Climbing Can’t Be Racist… Right?

Before I start, let’s get a few strawman arguments out of the way. It is correct to say that…

• “The outdoors” is an inanimate construct that cannot actively hold racist views.
• Anyone can get to outdoor recreation areas if provided transportation and directions.
• Most outdoor areas do not contain people who actively bar access to non-white visitors.
• The climbing community is full of kind people who treat others well, regardless of race.
• We have had a Black president, and we did re-elect him.

If you’ve expressed any of these ideas, you are right. Now that we’ve established what’s factually right, I’d like to discuss how nonwhite people might experience climbing.

While this sport can create wonderful experiences, not everyone gets to share in that wonder. Not everyone has a smooth entry point into climbing, and not everyone starts in a friendly, supportive community. To make matters worse, it seems that when Black climbers do speak up about bad experiences, the default response is to explain away their concerns—or disregard them entirely. Case and point: on a recent Instagram post about an article written in this very magazine, wherein Kai Lightner reflected on his own not-so-smooth entry into climbing, the reply he got was, “Maybe you don’t belong.” 

[Related: Kai Lightner Thinks We Can Do Better]

Point of Entry

Whenever any minorities express feeling unsafe in nature, I often hear people push back by saying, “the outdoors can’t be racist.” This reply is a rare triple threat: factually correct, mentally braindead, and morally bereft. Responding this way to genuine fears of racism takes a lack of kindness, critical thought, or a basic understanding of racism—especially the last one. In fact, I think “the outdoors can’t be racist” stems from the misplaced belief that racism is, well, a belief. I don’t have the column space to define racism on an intellectual level, but even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time. The problem isn’t how we define racism but an overall lack of care for others’ experiences.

I think some of this comes from climbing’s hyperfocus on performance, often in lieu of community health. This is why a friend and I started the American Climbing Project a few years ago: to address climbing culture in ways we wanted climbing media to do so. We chose to address racism in our first season, interviewing dozens of climbers (both nonwhite and white) about their opinions and experiences. Many nonwhite climbers expressed their feelings of anxiety, stress, or flat-out fear when planning a climbing trip outdoors. And as you might expect, none of them mentioned nature as the cause for their discomfort.

“It’s not the physical space,” started one South Asian climber. “It’s the fact that it’s surrounded by inaccessibility, including from the communities we build around it. So is that rock I’m going to racist? No. But are all these things I have to internalize on my way to that space racist? Yes. And does it make me feel safe, or like I can go enjoy that space? No. Absolutely not.”

“If I plan on going to the New in West Virginia, in Fayetteville, I’m not driving by myself,” a Black climber told me. “‘Cause I’m not gonna stop at these gas stations in rural West Virginia and get out of the car, by myself, as a Black woman.”

“If I’m driving through all these fields and rural areas,” an Asian climber started, “and all I see is Trump signs here, Trump signs there, that blue-striped American flag sign… now I’m looking at my car like, ‘am I safe? If my car breaks down, am I gonna be alright?’”

You may be thinking, “not every minority feels this way.” And again, this is factually correct. But fear is not the only thing keeping minorities out of climbing; there’s also a community component to access. Climbing is very community-driven, which can be great for those who find friends and climbing partners upon entry. But strong communities are always a double-edged sword, as that tightness can be perceived as exclusivity to newcomers.

“There’s no situation I can really think of where someone’s gone out of their way to do something discriminatory,” said a Black male climber. “But they’re also not necessarily trying to have an active effort to be inclusive.”

Another climber, an Asian male, echoed this. “It’s groups of white folks, sittin’ around drinking beer… everybody’s got a plaid shirt on, I don’t have a plaid shirt on. I don’t know anybody, I’m kinda walking through, it’s uncomfortable… to me, this feels inaccessible.”

A third climber, a Black woman, expressed frustration with trying to explain this feeling of otherness to fellow climbers. “They’re like, ‘Well, I’ve never experienced racism in climbing.’ Yeah, no shit Chad, you’re white! I know you haven’t experienced racism in climbing; that obviously would not happen for you. It’s that disconnect of ‘if it’s not happening to me, then it must not be happening.’”

Oftentimes, I’ll see climbers respond to these feelings in the same way they responded to Kai Lightner on Instagram: “Well, if you feel like you don’t belong, then maybe you don’t.” Yet climbing is supposed to be a community that, according to another Instagram comment on the same topic, “is the most accepting community—probably of all sports.”

When you enter a community space, you want to feel like you belong or at least feel welcome. But in a sport where people can’t wait to share what they hate about newcomers (like in this Reddit threat), I daresay your welcome can feel worn out upon arrival. It reminds me of a video game called We Happy Few, set in a world where everyone walks around with smiles plastered on their faces. Nonwhite, queer, and neurodivergent people come to this sport that supposedly welcomes all, only to find yet another environment where they have to code-switch, pretend, and do their damndest to fit in.

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