbing was about no rules, freedom, ascent, and fun. We should never put ourselves in a position to create such rules, but until climbers show a sign of self-control, self-regulation, and self-preservation, my bolt choppin will continue.

If you dare challenge me, feel free to call me. I'll meet you where ever you desire. Seriously, call. We'll chat.

Mark "Indy" Allen

Professional Guide & Climber of 17 years

(314) 630-7183