How do you become the best climber you can be?
You dream big. You plan your trip and pack your bag. You get on the climb. You try. You make mistakes. You adjust. You fall off and pull back on and fall off again. You care enough to ask why. You learn.
You adapt.
Over and over again.
Starting with the inflection point that eventually led to a goal of climbing one hundred 5.13’s, Power Company Climbing founder and coach Kris Hampton has written a new book, Adapt: Lessons Learned Climbing 100 5.13’s, in which he digs deep into the decisions made, hurdles confronted, and lessons learned along the way. He highlights his mistakes as well as his successes, and he offers ways that we can set valuable goals and avoid those same pitfalls. With failure and improvement as his catalysts, he achieved this goal on the morning of his 50th birthday.
“Through it all, I’ve dreamed. I’ve tried. I’ve made mistakes and tried again. I’ve asked why. I’ve learned a lot of lessons. I’ve adapted,” writes Hampton.
Adapt tells that story and shares those lessons, seamlessly woven into a personal narrative chronicling Hampton’s climbing journey. From his start as a former gymnast drawn to Cincinnati climbing gyms, to his years spent developing trad climbs in the Red River Gorge. From his discovery and exploration of how training would allow him to reach his climbing goals, to the forced downtime after a shoulder surgery that would ultimately result in the creation of a business and coaching career. Births and deaths, setbacks and triumphs—all challenges that require one to adapt in order to succeed, both in climbing and in life.
Hampton shares these experiences in his own, often comical and always honest, voice. With only one route and one day to go…
…I figured I’d be back soon enough, and was at peace with the fact that I might reach the goal a few days late. So I left the draws hanging.
As we were packing up, John suggested that he could come out early the next morning. Sean agreed.
It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.
I had every possible excuse. My skin was thin. I’d be three days on. The route would be in the sun. All true. All factors. But I was going to try anyway.
At 6:15 the next morning, I got a text from John:
“I am up and essentially ready.”
And then from Sean:
“My skin is not ready.”
I headed out the door. We got to the crag just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, and I went bolt-to-bolt up the route to warm up, dialing in some of the lower beta and making sure I knew the top. Then Sean warmed up doing the same. John took photos.
I was up again. I tied in and calmed myself down. I was confident. The start wasn’t perfect, but it felt like it was good enough to keep going. Again, I eked my way through the hardest moves. Again, I fell at the cross.
No worries. I was still warming up. Getting in the right mental space. I had time.
When it was again my turn in the rotation, I felt even more confident. It wasn’t too warm yet. I felt surprisingly good for being three days on. This time, I walked the bottom. Everything went exactly right. Again, I fell off at the cross.
Maybe it isn’t my day after all.
Sean asked if I wanted to wait a few minutes and give one last effort before it got too warm.
Why not? I thought. It’s likely to be quick.
I wasn’t exactly confident, and if I rested long enough to raise that confidence, the wall would heat up even more and cancel it out. But that doesn’t mean I thought I couldn’t do it. I knew I could. The chances were low, but there was still some possibility, and any possibility is enough for me to give it whatever I have left.
And that’s exactly what I gave.
I didn’t float the bottom, but I didn’t hesitate. I never even stopped to chalk up. I took every terrible hold as if I owned it. When I got to the cross move where I’d fallen off repeatedly, I didn’t second guess anything…and I didn’t fall off.
At the jug rest, I felt tired, but the confidence had grown. The next three bolts were considerably easier, and I had worked it out sufficiently. I could do it.
But shortly after I left that jug, I knew I was in trouble.
Staring at the big refrigerator block I had to grapple with, I tried climbing quickly and confidently, though I knew I was fading. That got me through the first move—a huge span off of a slippery edge to a slopey side pull with high, insecure feet. Standard granite sport climbing. However, the fact that I could barely hold the slopey jug afterward was massively amplifying my worry about the next tricky move.
My stance wasn’t at all restful, so I tried to keep moving. I didn’t complete a single move as I’d planned. At every new body position, I was in a frantic search for kneebars, heelhooks, and anything I could do to take some weight off of my hands. I’d reach around the corner to the small edge, begin to set up for the move, not find the correct position, feel my elbow rising skyward, and go into triage mode, wrapping my leg or my forearm around the corner in hopes of getting some sort of help from the friction. I’d find a brief respite and try again. Several times I moved into position only to clumsily retreat.
At this point the climbing is probably 11a. But the rock was too hot, I was too far gone, and 11a was too hard.
I was positive I was going to fall off, but there was still a tiny percent of a chance I could make it. I wasn’t going to fall off without exhausting every option to stay on.
It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.
I eventually found the right combination of position and desperation to commit to the move and fought my way to the dual sloping rails at the top. All I had to do was get a foot up and mantle over. But when I leaned back to raise a foot, I was slipping off.
I had nothing left to hesitate with, so I continued leaning back and falling off, getting my foot up just before my hands left the rail. And then I was standing on top.
Number 100. At the buzzer.
There couldn’t have been another attempt.
It threw it all at me. And it nearly knocked me off. I’ve never been closer to falling without actually falling. But I called on what I had learned from the ninety-nine 5.13’s before this one.
I persisted.
I adapted.
I sent.
Then, it really was over.
Adapt: Lessons Learned Climbing 100 5.13’s is now widely available for purchase in paperback, individually or in bulk at wholesale pricing for retailers. Visit powercompanyclimbing.com/adapt to learn more, or contact Lana directly at [email protected] for wholesale inquiries.
This story was paid for by the sponsor and does not necessarily represent the views of the Climbing Business Journal editorial team.
