Why I Hate Climbing Fashion
This article originally appeared on Climbing
Over the decades of outdoor apparel's evolution, a certain "climber look" has emerged. On everyone from the hardened experts to the dabbling cragsters, you'll see $100 pants and $50 tops and $600 hardshells and $200 approach shoes, with $300 packs, and so on. Unfortunate developments are: the price, the excessive use of plastic, the feeding of the pervasive and socially-sanctioned consumerism, and, far and wide, the zippers and drawstrings.
Yosemite climbers through the '50s to the '70s famously had a stingy, albeit unique style, with their thrift-shop rugby shirts, white painter pants, and paisley bandanas. That style was every bit inventive as it was intentional; they had no money, for one, but they also wanted to distinguish themselves.
"Even though we had long hair, we'd have been insulted if we got called hippies. We were climbers, just like how surfers were surfers," said Stonemaster Dean Fidelman in an interview with British designer Nigel Cabourn. "It definitely sets us apart. Everyone else had these weird outdoor pants on that looked not nearly as cool as what we had."
Style in Yosemite was everything. Style of ascent. Style of climbing. Style of attitude. Style of apparel. It all came down to a mix of unbridled panache and individuality.
In a vacuum, your standard, cheap gym apparel will do for most climbing pursuits. Despite this, nearly everyone I see lounging at fair-weather crags are wrapped in ultralight down parkas, Gore-Tex armor, or wicking-tees, all in gonzo patterns and color schemes. We look like Jolly Ranchers. New climbers inadvertently perpetuate this style, emulating the prevailing dress code, and it's no wonder why people say climbing is an expensive sport to get into.
Advances in outdoor apparel have, to be fair, been fairly significant. Market options over the years have only gotten decidedly more functional, fashionable, and even sustainable. Jackets are lighter, warmer, and more durable. Shirts are made from recycled plastics and increasingly creative amalgamations of sustainable materials. Pants are lighter and more breathable and, thankfully, less likely to rip. For those venturing into extreme conditions, these high-tech options are sensible. When used in the environments they were designed for, climbing apparel can make the difference between success and failure, and even life and death.
But most of us only rarely--if ever--need that tech, let alone the latest update. When I was 18, I signed a contract with adidas as a professional athlete, and suddenly my entire wardrobe had those three little bars. I recall hearing a rumor back then (I couldn't then and can't now confirm the validity) that one of the world’s greatest cordless climbers wrote in his contract that he didn't want to be sent extra clothes unless requested. What a move, I thought. Who wouldn't want more free goodies? After a few years of receiving regular and prodigious piles of seasonal iterations, I understood a few things: That, in general, more is not more; that lighter and more eco-conscious production matters little when there's always a new style; that outdoor apparel companies will sell you a dream, but little else, because it's not the clothes or the shoes that make the climber. To the contrary, the specialized permutations serve as ambitious props to many people. I retired from the pro scene seven years after I signed that first contract, and then I brought four garbage bags full of clothes--half of them still with tags on--to the local Goodwill. I carried on climbing in a few long-outdated favorites.
Despite the progressive improvements in quality of gear, there's still and will always be the value in simplicity.
At age 12, in the aughts, I was an 80-pound nugget in a pink skirt and a flowery, pocketed shirt, and I was preparing to ascend my first climbing wall, in Galyan's, a sporting goods store at a mall in Frisco, Texas. Sensibly, my dad bought me a pair of cheap shorts. I pawed at those candy-colored holds while something deep in my bones stirred to life. Following that day in Galyan's, my involvement in climbing increased and so did my understanding of the sport's degrees of movement and the types of clothes that complement it. I understood skirts to be a nonstarter for technical vertical endeavors and that clothes should be comfortable and nonrestrictive. Over the time, my opinions have essentially remained the same: as long as you can move freely, little else matters.
Last month, in Rifle, a heavy rain crashed down into the canyon, turning everything milky purple in the evening light. Goosebumps creeped up on my skin and I shivered slightly as I stepped up to a steep line tracing through the guts of a cave. Wearing a thin cotton T-shirt and shorts, I could feel the power of the rock, the earth. Its raw and uninhibited bite. It's universality, and also unconditional being. It is what it is. I felt the power that comes from experiencing all that without needing to be bubble-wrapped in something windproof, something waterproof.
There is nothing inherently wrong with well-designed clothes. However, in the moderate temperatures across the easy-to-access terrain in which most of us operate, anyone can wear pretty much anything. What's disheartening is that, nowadays, the "climber look" feels so necessary. That the look is, in general, so overbuilt and overpriced. That it is the ascribed look in part because of branding and marketing initiatives rather than the ethos of our sport's history. My years with adidas and subsequent experience as a gear editor have taught me to circle back on a few things. To not let groupthink tell me that I’m a climber because I do or don't look like one. To let clothes be clothes.
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