Choose Your Own Adventure

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.

This is how it starts

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.

No complaints here

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.

Les Guillands

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. 

Theres still room for tradition

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?

Scrambling with Family at Joshua Tree