Should We Really Retro

Jul 30, 2023

Photo: Kiff Alcocer

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About twenty-five years ago, I set my sights on a classic route at Val-David, an old-school, mostly trad-climbing destination with FAs dating back to the 1930s. The route was called Hallucinorêve, a 5.11c PG mixed line with two or three bolts that saved it from R/X territory. Even with the bolts it was a notoriously scary lead, and I was barely a 5.10 climber. But I fell in love with the route after trying it on toprope, reveling in its technical sequences and long reaches between perfect crimps.

Without exactly making it a “project,” which would have been presumptuous and anyway was not part of my vocabulary at the time, I made a point of toproping the route a couple of times every season, while I was gaining experience and slowly building my trad rack one nut at a time, as one does when in college and broke. After I climbed Hallucinorêve without falling, I started figuring out the gear placements, first on rappel, then while toproping on a very slack rope.

After nervously building up to it over two or three seasons, I ran out of excuses and finally led it. When I reached the anchor, shaking and pumped out of my mind, almost euphoric with pride, I was a different climber… a different person, really. What had I learned from the experience? I learned grace under pressure, the art of relaxing in stressful situations. I learned how to place tricky gear in horizontal cracks. I learned how to trust small smears and pull hard moves high above that tricky gear. I learned to plan for big falls. I learned about fear and perseverance and self-control. The experience, as you can see, remains deeply imprinted on my mind.

Years later, the local climbing organization added a few more bolts to that route, taking it squarely out of PG territory and effectively turning it into just another run-of-the-mill 5.11. I wasn’t involved with the local climbing community at the time, so although I had a bunch of questions—Why retro-bolt a protectable route? Who decides? Why that route specifically?—I kept them to myself and never really thought about it again until recently when similar local and international situations (Snake Dike much?) attracted my attention, especially now that I’ve been in the bolting game for over a decade.

So should that old scarefest be retro-bolted at your crag? Should a bolt be added to eliminate this sketchy run-out? Is the continued existence of that old PG route just a case of misplaced ego? Prior to answering any of these questions, I think there is another, more essential question to ask: What kind of climbing experience does this route offer? And I think this question should be asked whenever the issue of retro-bolting is brought up, whether we’re talking about an old-school PG route like Hallucinorêve, a historical route like the Snake Dike, or some obscure, dubiously-bolted line at your local crag.

In his Evening Sends article Snake Dike and a Return to Risk Andrew Bisharat wonders if there is “a stronger principle for why routes shouldn’t be changed that scales from route to route, and area to area?” I think there is, and that principle should be to make sure all types of roped-climbing experiences remain possible for future generations. Once that principle is established, all that’s left is to determine what the types of climbing experiences are. What I’m proposing here, in other words, is the creation of a nomenclature to help settle debates over issues like retro-bolting, route maintenance, information dissemination, and basically anything else that could change the climbing experience at a given location. It won’t resolve every problem having to do with route development overnight, since emotions run high every time that topic is brought up, but I think it can steer the conversation away from the gut-feeling reactions from so-called experts that have too often informed the debate, and towards a more rational and systematic analysis of specific local situations.

Although climbing experiences are in the end both very subjective and as varied as there are routes out there, I think we can narrow down the types of experiences by limiting ourselves to five questions that help us describe climbing destinations:

This is the first and most important distinction to make. Even if we can point at certain characteristics that differentiate most cragging areas from most adventure climbing destinations, the underlying difference is one of mindset. Call it a mood or a vibe, but when you’re cragging, you expect a somewhat laid-back setting where the climbing is playful and relatively low commitment. Most cragging destinations offer single to three-pitch routes with easy access and short approaches, but it’s entirely possible to imagine a taller cliff that still has a cragging feel to it.

Adventure climbing, on the other hand, feels more serious and puts you in a different headspace. Often the location is more remote with a longer approach, involves committing multi-pitch routes all the way to big walls and alpine climbs, requires more complex rope management and route-finding skills, and often comes with loose rock and other unpredictable factors. That being said, an area doesn’t need to have all these characteristics to actually feel like an adventure-climbing destination. The other criteria listed below will also contribute to whether it feels more craggy or adventurous.

Although it’s an important aspect and pretty easy to figure out (because it’s number-based), defining whether a crag is mostly trad or sport definitely does not on its own solve the prickly issue of retro-bolting and route maintenance. The fact that your local crag is 95% sport does not necessarily mean you should retro-bolt that seldom-climbed crack; in fact it might mean quite the opposite: if your larger region is “trad poor” you should probably cling to that traditionally protected crack for dear life.

The history of the area has to be part of the discussion as well. In old school sport crags, bolted predominantly in the ‘80s and ‘90s, you often find PG bolting, run-outs to first bolts, and exposed climbing through easy terrain. But there’s a thin and often hazy line between historically valuable old-school bolting and downright shitty R/X bolting. Preserving old-school bolting where it already exists doesn’t mean condoning inexperienced or ego-driven bolting at your local crag. As for more modern sport crags, they can lean towards the other end of the spectrum, with everything from friendly we’re-all-here-to-have-fun bolting to shitty bolt-ladders.

At recently developed trad areas, you’ll find more mixed climbs with bolt-protected run-outs, bolted anchors, and sometimes even bolted cruxes that could have taken some thin gear. As for old-school trad areas, well, it’s old-school trad. Run-outs, gear anchors, no-bolt ethics, anything from G to X. It’s an acquired taste, and it isn’t something you can just jump right into after a few intro sessions at the gym, but a lot of climbers still love and seek out these committing routes.

Obviously, the popularity of the climbing area is a huge factor whenever the question of bolting ethics or route-maintenance is brought up. There are two primary types of popular climbing destinations. The first is a relatively small-crag that offers a wide grade range, is close to a decent-sized city, and is usually quiet during the week and jam-packed on weekends. Think Clear Creek Canyon in Colorado or Farley Ledges in Massachusetts. The other is the destination crag: Tons of high-quality routes of all grades that attract climbers from far and wide. Think Red River Gorge or Ten Sleep Canyon. Super busy peak seasons with drastic lulls in between. Most other crags fall into the seldom-visited, remote area category: local crags with access issues, ordinary crags with discouraging approaches, super old-school slab crags, decent crags so far from everything that there are very few true locals, etc.

The ease-of-access to reliable information about a crag is another central aspect of the experience that each crag offers. Showing up at a crag with a few vague text messages about approach beta from some guy at the gym and then trying to ballpark grades from the ground will lead to a very different climbing day compared to showing up at the exact same crag with a Wolverine guidebook in your pack. When it comes to preserving different kinds of climbing experiences, the availability and quality of information about a crag should be a key part of the conversation.

Of course, these five criteria could be refined and sub-divided again and again, but for the sake of my argument—and ease of use—it’s a pretty good place to start.

Consider the following diagram:

So then: I’ve identified 32 types of roped-climbing experiences. What can we do with that information? Well, figuring out precisely what kind of climbing experience an area offers can help for a bunch of things. If a climber learns to trad climb at a local crag that was developed in my region (Québec) in the past decade, they will find bolted anchors, easy to find rap-stations, bolts protecting run-outs, clear signs indicating trails, and often toilets within easy walking distance. An ideal type 9 crag. But take that climber for a two-hour car ride and drop them in the middle of the Adirondacks, in northern New York, and they will have a far more adventurous experience despite the surface similarities (gear-protected granitic climbing) between the two crags. With their long, often trail-less approaches and rarely climbed multi-pitch cliffs, most crags in the Dacks are at best type 15 sites, and at worst type 32s. If the climber does not understand the difference in risk assessment between cragging around Québec and going to the Dacks, it could spell trouble. It’s also important to keep in mind that big destinations—from Red Rock to Red River Gorge—have multiple crags, which may offer considerably different types of experiences.

Which brings us back to the questions we started with: how should a given area and its routes be maintained by the local climbing community? How much trail work is too much trail work? Should that route be retro-bolted? Should that one be chopped? Should a new route be squeezed between these two? Should we cut that tree? What’s gained and what’s lost if this goes on Mountain Project? All these questions will be easier to answer if we start from a clearer understanding of the type of climbing area that we are talking about and the different climbing experiences we’d like to create or preserve there.

Here’s a case study from my local crag. There was an online debate a couple of years ago over a poorly protected route at Val-David in Québec. The route is called Samouraï, and it used to be a PG/R 5.10+ trad climb. I say “used to” since the debate ended when the local climbing organization retro-bolted the route’s runout opening section. It’s not a big deal, and no one is losing sleep over this, but still, was it the right call? Val-David is a type 13 site: an old-school mostly trad-climbing destination that’s very popular, has hundreds of routes, and has a recent guidebook. The route in question was first climbed in 1980 by a local climbing legend and is infamous for its tricky pro off the ground. It’s a classic ankle-breaker, and indeed a few recent accidents of that kind are what brought up the debate and eventually led to the retro-bolting of the line. But why? Many climbers I spoke to who had climbed the route before the new bolts were put in thought that the sketchy pro was part of the experience; for some it was even part of the appeal. The climbing is hard and your gear-placement skills will be put to the test. When you lead it, you will experience a sense of being on the sharp end that is only possible on such climbs. And even better: it’s a single-pitch route that’s easily accessible from the top. You can headpoint it if you’re unsure of your on-the-fly gear-placement abilities. And are there other, easier to protect 5.10s in Val-David that are just as good? Emphatically yes; there are dozens and dozens. So why deprive future generations of the experience of an exposed 5.10 with tricky gear, especially if other options abound and the route doesn’t clash with the old-school ethics of the place?

Maybe the most interesting part of the analysis in this case is the last criterion: whether the crag is well-documented or not. Through multiple guidebook editions over the last 30 years, Samouraï was never rated PG or R, despite its well-known ground-fall potential amongst locals. It even has an R-rating on MP. The FAist, who is also the guidebook author and a prolific route developer, was not in favor of its retro-bolting, but when I asked him about the absence of a PG rating in his guidebooks, and whether better information could have changed the outcome of the debate in this case, he seemed to agree. “There was nothing PG about it in the eighties, when we mostly climbed with a set of nuts,” he explained “But if you try to protect it with cams, it’s definitely more dangerous.” My takeaway from this is simple: old-school areas should remain old school, but popular old-school areas should be well-documented, so that climbers with limited experience know what they are getting into.

An interesting question came up as I was discussing the idea of 32 types of climbing experiences with different climbers. “And what does your principle say about areas like Rumney,” one friend asked, “which has multiple cracks that go safely and easily on gear but were bolted because developers reasoned that the people who climb there are only looking for bolts. Should they have taken a different approach?” This is an interesting question because in a way it’s the wrong question to ask. We shouldn’t talk about different types of climbing experiences as a principle to evaluate the choices made by previous generations of developers, since that would give those developers a power over ethical choices that should, in my opinion, be wielded by entire climbing communities, not individual first ascensionists. The danger with that is you end up with the kind of argument that Eric Beck—one of Snake Dike’s first ascensionists—made when he published an article (in this magazine) about Snake Dike. Once he wrote, “Had we had more time and more bolts, we would have [placed more bolts] ourselves,” a lot of people reacted by saying: “there you go, case closed.” But what matters isn’t what the original developer should have done, or thinks he should have done; what matters is the type of climbing experience he ended up offering to the climbing community and whether that experience should be preserved for future generations.

In the case of Rumney, the question shouldn’t be: “Should they have taken a different approach?” The question should be: “How are we going to deal with these routes once they are up for maintenance, or when the local community raises an issue about a specific route there?” Rumney, I think, is fairly easy to figure out. It’s a clear type 1 crag within short driving-distance of a wide range of other types of climbing experiences. There’s Sundown Ledge and Shagg Crag for sport climbers looking for types 2 through 8; there’s Cannon, Cathedral, and Whitehorse for types 9 through 16; there are the Adirondacks, which will cover a bunch of other types of adventure-y experiences; and that’s without counting the dozens of small, undocumented, and/or secret crags all over the White Mountains. Looking at it this way, if there’s a crag where a few bolted cracks aren’t an issue, it’s definitely Rumney.

Another example: At the Red River Gorge, the first bolt of the mega-classic route No Place Like Home (5.11c) is ~35 feet of 5.8 climbing off the deck. The guidebook mentions an optional cam but does not list it as a mixed climb, nor does it give it a PG rating. Is that a huge deal? Probably not. Climbers shouldn’t blindly trust guidebooks and should be able to evaluate both their level of comfort and the risk involved in a particular climb. But should an extra bolt be added to the start once the line is up for maintenance? Probably yes. Why? Because Emerald City, the crag where the route is found, is clearly a type 1 crag. Most of the interesting routes are sport climbs, which means most climbers won’t bring a rack, and the crag is popular, which means that a fair number of inexperienced climbers will visit it. Will adding one more bolt fundamentally alter the core experience of the route (spicy 5.11 climbing on an airy arête)? Not really. And would this whole discussion be different if the route was at, say, a type 23 crag? Obviously, yes, that’s the whole idea.

And since I brought it up, would such a principle help settle the debate over a high-profile route like Snake Dike? I’m sure it would at least help. I’ve never climbed Snake Dike—and probably never will—but the route is a classic, historical, moderate, run-out, somewhat scary and exposed, multi-pitch slab that brings you to the top of one of the most iconic monoliths on earth. Now forget about the opinions of the FAist, the pro climbers, and the so-called experts, and answer this simple question: Can an experience very similar to climbing Snake Dike be had anywhere else? If your answer is yes, then go get a permit and hand-drill a few more bolts. Nothing will be lost, and more climbers will get to enjoy it. If, however, your answer is “No, this is a rare climbing experience,” then by adding bolts to the route you’re getting rid of a valuable climbing experience worth preserving. (Unless we all agree as a community that these types of climbing experiences shouldn’t even exist, which is a slippery path to go down.) In his “Snake Dike and a Return to Risk,” Andrew Bisharat considers a pro-retrobolting argument and writes, “all that’s lost is one guy’s vision, while what’s gained is a route that hundreds of people can now enjoy that they otherwise wouldn’t.” I think his hypothetical argument has it backwards here: What’s gained is one more moderate slab multi-pitch among thousands. What’s lost is a rare climbing experience for those who would have wanted it.

Of course what happened on Snake Dike was dramatic, and emotions ran high in that discussion. For developers and climbing communities, constructive discussions about types of climbing experiences are rarely so sensational and often lead to positive changes to routes and areas. For climbing to remain as interesting and varied as it’s always been, each local climbing community has a responsibility to have these conversations and do everything they can to preserve the different types of climbing experiences that their crags offer, while also making sure that their decisions regarding route maintenance and development are coherent and practical. And maybe it starts here, with a better tool to talk about it.

Steve Bourdeau is a college teacher, guidebook author, and route developer from Québec, Canada, with twenty five seasons of climbing behind him.