I can’t tell you how often I’ve peered into the recycling bin with a questionable item in hand, likely made from a complicated blend of materials that left me hesitant yet hopeful, and then dropped it in with a shrug. This is called “wishcycling,” and it refers to the act of wrongly putting a material into curbside bins with the hope that it will be recycled. My go-to attitude was: Let them figure it out. That’s their job. But in these days of awakening one’s self to better habits and spreading the light, wherever we find it, a nagging discomfort lurked.

So I began to investigate. What actually happens to this stuff?ĚýAnd what could I do to maximize my positive contribution? What I found amid the tangles of a sometimes complicated industry was simple in essence. It isn’t their job. It’s mine, and it’s yours. The onus to understand and ease the processes we take part in is ours. For the outdoor gearheads among us, we can start with the packaging our toys come in.

First, recycling in the U.S. is not totally broken, as has been claimedĚý. The good news is that while it is ailing, it’s not wrecked. China, once the dumping ground for nearly half of the world’s recycling waste, threw a wrench in the industry’s spokes when its “National Sword” policy banned imports of most plastics and other recyclable materials two years ago. But that decision ultimately spurred domestic innovation and funding towardĚýinitiatives like refurbished paper mills and plastics-recovery facilities. Recycling is an evolving industry, and we must learn how to evolve our behavior alongside it.

I decided to see what work was required on my end and what happened to materials after they left my bin. To do this, I chose an ordinary gear purchase and then tracked its discarded packaging through the recycling process from my house in Santa Fe. I opted for a tent from the North Face. The journey that follows reflects the most common path through the system, though its details differ from region to region. It’s a simplified picture of a systemĚýdriven bothĚýby technological and economic complexity.

My tent arrives simply, with minimal packaging:Ěýone large cardboard box, a flat piece of corrugated cardboard liner inside, and soft plastic encasing the tent itself, called case wrap. Inside the wrap, the only other disposable materials are the tag and a one-page instruction manual made of mixed paper. Their journey? To be reborn into new material without getting lost to the landfill along the way.

I check (done easily via a Google search) for specifics on which materials the facilities accept. Then I prepare them the best I can by discarding any attached materials that either can’t be recycled or would complicate the process. Removing the tape and labels from the cardboard box isn’t necessary—the tape will eventually separate at the paper mill during pulping and be skimmed off—but doing so puts less waste burden on the facilities, so I do it and throw them away. I cut and flatten the cardboard box and put it in my recycling bin with my other recyclable items, since Santa Fe has one mixed, single-stream bin for its approved materials, which excludes glass and organics (Santa Fe residents have to transport glass to recycling centers themselves because of the cost of transport). The other panel of cardboard and the mixed paper go in the bin as is. I move the bin to the end of my driveway as usual, ready for pickup. Santa Fe accepts all plastic containers, though most areas only take number-oneĚýand number-twoĚýplastics. (Check the bottom of the object for the plastic type, and cross-reference that with what your municipality accepts. Number-one plasticĚýis thin and clear, as found in disposable water bottles, while number twoĚýis thicker, like detergent containers and milk jugs.) Soft, flexible plastics like case wrap should never go in curbside bins, for reasons we’ll come back to, so I leave it out.

My local trash service also collects my recycling. Cardboard and paper tumble into a different segment of the truck than glass and aluminum. Because Santa Fe operates on a “hub and spoke” system, in which smaller municipalities funnel materials to a central hub, the cardboard and paper rumble across town to the Buckman Road Recycling andĚýTransfer Station. HereĚýthey’re loaded onto bigger trucks alongside plastics and transferred to Albuquerque’s materials-recovery facility (MRF), Friedman Recycling.

Friedman, a single-stream facility that moves 30 tons of material per hour, sorts everything by size and material robotically, like many modern MRFs. The truck dumps the cardboard and paper onto the tipping floor, from which a loader operator pushes them into the metering bin. The bin feeds them into a conveyer, carried at speed to the presort station, where human hands give a first quick pass to extract problematic objects, like plastic bags, PVC, and greasy pizza boxes. Both cardboard and paper make it through, still together and surrounded by assorted plastics and newspaper. Even a few covert plastic bags sneak in unseen. Too late to worry about that now, though it will cause problems later. Onward.

The pieces carry on to the first disc screen, a vertically rotating maw of formidable teeth spaced tenĚýinches apart. Cardboard surfs over the screen, and paper, with a finalĚýbreezy wave, falls to a separate debris roll screen—a gauntlet of horizontal rollers that further sort materials by size. Plastics ride along beside the paper. A single plastic bag wraps lazily around the roll screen’s rotating steel arms, but paper bounces over the two-inch gaps, shot with air puffs. Glass breaks all around it and slips through the gaps along with other smaller, heavier items. Every passing second leaves paper increasingly alone with its compatriots.

The paper then approaches yet another sorter screen with plastic containers. The screen’s angled, gnashing discs grab newspaper and fling it upward and away. Paper and the last of the plastic containers bopping around it fall through the screen and onto another conveyer. Cardboard and paper now sit in their respective holding containers to wait for the fibers baler. They are exactly where they need to be. Each material is fed into the baler separately, which compacts and wraps them into 1,500-pound bales that are loaded into trailers that will truck them to the nearest paper mill.

Now the whirring sound of the sorters’ spinning maws ceases. The MRF shuts down for two hours while workers tie into harnesses to climb along the discs and hand-cut each of the plastic bags that wishcyclers like my former self sent into the facility where they gunk up the process. The workers toss them unceremoniously. It costs the facility more money to transport the bags to the landfill along with other nonrecyclables, renderingĚýthe process more expensive and laborious. It’s up to us to form better habits so our communities can afford to implement ever more efficient recycling programs.

Meanwhile, the case wrap has another, better fate in store. Its kind are too often dismissed as trashĚýor else doomed to burden MRFs by the nation’s misguided wishcyclers. But I’d checked that it would be accepted, along with other plastic bags, at several grocery storeĚý around town. While traditional MRFs can’t handle flexible plastic,Ěý. Designating a plastic grocery bag, for example, asĚý is a function of consumer behavior and market demands. If you use a bag once and toss it, as most of us do, it’s single use. While plastic bags are reusable, case wrap is less so. I take mine to a bin at Sprouts and bid it farewell. A recycler picks it up and ships it to a closed-loop facility—where materials are recycled back into the same product—designed to handle plastic retail bags and other film plastics.

The case wrap is trucked to such a facility’s loading dock, and soon it scoots down a conveyor belt where workers remove contaminants by hand. Down the line, it’s jostled through float tanks and magnets, where some of its neighbors, including a stray bowling ball, are plucked out as waste and separated. It’s chopped to smaller sizes and sent through a series of extrusion processes that will melt and scrub it of grime.

The plastic formerly known as case wrap is now in the form of goop encased in tubes. It hardens with cool, recirculated water and is chopped into small pellets. Because this is a closed-loop system, it will become another plastic bag—or parts of many—in the manufacturing plant next door. ThereĚýit’s dumped into a heated vat that melts the pellets back into a liquid state, then siphoned up a tube where it solidifies, stretches flat, and winds onto a large spool of sheeting to be cut into recycled bags.

Before long, the former case wrap, which once held a tent, will carry broccoli, bulk cashews, and a jar of local green chile mustard, because someone forgot their cloth bag. The cardboardĚýwas pulped into sheets of fiber, sold to a manufacturer, and eventually remade as a cereal box. Paper, it transpired, was also pulped and has been reincarnated as a paper-towel tube.

For materials that make it through the system even once (), this is too often the end of life. An individual material that’s recycled two or three times is remarkable, but plastics can generally go through the system tenĚýtimes before losing some of their properties, and cardboard can cycle around five or six times, as long as we consumers do our part. Unfortunately, that’s rare.

As gearheads, our responsibilities areĚýclear:ĚýBuy only what you need, and use it well. Seek products from companies that opt for minimal, recyclable packaging. Let them know what you think, because you’re powerful. Reuse what you can as often as possible, and when you’ve given it a good life, don’t merely wish it well. Recycle intelligently.

The post What Actually Happens When You Recycle appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

We started the day with strong coffee and a short drive south on the Alaska HighwayĚýfrom a remote lodge to an even emptier stretch of snowy pavement. As the dark February day grew lighter, we laced up heavy ice-climbing boots, buckled on packs loaded with ropes and gear and food and water, and began our ascent into the mountains.

It was February 2016, and our group of a dozen or so had come from our home in Whitehorse, the small capital city of the Yukon, a few hours away, for an extended weekend of ice climbing in far northern British Columbia. My friends Ryan and CarrieĚýand their crew of climbing palsĚýhad been making this trip annually for several years. This was my first time tagging along.

Ryan and Carrie are natural teachers and leaders, people who genuinely enjoy passing on their skills and knowledge to others, and for the past few winters, they had been making occasional efforts to teach me how to ice climb: to ascend frozen waterfalls using crampons, axes, and rope. I was a poor student. I liked the thunk of my axĚýsinking solidly into thick ice, the soreness in my shoulders and calves as I moved up a route, step by step. I loved the glow of satisfaction when I reached the top of a climb. But I was afraid of heights—specifically, I was afraid of falling from exposed heights. Climbing, then, was hard for me. Ryan and Carrie have both seen me cry, more than once. They’veĚýheard me beg to be allowed back down to the ground; they’veĚýheard me announce, loud and flat and on the verge of losing control, that I was “not having fun anymore.”

I kept at it because, some of the time at least, I was having fun—and because I wanted to learn to master my fear. But my progress had been slow, and this winter I hardly climbed at all. My mom had died suddenly the previous summer, and I largely let sports and socializing slip away in the months afterward.

It was about an hour’s uphill hike, alongside a creek bed through the snow, before we paused to strap on our crampons and then carried on up the frozen creek itself, the steel spikes offering us traction. The creek rose in slow increments: an easy step up, then a flat surface for a few steps, then a longer step up, and so on. Sometimes an icy rise would be too much to clear in a single step, and we’d kick the toe spikes of our crampons into its sloped surface and climb up that way.

Eventually we came to the true start of the climb, a route known as the Usual. One by one, we tied a rope to our harnesses and then ascended the first short wall. After that came another, longerĚýsection of steep climbing, and then another.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear, with the temperature hovering around freezing. I was nervous, as usual—especially since there were members of the group that I barely knew. I was always even more mortified to show my fear in front of strangers. But I was handling the climbing just fine, with no tears or pleas for mercy. I was even managing, as I sometimes did, to enjoy it.

When I made it to the top, I popped out onto an open, frozen plateau with a sweeping view all the way back to the highway. I took a selfie with the vista behind me and then sat down in the sun to eat my lunch, feeling proud and satisfied.

Around 2:00, Carrie found me and suggested that I be one of the first to start making my way back down. I would likely be among the slowest. I agreed. Descending involved a series of rappels: tying in to a secured rope and then lowering myself by hand down the ice walls.

I had never tried rappelling. The gang had taught me the basics the night before, in the hotel. TheyĚýhitched me to a rope tied to a post in the hallway, and IĚýwalked backward across the linoleum, feeding the rope through my harness as I went. Of course, that lesson had taken place on a horizontal surface.

Still, I was feeling good, feeling ready. Carrie got me set up, and I steeled myself to walk backward off the edge of the plateau and down the icy face of my most recent climb.

The first rappel went well. I was able to laugh after I lost my balance, failed to brace myself with feet wide, and swung sideways into the ice. The second one was okay too. The third was trickier: I had to make my way along a curving tunnel of ice, and again I lost my footing and swung hard into an ice wall, dangling helplessly on the rope, banging my elbows and knees. I swung and fell again as I neared the bottom of that rappel, and I slid down the rope and landed in a heap, the ice axes I’d hung on my harness digging hard into my sides.

Now I was embarrassed and in pain. I had a quick little cry there, tangled in my gear at the bottom of the rope, and then I picked myself up and moved out of the way so someone else could follow me down.

I struggled through two more short rappels, but my mood had become grim, and my control only deteriorated further as I descended. The afternoon was cooling off as sunset approached, and all that swinging and slamming had soaked me with water from the sun melting the ice through the day. I was cold, hungry, and exhausted. I was not having fun anymore. At the bottom of the last rappel, I sat down off to one side, away from the others, and cried, trying to hide my face. I ate a Snickers bar I’d been saving—chocolate almost never fails to cheer me up—but it only helped a little. We still had a long way to go to reach the cars.

When everyone had arrived at the bottom of the last rappel, we bunched together to head down the walkable, unroped portion of the route, along the frozen creek. As the group began to head down in twos and threes, I stood on the edge of one of the low ice bulges I’d stepped up without difficulty that morning. There was maybe a foot, a foot and a half, between the flat surface I stood on and the next flat section of ice. All I had to do was reach out with my boot and step down. I stared at my feet, but I couldn’t make them move. I kept picturing myself stepping down and my crampons failing to catch in the ice, my foot flying forward like I’d stepped on a banana peel in a cartoon. From there, I watched my body collapse, slide down the first ice bump and then the next, picking up speed, sliding and sliding down every frozen rise, all the way to the bottom. I couldn’t do it, said a voice in my head. I would fall. I would die.

Some irrational force had taken over my body. I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t move my limbs. A tiny part of me knew I just needed to take one step down, that everything would be fine if I could only move my feet, but that voice of reason had been shoved into a corner at the back of my brain. Another voice was in control now.

Ryan noticed my distress and circled back to reassure me. I heard myself tell him that I couldn’t come down the mountain, unfortunately. The group would just have to leave me there, I said. I couldn’t walk down, so they would all have to go on. I would stay right where I was.

My flat tone said my plan was reasonable. But staying where I was, as the temperature plunged and darkness came on and I stood shivering in my wet Gore-Tex, would be suicide. Still, my feet refused to move. I watched Ryan confer with the others and send Carrie and the rest of the group on aheadĚýso they could make it to the cars before dark. Ryan, his friend Joel, and a third guy I barely knew, Nic, stayed behind.

Joel stood on one side of me and grabbed my left hand. Nic took hold of my right. Ryan stepped down to the next ledge and turned to face me, pointing with his ice axĚýat the spot where I needed to put my foot. Slowly, taking deep breaths and clutching Joel’s and Nic’s hands hard, I forced my right foot down. My crampons caught. I did not slide to my death. Then we repeated the process with my left foot.

The light dimmed, and the night got cold. We inched down the mountain, Ryan pointing out every step, promising me that it was safe. Right foot. Left foot. I think I cried quietly, some of the time, from fear and frustration at the extent to which my body and mind had betrayed me. I was still halfway convinced that if I took one wrong step, it would be the step that killed me. It felt like the descent took hours. Eventually we pulled out our headlamps and carried on downhill in the dark.

Once we made it off the ice and onto the snowy trail for the last part of the hike down, I was finally able to let go of Joel’s and Nic’s hands. We tramped to the highway mostly in silence, and my fear receded enough for me to wonder how angry they were. Did Ryan wish he’d never invited me on this trip? Surely he must have. By the time we were in the car, the four of us piled into the single remaining vehicle, my lingering fear had been eclipsed by the most powerful feeling of humiliation I have ever experienced. I sat in the back seat, trying to shrink into nothing, unable even to enjoy Ryan’s traditional post-climb bag of dill pickle–flavored potato chips. I was utterly mortified.

Back at the hotel, I did the best I could. I forced myself to socialize with the group over cards and drinks instead of hiding myself away. I offered beers to the guys who’d peeled me off the mountain. At some point, I asked Ryan what he would have done if I hadn’t voluntarily taken that first downward step. “You wouldn’t have liked it,” he said. I had a vision of Ryan and Joel hog-tying me and dragging me down the frozen creek, bump by bump, in a slow-motion version of my imagined death-by-sliding. He was right. I wouldn’t have liked it.

The next day, when the rest of the group went climbing again, I stayed at the hotel. I went for a long run along the highway. I read a book. I tried to relax and enjoy my weekend, tried to appreciate the blue sky and the white mountains all around the lodge. But I kept thinking back to my behavior the day before.

It was unacceptable, I decided. I’d tried half-heartedly to work on my fear of heights over the years, but the matter never seemed urgent. I had never before put my own life, and the safety of others, in danger because of it. I could hardly believe the lunatic on the mountain had been me, declaring that I would die from exposure rather than walk down a frozen creek. What was the matter with me?

I tried not to let myself dwell on it, but my collapse on the Usual was a setback when I had only just begun to put myself together again. For much of my life, I feared my mom’s death. Her own mother died when she was a child, and growing up, I had become intimately aware of the devastation the loss had left in its wake. I dreaded living through the same loss, and when my turn did come, I fell apart. In the months after, I retreated completely from my life: from friends, from exercise, from the things I normally did to challenge and amuse myself. For too long, I felt like I had forgotten how to smile or laugh, like the muscles in my face had stiffened up and no longer knew how to perform those simple acts.

It had only been a few weeks since I’d started to reengage socially. I had started running, started feeding myself properly again, stopped living on my couch in a blur of binge-watched TV shows.

I didn’t want my setback on the mountain to derail my slow, hard-earned return to normal life. I didn’t want my terror to control me that way ever again. I decided, sitting alone in that hotel by the side of a lonely highway, that I would figure out what had happened in my brain on the mountain that day. And then, I decided, I would figure out how to fix it.

Excerpted from Nerve: şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs in the Science of Fear © 2020 by Eva Holland. Reprinted with permission of .Ěý

The post The Day I Decided to Stop Being Afraid of Heights appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Quality climbing equipment is built to last and keep you safe. But with time and use, even the most bomber piece of gear can become a safety hazard. The key to getting the most out of your kit is consistent inspection. WeĚýspoke to American Mountain Guides Association–certified rock guide Ěýfor his tips on knowingĚýwhen it’s time to replace your gear.

Ropes

There are a few obvious signs that your rope is unsafe to use. First, look at the sheath—the outer material. Feel for any inconsistencies, like flat sections (which signal that the core is weak), frays, discoloration, or soft spots. Ideally, you should do this scan each time you flake your rope before a climb. If these marks reveal the core, the interiorĚýstrands underneath the sheath,Ěýthen that section is no longer safe to climb on. But if these spots appear toward the ends, it’s safe to and still climb on the rest of the rope, Bradford explains. Just be sure you know how long it is for rappels and long routes.

Smaller,Ěýsuperficial marks, such as tiny chafes to the sheath, can be caused by drag. AĚýropeĚýis likely safe to use unless it’s soft and can be pinched into a sharp angle (a sound rope should bend in a smooth U shape), Bradford says, which would reflect damage to the core.

Judging integrity becomes harder when there are no visible marks or signs to indicate wear. “If a rope isn’t showing obvious signs [of wear], there are other things to look for. Consider questions like: When did you buy this rope? What has been its life span? How was it stored?’’ Bradford says. “Sometimes the rope will show all other signs of being in fine condition, but that can still raise yellow flags for me.ĚýAn older rope—even one that is stored properly—is not going to live up to all of its intended strength specifications. It’s not going to have the qualities that it originally had.” This could present a safety risk, BradfordĚýsays.

As a general rule of thumb, you should replace your ropeĚýafter a significant fall and inspect it for inconsistencies after a fall of any size. Climbers use theĚý ratio to rate severity: the higher the number, the more likely there will be damage to the rope. Since every fall can vary, I asked BradfordĚýto get more specific. “Falls that would lead me to really inspect the rope are any kind that caused significant abrasion. If you take a fall and suddenly realize that there’s an abrasion that wasn’t there before, and you feel those soft spots, thenĚýthe fall probably did some type of internal damage, and you may want to consider chopping that rope.”

But a big whipper isn’t the only sign that your rope should be replaced. “If it was a particularly hard or short fall that really rattled you, as the climber or the belayer, that’s a really good time to inspect and make sure none of that damage was incurred,” he says. If the rope was damaged, Bradford then weighs whether to cut the end off or retire the whole rope.Ěý

If you mainly use your rope in the gym, it will likely haveĚýa longer life span. “If all you’re doing is top roping, and it has no obvious abrasions that are starting to really wear down the sheath, there’s just no reason it can’t go all the way up to the manufacturer’s recommended timeline for moderate use,” he says.Ěý

Also consider general wear and tear: Bradford says that if you use your rope more than three to four times a week, you should retire it within a year. Replace one that’s mainly used on the weekends after one and a half to two years. If you only use it occasionally, consider getting a new one after three to five years, since the rope’s organic material can deteriorate over time.

Carabiners and Quickdraws

When I was racking up for a climb years ago, I asked my friend for an extra locking carabiner. He tossed it to me, but it soared over my head and fell to a rock ledge below us with a metallic ping. Though we couldn’t see any visible marks, we knew it was five years oldĚýand assumed the drop could have caused interior damage.ĚýWe decided to retire it. After talking to Bradford, I learned—to my surprise—that itĚýwas most likely still safe to climb on.Ěý

“Microfractures are far less of a problem, both in real research that’s been done as well as in my own professional opinion. And they’re somewhat a ghost of the past,” he says.ĚýThat’s because of the difference between aluminum and steel, he explains: “Aluminum is a soft metal. And almost all of the [metal] equipment that we use now that is not permanent hardware, [like bolts] on a climb or in a gym, is aluminum, because it’s easy to use and lightweight. It also accepts damage really well.ĚýSteel doesn’t bend as much,Ěýit doesn’t react as well to impact. When steel hits a rock, it can crack much more.”ĚýIt’s important to remember that steel carabinersĚýstill exist, and each drop should warrant a thorough inspection.

No matter the material, look for any visible cracks or deformities in the shape of the carabiner. If the gate cannot open and close correctly, or if it appears to be bent or damaged, do not use it. The same applies to locking versions: if the mechanism can’t function correctly, then put the carabiner out of commission.Ěý

What about that old box of ’binersĚýthat’s been sitting in your basement? “Carabiners and metal objects like buckles have no set life span in an environment they are recommended for, where they’re just sitting. Theoretically, you could use a ChouinardĚýpieceĚýthat’s 40 years old, if it’s been sitting in a duffelĚýbag in a dry environment out of the sun,” he explains.Ěý

When inspecting your quickdraws, take a look at the dogbones—the webbing that connects the two carabiners. Check them like you would a rope or harness, since the material is similar (nylon or polyethylene). The life of this connector is largely dependent on the elements it’s exposed to: rock abrasion, precipitation or moisture, and the sun, Bradford says. Watch for frayingĚýor cuts that would weaken the strength of the draw. Some companies Ěýto signal when it’s time for a replacement.Ěý

Harnesses

Much like climbing rope,Ěýharnesses should be examined frequently. Check for frays in the fabric or tears in the stitching, especially if you spot these signs on the belay loop. Are there any cuts or rips in the general construction, such as in the waist belt or leg loops? Do any buckles appear to be damaged or cracked? If yes, then it’s time to replace it.Ěý

If there are no visible signs of wear, take into account how often you use your harness. If you climb in it every day, consider retiring it after a year to two years. “The longest I’ve ever kept a harness is two years,” Bradford says. He rotates through a quiverĚýboth at the gym and while guiding to spread out their life spans.Ěý

Less frequent usage, such as on most weekends, means it should last about five years, BradfordĚýsays. Like the nylon in ropes, the fabric can deteriorate with time and exposure to the elements. A harness that isĚýstored properly (away from the sun, in a cool, dry environment) will have a longer life span.

Helmets

Helmets generally last longer than ropes and harnesses. You should retire yoursĚýif it suffers any severe damage, such as a big impact on the wall orĚýsignificant rockfall that compromises its integrity. Most will collect small dings and scratches from general use. But big depressions or dents in the shell mean it’s time to get a new one. If it hasn’t been majorly damaged, consider replacing it afterĚýfive toĚýeight years, Bradford says, depending on how often you use it.Ěý

When Bradford inspects his clients’ headgear, he asks himself: Does the buckle function properly? Is the webbing inside the helmet visible and able to be inspected for inconsistencies?ĚýIf a client has an older model,Ěýand he’s taking them into the mountains where rockfall, gear fall, and personal dangerĚýis more likely, then he will have them use a different helmet—he’s not willing to risk their safety when he can provide them with a newer model that has likely taken less impact.Ěý

Shoes

Compared to the rest of the gear on this list,Ěýclimbing shoes are the least crucial to your safety on the rock. But with frequent use, the rubber soles will wear out and become ineffective. Look at the rubber’s edge: Is it round, smooth, or dull? Is the sole slippery as a whole? If the answer to either of these questions is yes, it’s likely time to replace them. The good thing about climbing shoes is they can often be resoled for a fee by sending them back to the manufacturer or to an independent resoler. “It’s way better to spend 60 bucks on a resole than another $180 on a new pair of TC Pros,” Bradford says.

The post When to Replace Your Climbing Gear appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

When it comes to activities that require gear to get started, climbing generally isn’t the most expensive outdoorĚýsport—but it’s also not the cheapest. Putting together a full gym kit, with shoes, chalk, a chalk bag, harness, belay device, and locking carabiner, can easily amountĚýto over $200.

Decathlon is trying to make the outdoors more accessible with itsĚýaffordableĚýgear. The French company operates its own in-house brands,Ěýsuch as Quechua (hiking and camping), Ěý(paddle sports), and Ěý(climbing and mountaineering). The Simond line touts for $45, for $55, and a for $70. While some of these products aren’t jaw-droppingly inexpensive, their prices are lowerĚýthan those of mostĚýname brands. There’s a difference between low-cost and cheap, though, so I decided to test out the gear’s technical chops.

For this test, I focused primarily on Decathlon’s least expensive options, to findĚýbudget-friendly beginner climbing gear. I tested these products for a month, climbing three to four times a week both indoors and out,Ěýbouldering, top-roping, and lead-climbing.Ěý

Shoes ($45)

Simond’sĚýbaseline shoe, the , has a price you won’t find anywhere else except in some extreme sales (and even then, sizes are often limited). Other shoes for beginners, like ,ĚýretailĚýfrom $80 to $100.ĚýThe price and simple build of this canvas shoe had me skeptical, but after a month of testing, I was pleasantly surprised by its performance.

Climbing Shoes Rock has a flat footbed, which is ideal for beginners, because the shapeĚýdoesn’t force your foot into an uncomfortable arched positionĚýlike a more down-turned shoe would. I found the rubber tread sticky enough to trust my feet on slab climbs. The toe box is snugĚýand gaveĚýme control to pull on overhungĚýor vertical moves—though only to a point, as it won’t give you the same results on roofsĚýas an aggressiveĚýshoe will. The lace-up design works well if you want a bit more adjustmentĚýwith fit (as opposed toĚý), so you can keep it relaxed on easier climbs or crank down on a tough route.

For a shoe with some extra comfort and higher ankle support, the is also a solid option. It’s still very reasonably priced, at $65,Ěýbut it has more padding at the heel and tongueĚýand comes up higher on the ankle than the Rock does, which makes heel hooks more stable. It took a few sessionsĚýwearing the Rock+ to get comfortable in my foot placement (which is normal for most new climbing shoes), but once I did, the shoe excelled at sticking to small nubs,Ěýsmearing on granite slab, and handlingĚýbasic heel and toe hooking indoors and outdoors. The Rock+ uses rubber, which is known for its durability and isĚýthe same rubber foundĚýin most Tenaya shoes. Simond doesn’t specify the type of rubber in the Rock shoe.ĚýI only started to really notice limitations on both shoes once I got into the V4 and V5Ěýrange, doing awkward heel hooks.

The bottom line for all climbing shoes: finding the right pairĚýdepends on your foot shape and how tight of a fit you want. I recommend trying on several sizes and types, including men’s and women’s, regardless of your gender. For more information on this topic, check out ourĚý101 videoĚýon how to buy your first pair of shoes.

Ěý

Harness ($55)

Simond’s most basic harness, the , sells for $45, but I would recommend itsĚýĚýfor $55, which is just a couple bucks cheaper than a comparable harness, like . That $10Ěýmakes a difference—it’s fully adjustable, has two tie-in points in the front, and four gear loops, whereas the Easy 3 uses a single tie-in loop and only has two gear loops. The extra loops are onlyĚýimportant if you plan on climbing outdoors, because you’ll most likely be carrying more gear (draws, protection, runners, webbing, etc.), but the single tie-in loop is the big kicker here; it makes the harness less comfortable, because the leg straps have to go all the way up to the waist beltĚýas opposed to leg straps that are connected by webbing, and will wear down quicker, because the single tie-in loop has to handle both belaying and tying in, so I suspect it will wearĚýdown twice as fast.

The climbing and mountaineering harness has an extra double-backed buckle on the waistband, which makes it more adjustable than the Easy 3. With the climbingĚýharness on, I didn’t notice any place where it dug in or felt uncomfortable whileĚýhanging in it for several minutes. It also gets bonus points for plastic buckles (compared to less user-friendly G hooks on harnesses like the Black Diamond Momentum) on the bungee straps, which come in handy if you need to use the bathroom.Ěý

Chalk Bag ($17)

If you’re looking for a simple, compressible chalk bag, look no further than . TheĚýstiff rim and large opening makeĚýit easy for your hand to get intoĚýduring precarious rests on long routes, and the drawstring closure is easy to open and close with one hand. There’s also a small elastic strap on the side for a chalk brush. The Diamond isn’t Simond’s , and there areĚýchalk bags from other brands with similar price points, but for a quality chalk bag,Ěýanything under $20 is a good deal in my book.

I’d recommend pairing this bag with a chalk ball, like the Ěý($5), especially in a gym setting, where there are a lot of climbers in a closed space. Chalk bags can easily be stepped on or knocked over, and using a ball goes a long way to make sure your chalk actually stays put.ĚýPlus, I’ve found that using a ball gives your hands a nice coat without over-chalking. It’sĚýeasy to apply, has a comfortable consistency, and works as it should.Ěý

Ěý

Belay Device and Carabiner ($20 and $10)

Simond’s hardware prices aren’t drastically different fromĚýbrands you can find at retailers like REI or Backcountry. There are equivalents that are more expensive, but the difference is minimal—generally $10.Ěý

There’s nothing groundbreaking about Decathlon’s belay device or locking carabiners, but there’s also nothing wrong with them. ItsĚýĚýclips and screws shut easily and isĚýjust as strong as most other carabiners,Ěýwith a tested breaking strength of 25 kilonewtonsĚýon the major axis (the average locking carabiner has a strength of 21 to 27 kilonewtons). The doesn’t have a guide mode, so it wouldn’t be my choiceĚýfor multi-pitch climbs, but you don’t need this feature for the gym or single-pitch sport routes. It also doesn’t have an auto-locking feature, like the ,Ěýso if your climber is hangdogging,Ěýit becomes a little tedious. Otherwise, the device is easy to use and smoothly handles the rope.

Ěý

Optional Item: Rope ($70 for 35 Meters)

If you plan on lead climbing in a gym, many places require you to bring your own rope. FirstĚýcheck the height of your gym’s wall. Indoors, you generally don’t need a rope exceeding 40 metersĚýin length (unless your go-to gym is somewhere like , in Edinburgh, Scotland, or the , in Salt Lake City, which feature walls 21 to 30 meters high, in which case you’d need a 50-to-60-meter rope). I wouldn’t go shorter than 30 to 35 meters as a general rule of thumb. A 70-meter rope for indoor climbing would be excessive.

You’d be hard-pressed to find a 35-meter gym rope for less than this . The dynamic rope is rated for up to Ěý(most gym ropes are rated between sixĚýand tenĚýfalls)Ěýand gives a comfortable catch. My climbing partner took a ten-foot fall, and the rope was springy enough to absorb the impact, making the fall easy for both climber and belayer.ĚýThe rope’s static elongation (6.3 percent) is slightly lower than other comparable ropes, like the Black Diamond 9.9-millimeter rope (7.6 percent)—that meansĚýyou lose less ground after taking a break at a bolt or on top rope, but it also might result in a less cushy fall.ĚýMy one minor issue with Simond ropes is their tendency to get twisted and knotted during the first three to four uses. On the first use, even after flaking the rope twice, the rope knotted itself midclimb. After 10 to 15 climbs, the rope started to get less twisted, but it’s something to be mindful of;Ěýmaybe run it through a carabiner or belay device a few times to help it untwist.ĚýAs a bonus, the 35-meter rope fits perfectly into the ($4), so you canĚýbring itĚýto the gym without the hassle of a lugging a huge bag.

The Bottom Line

Decathlon’s climbing line performed well across the board. After taking the kit lead climbing and top-rope climbing in the gym, sport climbing outdoors on sandstone and granite, and bouldering in Yosemite, I don’t have any major complaints that would lead me to discourage others from purchasing the gear. I was impressed with some features of itsĚýshoes and harness, especially for the low price. If money isn’t an object, and you want the absolute best, Decathlon’s starter kitĚýisn’t for you. However, if you’re new to climbing or don’t want to shell out a ton of money, Decathlon’s collection is a solid place to start.

The post We Got This Gym Climbing Kit for Under $150 appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

My fiancĂ©e and I have two dogs: Lola, a six-year-old cocker spaniel, and Timber, a three-year-old golden retriever. They’re our adventure companions, traveling with us in the car for camping trips over long weekends and quick jaunts to the trailhead for evening hikes. But cars are made for humans, so it takes extra effort to ensure my four-legged family members are properly restrained. In addition, when they aren’t belted in, they like to climb all over the place, getting in the wayĚýand making the interior filthy in the process.Ěý“This is a big issue,” says Lindsey Wolko, founder of the . “We get numerous reports a year of pets injured in the car, along with reports of people injured by projectile pets in crashes.” As a dog dad, here’s how I keep my pets (and my sanity) safe while ferrying them around in my old Land Cruiser.

Hammocks

Pet “hammocks” are both cheap and extremely practical, not to mention they work in any vehicle’s back seat. These are big squares of fabric—typically waterproof canvas—that drape over the second row, clipping around the back- and front-seat headrestsĚýto form a loose sling for the dogs to lie in. While it protects the seats from dirty paws and hair, it also blocks your dogs from poking theirĚýhead between the front seats and keeps themĚýfrom flying into the footwell or front passenger area during sudden stops. Wolko isĚýquick to point out that it’s important your hammock not slide around on your seat. “If you’re using one that’s too slick, it can pose a risk to the dog’s ACL,” she says. has a nonslip back and works really well for Timber and Lola, who seldom ride in the car without it. Timber likes to climb down around the hammock to lay on the floor. (We call it his basement apartment.)

While it’s great for short trips with just two people, the hammock doesn’t quite work when you also have back-seat passengers, which brings us to the next approach.

Cargo-Area Barriers

If you want to transport your dogs in the trunk of your SUV or station wagon, invest in a barrier. ThisĚýseparates the cargo area from the passengers and comes in a few different styles. My has adjustable metal bars and attaches to the second-row headrests.

Some designs use tension rods, while others forgo the bars altogether in favor of a mesh net. Make sure that whatever options you’re considering will fit the unique dimensions of your vehicle, especially if you’re buying online, as few back seats are exactly alike.

The cargo barrier works well for us in situations whereĚýit just isn’t possible to have the dogs in the back seat,Ěýprimarily when we’ve got other humans riding with us. It’s also become our go-to solution for short trips; we just load the dogs in the back and get on our way. With the trunk space in my Land Cruiser, I’ve transported as many as four dogs at once, thanks to the Walky Guard—not possible with the hammock alone.

Seat-Belt Harnesses

A dog-specific seat-belt harness is likely the safest, most fail-proof way to transport your pups. It keeps our dogs restrained not only before, but also during and after, an accident, when broken windows and open doors mightĚýallow them to run out of the car and into a potentially dangerous situation.

When you search for “dog seat belt” on Amazon, you’re bombarded with a number of options, most of which are cheap, unproven models from questionable manufacturers. I opted for . It allows the dog to move around and get comfortable in the back seat. And while less sophisticated designs hold the dog awkwardly by its neck or shoulders, the Load Up puts the pressure on the chest and hips—far more natural and less likely to cause injury. At $80, it’s a bit pricey but worth the added peace of mind. Timber’s 50-pound frame fits in a size medium, while 30-pound Lola is comfortable in a small.

I slip the Load Up over the dog’s head and clip it around their waist. Then I feed the car’s seat belt through a loop at the back of the harness. I like this design because it incorporates the vehicle’s own seat belts and attachment points, which lock in place if there’s sudden forward momentum, such asĚýfrom an impactĚýor if the dog just suddenly decidesĚýto climb into the front seat.

When used together, the hammock and Load Up harness create a near ideal solution for keeping your car safe from your petsĚýand your pets safe in the car.

Hard Crates

Like a seat-belt harness, a hard crate will keep your dog safe even after an accident. “Some dog breeds do better in a crate, and some do better in a harness.ĚýIt’s really up to the owner to decide,” says Wolko. Regardless of which one you choose, she says the crate should be no more than six inches longer than the pet from its nose to the base of its tail to prevent it from bouncing around too much inside during an accident. The Center for Pet SafetyĚýrecommends the heavy-duty . (And though I don’t own one personally, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s Indefinitely Wild columnist, Wes Siler,Ěýis a fan.) The G1 has been tested to withstand insane conditions—like having 630 pounds dropped stright on top of it—while built-in anchor points, a drainage system, burly handles, and a locking door serve to make this the most high-tech dog crate on the planet. But at $700, the G1 isn’t exactly a bargain. Though there are other options, don’t go too low on cost; a cheap and flimsy model isn’t worth the savings when it comes to keeping your dog safe.

The Upshot

As long as vehicles are designed for humans, there will be no perfect way to keep dogs safe in them. But the gear here can help, ensuring a drive in the car doesn’t get in the way of youĚýand your pooch’s adventure time.

The post What’s the Best Way to Keep Your Dog Safe in a Car? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I left San FranciscoĚýin the early afternoon, barely beating the notorious I-80 traffic out of the city. I was headed towardĚýYosemite to climb for a week—stoke was high, plans were loose. An hour into the drive I got a text that read, “Cathedral lap tonight?” With that, the adventure began. I arrived at the trailhead around 5 p.m. and quickly threw my gear into a bag. Time was precious—we had three hours before sunset.

After a 45-minute approach we got to the base of the massive granite spire we planned to climb. Since the first ascent by John Muir in the 1800s, Cathedral Peak has been an iconic destination. Feeling comfortable on our moderate 5.7, Sterling and I decided to simul-climb, leaving 50 feet of rope loosely hanging between us. Like much of the climbing in the expansive TuolumneĚýMeadows, our route had everything—hand cracks, knobby slab, and even a chimney to stem up. We reached the summit with an hour of light left and quickly made our way down, using headlamps to get back to the cars.

While Tuolumne is filled with scenic lakes, ancient pines, and seemingly endless granite slab, the most amazing part is the solitude. On a warm Friday evening in August, we saw one other party. That was it.

Getting to Tuolumne isn’t difficult. Take Highway 120—the park thoroughfare—east from the valley and in less than an hour you’re in alpine climbing paradise. With a base elevation of 8,500 feet, Tuolumne has a number of classic high-country routes, like Matthes Crest, Cathedral Peak, and MountĚýConness. The area is known for clean rock and granite domes with a mix of face and crackĚýclimbing. During summer, thunderstorms are common, lasting a few hours or a few days. Mosquitoes are common in the areaĚýtoo.

Over the course of the week the gear we used varied greatly. We went throughĚýwide variety of cams and nuts, long slings, good helmets for loose rock, and comfortable approach shoes (some of the best rock is pretty far from the road). Here are the pieces of gear we relied on the most, day in and day out.

Black Diamond Momentum Rock ShoesĚý($90)

Many of the routes in Tuolumne are longer and lower-grade, so I often employ a shoe with a more relaxed fit, such as the new . It’s comfortable and extremely breathable—great for warm days on long multipitch routes—with proprietary rubber that sticks to about everything.

Scarpa MescalitoĚýApproach Shoes ($200)

For long approaches like the three-mile trek to the base of Cathedral, I’ll throw on a pair of . They’re lightweight and comfortable and have enough rubber to safely scramble up big slabs, through boulder fields, and up scree slopes.

Petzl AdjamaĚýHarnessĚý($80)

I put a big emphasis on versatility with all my gear, stuff that can be used effectively for multiple sports like trad, alpine, and ice climbing. Ěýhas just the right balance of comfort, gear loops, weight, and freedom of movement.

Metolius Access Fund Chalk Bag ($20) and FrictionLabs Unicorn Dust Chalk ($10)

The standard is a simple and durable design. For this specific chalk bag, the companyĚýdonates a portion of the proceeds to the Access Fund toĚýprotectĚýAmerican climbing areas, which I love. Pair that with the most reliable chalk I’ve ever used, , and you’ll be able to hold on to things you wouldn’t otherwise.

Ěý

Petzl 9.0 mm Volta Guide Rope ($260)Ěý

Like most of the items on this list, the ropes I preferĚýare appropriate for all kinds of uses—in this case, single, half, or twin—and work as well in the alpine as they do on trad routes in Yosemite. The is lightweight and low in bulk, and it still keeps you safe. That’s the perfect balance for me.

Black Diamond Vapor Helmet ($140)

With loose rock it’s always important to wear a helmet. The is my go-to. It’s incredibly light and comfortable and good for a variety of mountain adventures, especially ones in warmer weather when breathability is a high priority.

Osprey Mutant 38ĚýPack ($170)

I stuff all my gear in a , a nimble climbing pack that’s the perfect crossover for both long day missions and full light-and-fast weekends. A couple gear loops, rope and helmet carry, and a snug fit make it the ideal mixed-useĚýpack.

Mountain Hardwear Stretch DownĚý($275) andĚýOzonic Jackets ($200)

Both of these jackets are light, durable, and stretchy. Very stretchy. That’s a big advantage while climbing long routes with a variety of movements. Yes, a Ěýmay seem like overkill, but you’ll thank me after you sit out a late-afternoon storm and still stay dry. If it’s a cold day, the brand-new Ěýis a lightweight contingency plan that’s easy to stuff at the bottom of your pack and forget—until you need it.

Ěý

Suunto 9ĚýWatch ($600)

I use a while climbing, probably as a vestigeĚýof my trail-running background. That said, it frequently comes in handy. The battery lasts forever, it’s waterproof, and the altimeter and route tracking are helpful for finding my way.

The post What to Pack for a Climbing Trip in the Sierra appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

In a car crash at 35 miles per hour, an unrestrained 60-pound dog becomes a . The force of that impact could kill both the dog and the car’s human occupants. Yet many of us drive around every day with our dogs just sitting on the back seat, or even on our laps.

“Securing a dog is kind of like buying a fire extinguisher,” says Patrick Kruse, the founder and R&D director of Bend, Oregon–based dog gear brand Ruffwear. “Most of us don’t plan on testing a dog safety harness, but if you ever do, it really becomes apparent that having a dog restrained is a good thing.”

I own two dogs and regularly drive with them in the car. Given their roughly 15-year life span, that at some point in their lives, we will have an accident while driving together. I’d like them to survive such a circumstance, so I set about researching how I could keep them safe.

Kruse has been designing harnesses, backpacks, and other products for active dogs for 24 years. In 2013, he began designing a product that could save dogs from injury in car crashes. Ruffwear’s resulting was a pioneering product and remains the industry leader when it comes to in-car dog safety.

Kruse describes three main things you need to consider for keeping your dog safe when driving: preventing distractions, managing the dog’s deceleration rate upon impact, and keeping the dog restrained post-crash. All that needs to be achieved with speed and convenience if you’re actually going to bother using the system every time you load a dog into the car. Plus, the system needs to be comfortable for the dog.

Going into this research, I wasn’t aware of the importance of making sure a dog is restrained in the aftermath of an accident. But it makes sense. Kruse told me stories of dogs panicking and fleeing accidents through a broken window, only to be lost or hit by incoming traffic. He also explained that sometimes a panicked dog may delay treatment for its incapacitated owner. “With a rattled dog, some emergency responders are saying that they can’t get access to the human because theĚýdog won’t let them get close,” he says.

Probably the easiest way to secure a dog in a car is with a divider between the back seat and the load area of a wagon or SUV. Just load the dog into the back of the car, and it’s contained in a safe area, away from the human occupants. A crate takes containment one step further and would work even if the rear window gets broken in an event like a rollover. Of course, not all dividers and crates are created equally. Many load dividers install only under tension and are built from flimsy materials. Kruse recommends looking for one that bolts to the frame of the car. “If you can rip the thing out with your hands, it’s probably not going to sustain an impact,” he says.

He gives a similar warning about plastic travel crates. “If you’re strapping something down that’s supposed to take a 2,700-pound hit, but it’s made from plastic you can kick in with your foot, it’s probably not going hold up in a crash,” Kruse says. The Center for Pet Safety recommends the .

Dividers and crates may help keep human occupants safe from flying dogs in a crash, as well as help keep dogs safely inside the vehicle, but they do nothing to actually protect the dog during the crash. “We don’t die from the car crash,” Kruse says. “We die from what’s called third-space impact. The car hits a brick wall—that’s the first-space impact. Your chest hits the steering wheel—that’s the second space. Your internal organs hit your rib cage—that’s the third space, and that’s where the damage is done. If you’ve got a dog in a crate, and they’re bouncing around like a marble inside that crate, then the damage is being done.”

The trick is to manage the deceleration rate of the animal in question—be it human or canine—which means decreasing the force with which the heart, spleen, brain, or other organs get squashed against something hard. That’s what seatbelts and airbags do for humans, but until the past few years, there was no such product available for dogs, no standards defining what these products should set out to achieve, and no procedures for testing them.

That all changed in 2011, when New Jersey made it to carry your dog unrestrained in your car. That helped create demand for effective dog restraints. That same year, Lindsey Wolko, whose dog had been injured by an ineffective restraint, founded the . Wolko realized that without a testing methodology, there could be no assurance of effectiveness, and without that assurance, consumers could not know which products would work and which ones wouldn’t.

This video shows a compendium of products failing the CPS test.

The Center for Pet Safety (CPS) adopted (FMVS 213), which regulates child-restraint systems, as its guide and developed a methodology for testing dog restraints to that standard. The initial results on existing products were eye-opening. Of the devices it tested, . CPS lists four problems it found in that initial batch of testing:

• Extremely low likelihood of survivability for the animal.
• Danger to humans when the dog becomes a missile.
• Choking and/or other bodily harm to the animal when harness materials cinch tightly upon impact.
• Extensive damage to fixtures within the vehicle caused by the projectile animal.

“The dog would actually slingshot or cantilever through those systems, becoming entangled, and in some cases rip parts off the crash-test mannequin as it was catapulted through the windshield,” says Kruse, who would eventually use the CPS’s test center and methodology to develop his Load Up harness.

By employing FMVS 213 in its testing, CPS’s major concern is keeping the dog from hitting the back of the front seats. (Dog safety harnesses are designed to attach to the seatbelts in the back seat.) So it’s no coincidence that the most effective harness ended up being one designed to hold a dog in the same position as a child sitting in its car seat. Kruse describes this approach as “human-centric” and expresses concerns about how convenient such a system would be for a human to load a dog into and how comfortable such a device would be for a dog to ride in. It’s also limited in its ability to handle dogs that are larger than a human child.

Kruse already knew how to design a dog harness—he’d been doing it for 24 years. But here he had to figure in much greater forces than those that a climbing or pack harness would ever have to deal with. He spec’d thicker nylon webbing and metal buckles rated to thousands of pounds of force. But where to attach the seatbelt? In CPS’s testing, Kruse saw that attachment points between the shoulder blades were effective at keeping dogs from colliding with the seats in front of them, but they were also flipping dogs over and directing forces through their bodies in unnatural ways. Watch the testing video above and you’ll see exactly that occur. Harnesses that eventually received the CPS certification are stronger and limit the dog’s forward travel but still violently flip them over.

“If they jump off a high rock and onto the ground, the dog’s internal organs are supported by the chest or rib cage,” Kruse says. “Most of the power of a dog is developed through the front legs, and they support the bulk of that up in their chest area.” He found that the most effective way to correctly support a dog was to pull through its chest and back toward its tail, so Kruse placed the seatbelt attachment for the harness back between the hips, over the tail. The elasticity of the nylon webbing and the padding in the harness then provide the deceleration essential to making the crash survivable, and the dog remains in the proper orientation throughout the crash.

One problem: In this biomechanically ideal position, there isn’t enough room in the back seat to prevent larger dogs from hitting the front seat. “When you put a 120-pound malamute in the back of a Subaru, their chin comes to your forehead,” Kruse says. “They’re already in contact with the back of the front seats, just due to the size of the dog.”

For that reason, Kruse’s Load Up harness passed the CPS tests in sizes small and medium (dogs up to 32 inches in girth behind their front legs) but failed in larger sizes because it allows big dogs to come into contact with those front seats. You can find .

Despite his design’s lack of CPS certification, Kruse still believes it represents the best possible solution, given the limited space inside passenger cars. He explains, “We’re keeping the dog from rattling around inside the car. We’re keeping the dog from going out the windshield. In the event of a rollover where the windows get broken out, the dog is restrained and not running away. It’s not just whether or not your dog gets a bloody nose from impacting the seat—it’s all these things.”

But, Kruse laments, “We’re building cars for humans, not dogs.” Currently, there’s no way to support a larger dog in the way Kruse believes is ideal while keeping them from slamming against the front seats in a crash. Keeping your large dog safe is a compromise between their body shape and the limited space inside your car.

Until someone designs a car with dog safety in mind, this is the best we can hope for. If you want to keep your dog safe in your car, then a harness like the is your best option.

The post We Need to Talk About Keeping Dogs Safe in Cars appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I've been climbing in the ($70) for six months now, both outside and in the gym, and it's quickly become my favorite harness.ĚýHere's why.ĚýĚý

The Solution features a slim, minimalist design and weighs just 11 ounces. At first glance, the lack of padding seems like it would be miserable to wear for an entire day, but don't let its looks fool you.

An important aspect of a harness is how the waistband and leg loops hold and distribute weight.ĚýThe Solution does this better than any harness I've worn over my seven years of climbing, thanks to an internal structure comprised of three webbing bands that help spread loads. This design cleverly relieves pressure and pinching.Ěý

The thin, mesh-lined material breathes well, which means I sweat less than when I'm in a bulkier harness. I’ve worn the SolutionĚýwhile slowly working through climbs at my limit, long belays, and route setting, and it’s never felt painful or cut off my circulation. I can't say the same for any other harness I've used.Ěý

BecauseĚýit's light and well-fitted, the Solution is perfect for putting down sport-climbing projects. But it’s also comfortable during the times I spend hanging on the rope sussing out a tricky route sequence or waiting for my forearms to recover. It’s easy to get on, too, with fixed, stretchy leg loops and aĚýquick-to-adjust waist strap.

Plus,Ěýthe sleek design looks great. You know what they say: “Look good, climb hard.” At least I’ve got the first part down.

Ěý

The post Climb Comfortably in the Black Diamond Solution Harness appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Before you go into the nearest outdoor retail store and splurge on unnecessary ropes and quickdraws, let’s get down to basics. This is what you really need to start climbing. (And don’t forget to work on your skills, too.)

Shoes

Advanced climbers often buy boulder- or wall-specific shoes. As a beginner, you just want a pair that you can stand to wear, since almost all other climbing shoes prioritize performance over comfort. Here are two styles we like.

La Sportiva Tarantulace ($80)

The has a laced upper that fits precisely to the foot. The aggressive rubber heel is durable and long-lasting, and the midsole is slightly arched but not too severe. Its synthetic leather is soft against your foot, and the tongue’s interior lining helps manage moisture. Another thing that sets this shoe apart is its toe shape: Rather than the sharp-angled toe of most climbing shoes, the Tarantulace has more of a squared silhouette that offers a bit more wiggle room.

Scarpa Origin ($90)

Instead of laces, the uses Velcro to create a snug but not punishing fit. A suede upper offers some padding. The toe is slightly curved, which is helpful for digging into smaller footholds, but the shoe still has a relatively flat profile, so it won’t beat up on your foot.

Chalk

There’s really no such thing as beginner’s chalk. If we’re talking budget, sure, some of it is cheap. But it’s better to spend just a little bit extra over the bottom-end options that don’t really work. You do want to figure out whether liquid, block, or loose chalk works best for you. Here are some options.

Metolius Loose Chalk ($4.50 for 4.5 Ounces)

This is the . It uses high-quality magnesium carbonate to keep your hands dry while climbing. Though liquid chalk is known to avert sweaty palms for longer, loose chalk is generally more affordable.

FrictionLabsĚýSecret Stuff Chalk Cream ($20 for 75 Milliliters)

Ěýmaintains grip and friction for multiple climbs, thanks to ultraconcentrated magnesium carbonate. The cream also naturally kills bacteria on your hand that might make climbing more slippery.

Chalk Bag

Boulderers use a bucket—a large chalk bag kept on the ground to use between tries. When climbing on a wall, you’ll want to use a smaller chalk bag that ties around your waist for reapplying chalk when needed. There’s no need to spend much money here.

Prana Geo Chalk Bag ($22)

has sturdy double belt loops that keep it from moving around your harness, an adjustable drawcord that enables easy access and closure, and a fleece-lined interior.

Organic Lunch Bag Chalk Bucket ($33)

is stiff, so it stays open and upright on its own for easy access. There’s also a sturdy closure buckle that prevents chalk from spilling in the back of your car. A big outer pocket stores snacks, climbing tape, or hand salve, and two elastic loops hold the brushes you need to clean lichen or dirt off routes.

Crash Pad for Bouldering

Mad Rock Pad ($160)

The uses polyethylene foam to create a five-inch-thick landing. On the trail, it transforms into a backpack, complete with a hipbelt and chest strap, so you can haul your shoes, water bottle, chalk bag, and layers. If that wasn’t enough, it can also be turned into a lounge chair for post-climb beers.

Harness for Rope Climbing

Mammut Ophir 3 Slide ($55)

The fits a variety of waist sizes and uses well-built but flexible webbed materials, so it’s comfortable to sit in when you’re hanging on belay. The waist and leg loops are easy to adjust, all the materials breath well on hotter days, and the tie-in loop is positioned to avoid chafing. Even better: It’s suited for a variety of climbing types, meaning it’ll work for harder lead and trad climbs as you advance.

Black Diamond Ozone ($55)

Like the Ophir 3 Slide, is easy to adjust for beginners who don’t want to fiddle with their gear. At just 10.5 ounces, it’s also super lightweight.

Helmet for Rope Climbing

When choosing a helmet, make sure it’s climbing-specific, fits well, and has an easily adjustable chin strap.

Black Diamond Half Dome ($60)

is both affordable and durable since it’s made with a hybrid of foam and plastic. Large air vents on the sides and in the rear move heat, and the helmet comes with an easy-adjust fit dial. A low-profile clip allows you to secure a headlamp for late nights hiking out.

Petzl Elios ($65)

The is a popular go-to option for all climbing-related adventures, be it canyoneering, mountaineering, caving, or sport climbing. Its features are similar to the Half Dome: adjustable nape-mounted dial, clips for headlamp, ventilation, and quality composition.

The post The Best Climbing Gear for Beginners appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Summer is right around the corner, which means you should be hunting walls outdoors. Until then, here's a list of the best new gear to crank in the gym, from some of our favorite brands.

Five Ten Wall Master Shoes ($85)

The pioneer of sticky rubber gives us the , with a hard edge for locking onto credit-card-thin footholds, a burly upper that protects when jamming into cracks, and a comfortable, neutral fit.

Edelrid Ohm Assisted Braking Device ($130)

Ever take a whipper and yank your belayer four feet off the ground? solves that problem. It replaces the first quickdraw and cams down on the rope should you fall, distributing the weight for your partner below.

Trango Concealed Carry Chalk Bag ($17)

Because typical cinch closures tend to leak, Trango added a stowable fabric hood to . It kept things tidy even when stored upside down for several days.

Adidas Outdoor Agravic Shirt ($79)

The coolest part of this ? It’s nearly seamless, which fends off chafing and other discomfort while you’re contorting yourself on the wall.Ěý

Petzl GriGri+ Belay Device ($150)

Handy for beginners, Petzl’s has an anti-panic function that automatically brakes if the belayer yanks too hard on the release, stopping the climber’s descent.

Black Diamond Gym Rope ($80)

This 35-meter (115 feet) weighs just five pounds, and at 9.9 millimeters thick, it’s burly enough to withstand years of scrapes on textured gym walls.

Mammut Seon Transporter Pack ($140)

A climbing bag-cum-commuter pack? Believe it. This moisture­-shedding, has a compartment with a padded laptop sleeve for business and a ventilated shoe pocket for performance.Ěý

Mountain Hardwear AP Scrambler Pants ($85)

The name of the game is versatility. is sturdy enough to hold up against scuffs on coarse, chalky gym walls, yet slick enough to wear to the bar after a workout.

Petzl Corax Harness ($60)

The best all-around harness we’ve tested, weaves the customary adjustable leg loops, buckles, and waist belt into a soft-mesh body sling with breathable padding at all the pressure points.

The post The Best Indoor Climbing Gear of 2017 appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.