Stop Using “Redpoint Mode” As An Excuse to Skip the Line
Redpoint Mode (n):
The state of being close to sending. See Redpoint.
I first heard the term redpoint mode misused at The Dog House in Clear Creek Canyon, Colorado, an often crowded sport crag. Because of my trad-dad roots, my buddy Andy and I had gotten an early start and were the first at the wall. We warmed up on Hot Dog (5.11b) and made our way to the goal for the day, the popular Big Dog (5.12b). As we geared up, we noticed four guys approaching up the hill and beelining straight for us. Out of breath, the leader of the pack asked, “Are you guys getting on Big Dog?”
“We are,” I said, with a bit of sarcasm. Was our neatly flaked rope at the base of the route not an obvious enough sign?
“Have you been on it before?” He asked, seeming desperate.
“No, neither of us have.”
“Oh, ok, cool, cool,” he continued, with a sigh of relief. “Well, I’m in total redpoint mode on this rig, so would you mind if I cut in and give it a quick burn? I’ll be really quick, and you can see some beta.”
Andy and I looked at each other, eyes rolling. There wasn’t a rush, we had all day. This would give us some time to have a quick snack and gather some beta, making our burns more efficient.
As Andy and I lounged and snacked, basking in the warm winter sun, it was clear that really quick and redpoint mode weren’t that at all. Not only did it take him almost 30 minutes to get ready, fussing with his shoes, taping a finger, fondling his stick clip, but he then hung at the first bolt, and the second, and the third…
Climbing jargon can be like another language if you’re not in the know. I suddenly felt like Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride; “You keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means.”
**
Turn-Taking at the Crag
A few summers back, my wife and I explored the climbing scene in Germany’s Frankenjura. While the climbing was amazing, we were most struck by the country’s remarkable efficiency. In Nuremberg on rest days, we admired the escalator etiquette. People stood on the right, leaving the left free for those walking briskly. Driving on the autobahn reinforced the concept of sticking to the right lane. If you didn’t, an Audi passing at 90 mph would turn you into bratwurst.
Efficiency isn’t always widespread. Yet, you’ve likely experienced a similar situation at a busy intersection. There, a considerate driver breaks the deadlock by signaling for you to proceed. It’s a testament to unspoken coordination in high-traffic scenarios. You might even have found yourself being the kind person, gesturing for others to go ahead!
Over the years, I’ve noticed a similar trend in sport climbing areas around the US and abroad. Climbers collaborate at bustling crags, attempting to establish some semblance of order. While the ethos of “first come, first served” prevails, there’s also a mindset of giving way to someone more prepared.
When you’re trying a route at your limit for the first time, it can be a major endeavor. It’s possible, and likely, that a first-time beta burn can take anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour. To minimize inconvenience, I’ve always strived to try a route for the first time at off-peak hours. I’ll climb early in the morning when it’s too cold for those trying to send. I’ll sweat it out in the afternoon heat when others are taking their siestas, waiting for the cool evening temps. If those options aren’t viable and I’ll be monopolizing prime climbing conditions, I make it a point to ask, “Is anyone in redpoint mode?”
Aside from my encounter in Clear Creek Canyon, I’ve found that climbers are usually honest about their attempts. Redpoint mode, for me and most climbers, translates to, I’m likely to send, but if I fall, I’m coming straight down. Perhaps they’ll rehearse the crux sequence after a fall. More often than not, their attempt is quicker than tying your shoes. Most people have embraced this ideology. It’s even found in guidebooks when discussing crag etiquette. Dave Pegg wrote in his 2013 Rifle Mountain Park, “If you are at the humble stage of working a route, which in Rifle can easily eat up an hour-long session, it is considered good form to ‘give way’ to a climber trying to redpoint the route.”
Whether it’s due to dishonesty, competition, or ambition, there’s always one or two people who don’t quite get it. What these people view as redpoint mode seems to be 15 minutes of prepping, followed by an epic working burn. If their lengthy turn had been communicated and agreed upon, it’d be fine. But the person who is in redpoint mode loses their warm up, and instead inadvertently sits around in their tight shoes and duct-taped kneepads like a dope, because they were ready. Everyone has the right to climb what they want, but we need to be honest about our efforts. This way, we can all adjust and prepare accordingly.
I’ve earned a reputation from friends as a bit of a diva when getting ready for my burns. It’s a routine: a sip of water, a nervous pee, a handful of sour patch kids, another sip of water, a quick swipe of chapstick, kneepads on, shoes on, discover a rock in my shoe, shoes off and on again…
I’ve also been referred to by others, not so affectionately, as “The Crag Warden.” I have 15 years of experience as a middle school science teacher. I interact with hormonal, defiant, and sometimes smelly teenagers every day. Maintaining order at a crowded crag isn’t much different than an 8th grade classroom. Over the years, I’ve learned that my turn starts as soon as the person before me touches the ground. I try to do all my primping and prepping before my clock starts ticking. Time, and the route, are things we all share, so it’s important to respect that.
I also try to be honest about my plans. If I’m in redpoint mode, I’ll check with the others in line. If I know my burn is going to take a long time, I’ll be honest about it and try to let a more prepared climber go first. Plus there’s the added bonus of gathering the perfect beta for the move that’s been shutting me down!
**
In climbing, as in driving, we share a common space. Sometimes you’ll hear someone grumbling about how much they hate traffic. It’s as if they think everyone else loves sitting around, breathing in exhaust fumes, and arriving late. This is likely the same person who shows up at a popular crag, complaining about how crowded it is.
Climbing is not only an individual challenge; it’s a collective experience. Much like the rules of the highway, a day at the crag involves signaling our intentions. Everyone’s trying to get to their destination. Let’s be a community where honesty, efficiency, and a shared appreciation for the rock are the norm. This can enhance everyone’s experience. We’re all part of the same traffic figuring out the best way to navigate and share the joy of sending.
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