Mischa Tourin 8/8/25 Mischa Tourin 8/8/25

Choose Your Own Adventure

How a visit to Europe made me rethink access and authenticity in the outdoors

How a visit to Europe made me rethink access and authenticity in the outdoors

A few years back I helped pursue a stewardship project at the Bolton Dome that got grant funding to put a beautiful stone staircase in an eroding gully. I proudly showed it to a fellow climber and they (half-jokingly) said, “Why don’t we just build an escalator up to Bone Mountain while we’re at it?” as if somehow these stairs indicated a slippery slope to Disney-fied mountains and selfie sticks.

*Sustainable tread or a “slippery slope”?*

In a lot of U.S. climbing circles, there’s this idea that any move toward accessibility means you're throwing purity out the window. After a week in the French Alps, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we approach access to our natural spaces.

Years ago, I spent some time in the Italian Dolomites with my wife during our honeymoon, doing via ferratas, walking high trails, and moving through terrain that — in the US — would probably be considered “earned” only by a small fraction of the outdoor community. But over there? People of all ages and abilities were moving confidently through the mountains. Families, older folks, total beginners. It didn’t feel dumbed-down. It felt intentional. Like the mountains were being shared — not flattened.

*Experiencing a moment, not chasing difficulty*

More Ways In

One day we were on a via ferrata — the kind of route that would get torn apart on Mountain Project comments if it were installed here. My wife, who doesn’t lead climb or spend her weekends projecting routes, was climbing high above a valley, clipped in, at the edge of her comfort zone and smiling. It wasn’t about “sending” anything. It was about being there. That moment — shared movement, shared place — mattered way more than any concept of difficulty.

Back home, I’ve had some of the same feelings on easy climbs at the Dome or Dunmore with our kids. They’re not racking gear or building anchors. They’re climbing. They’re outside. They’re engaged. That’s what matters.

A Slippery Slope, or a Tiered Approach?

In the States, it often feels like outdoor rec culture defaults to a kind of purity test. If you didn’t hike the whole approach, if you didn’t place every piece, if you didn’t suffer a little — then somehow the experience doesn’t count. The fear is that if you make it easier for beginners, you’ll lose something essential.

But I’m not convinced that challenge needs to be hoarded to be respected.

We talk a lot about the “slippery slope” — that one bolt on a 5.3 leads to a gondola, which leads to a Starbucks at the summit. But in Europe, that slope is more like a tiered approach. There’s a spectrum of access options — from beginner-friendly via ferratas and cable cars to long, remote alpine routes — and they all exist alongside one another. Gondolas coexist with alpine huts. Bolted moderates sit beside bold trad climbs. You can choose your flavor of challenge, and folks seem to be okay with that.

Instead of diluting the experience, this layered system expands it — making room for more people to connect with the mountains, in more ways.

When Development Goes Too Far

While I’m a fan of thoughtful access, I also saw firsthand how development can push too far. During our visit to Chamonix’s urban crag, Les Gaillands, I experienced a bit of culture shock.

This place is an “adventure park” in the truest sense — a fully embraced, super-developed climbing area with features you rarely see at home. Imagine a five-minute bike ride from the town center, flat gravel bases, benches, stairs, and even self-cleaning toilets. Routes have bolts two feet apart and are clippable from the ground. There’s a ropes course for kids, workout equipment, playgrounds, fire pits, mountain bike trails, and parking lots designed for vans.

It’s hard not to wonder: at what point does development stop being about sharing the mountains and start turning them into theme parks?

I took note of all the infrastructure, route styles, and norms that felt different — some I found clever or convenient, others a little too much. The scene was vibrant but also crowded, with climbers starting routes inches apart and families picnicking nearby.

Would you want any of this at your home crag? For me, Les Gaillands was a reminder that the middle ground — thoughtful, layered access — is worth aiming for. Because yes, there’s a spectrum, and some places definitely cross the line from access to overdevelopment.

All the Versions of Me

I don’t think of myself as strictly traditionalist or a modernist… No one style of climbing defines me. I’ve bolted routes. Crack climbing is my jam. I’ve spent countless days belaying kids on a top rope. I’ve made coffee on bivvy ledges. I’ve also bailed off climbs I had no business being on. None of these versions of me cancel the others out. They’re all part of why I love being outside.

So why do we pretend there's only one "right" way to experience the outdoors?

I think sometimes we confuse suffering with value. But suffering isn’t necessarily what makes a memory meaningful. Presence does. Connection does. The joy of a first summit, or a smushed PB&J at a belay, or watching your kid make it to the top of something they they were convinced they couldn’t do.

Thoughtful Access Isn’t the Enemy

I’m not arguing for paving every forest road or bolting every low-angle slab. I’m arguing for a little more creativity — and a little less gatekeeping. Access doesn’t have to mean overdevelopment. It can mean design that invites more people in without taking away what makes the place special.

In Europe, they’ve figured out that accessibility and seriousness can coexist. Granted, in some places they’ve taken it too far in ways that would never fly here in the U.S. Still, it’s possible to offer multiple levels of experience without diluting the value of any of them. Maybe we could do the same — not to tame the mountains, but to open more doors to them.

*Hazel at the top of a 5.4 at the Bolton Dome*

Who’s It For?

At the end of the day, we don’t get to own nature. The mountains aren’t ours. We just get to be here, for a little while, if we’re lucky. So maybe we don’t need to protect them by keeping other people out. Maybe the better question is: how do we share them well?

What if opening the door a little wider doesn’t ruin the experience — it enriches it?

Mischa Tourin 5/28/19 Mischa Tourin 5/28/19

Reflections from the Stronghold

Returning to Cochise Stronghold - Where I First Learned That Being Lost Is Part of the Path

Spring is here in Vermont and I am beyond excited to kick off the rock climbing season.

This year, I marked the transition from ice to rock with a trip out west to Arizona. I attended the Access Fund Climbing Advocacy Conference and returned to my climbing roots at Cochise Stronghold.

Cochise Stronghold has always held a special place in my heart. It is described by many as a “magical” place... It is especially so for me.

Back in 2012, I left my tie-wearing job working for a USAID contractor in Washington, DC. I was miserable sitting at that desk and would tell myself I was just putting in the time to build my resume to get to where I wanted to be.

I forget who it was, but I explained that to someone and they told me if I was miserable on the path to get somewhere, I’d be miserable where it took me. I quit that job and ever since then I’ve told myself that if I chose the next step that I find exciting, interesting, and meaningful then it would lead me down a path that was also exciting, interesting, and meaningful.

My Southwest Outdoor Educator Course with the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) at was the first step on that path. I felt completely lost in life, but was ready to do the next thing that excited me.

The course revitalized my love for rock and created a foundation of adventure climbing that I've been building upon ever since.

That moment of pivotal change in my life's trajectory led me to serving as an AmeriCorps member at a teen center, leading trail crews, guiding wilderness therapy, facilitating gap year programs, creating an outdoor program at an alternative high school, and starting my own rock and ice climbing guide service, Sterling Mountain Guides. I’d take any one of those steps over wearing that tie.

I remember fondly the mornings of our climbing section. We’d wake up and our 60 year old veteran NOLS instructor, Cody, would facilitate yoga and read us poetry. There was one poem that hit a chord so much that I copied it down into my notebook. I’ve since read it to many youth I’ve worked with and I'll share it again here in case it strikes a chord with one of you.

Weathered plates on pitch one of Endgame - 5.10a, 4 pitches.

LOST

By Hayden Carruth

Many paths in the woods have chosen me, many a time,

and I wonder what this choosing is:

a sublime intimidation from far outside my consciousness

(or for that matter from far inside)

or maybe some train of mortality set in motion at my birth

(if our instruments of observation were fine and precise enough to trace it)

or maybe only disparate appeal,

pure chance that distant drumming of a partridge in spring,

the advancing maple color along a line in fall,

or only that the mud was less one way than the other.

Free or determined?

Again and again I went one way and not the other, who knows why?

I wish I could know.

Maybe it would explain the other things that worry me.

But I have no compulsive need now. Not any longer.

What I know is whether I walked freely or trudged exhausted, I chose one way each time and ended by being lost.

I think I sought it.

I think I could not know myself until I did not know where I was.

Then my self-knowledge continued for a while while I found my way again in fear and reluctance,

lost truly at last.

I changed the appearance of myself to myself continually and losing and finding were one in the same, as I now realize.