On My “No Boys Allowed” Climbing Trip, We Did Everything Wrong. It Was So Worth It.

Why a climbing trip without a significant other was an important progression for me as a female climber

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(Photo: Alice Hafer)

The whisper on camp was that we had to be lesbians. Zofia Reych and I struggled with our tent poles and pounded the stakes into the ground with rocks as nearby campers lounged. The expansive gray Swiss mountains loomed behind.

It was 2014, and we were the odd ones out—the only group without a man. We ignored our onlookers. Admittedly, going on a trip without my boyfriend did make my stomach swirl—I was shy and I’d often let him take the lead. But we were determined to leave our male counterparts behind.

Two weeks earlier, feeling cooped up as students in London, Zofia and I both had a week off and mischief to get up to. Following rumors about a world-class bouldering area in Switzerland reachable by train, we booked tickets for our first no-boys-allowed trip to Magic Wood.

Planning was simple, but packing proved mysterious. In the past, my boyfriend had always packed for us both. In a whirlwind, I threw what seemed sensible into my crashpad-cum-suitcase: canned food, a tiny camp stove, clothing, and climbing shoes.

To save money, we had booked a room at the Swiss Star Apartments in Zurich within “walking distance” of the train station. As broke students, we forwent buses and taxis, walking three kilometers with our crashpads and bags to save money. Not a pinch of doubt crept into our heads hours earlier as we stuffed our two bouldering pads full of canned food and wrapped them with plastic wrap so they would close. The downside? They proved nearly impossible to carry.

While swapping trains, we decided it would be a good idea to shop for more food since we were heading into the mountains car-less and it was a 30-minute hitchhike back to town. Four Aldi shopping bags later and armed with our two provision-stuffed pads, we caught the last bus to the sleepy village of Ausserferrera, home to Switzerland’s popular bouldering area.

From the campsite, we could see the sharp edges and bullet-hard rock of the closest bouldering area just across the road. Jittery with psych, we pitched our tent. As we settled in and prepared to dig into our canned rations, we realized a small but crucial detail had slipped our minds when Zof asked me, “Um, where’s the lighter?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “because we forgot to bring gas.”

Our mishaps piled up. We didn’t consider that the campsite wouldn’t have a fridge (campgrounds often have fridges in Europe). We hadn’t checked in advance. So we soaked our food in a water trough filled with glacier run-off for washing and a tap for drinking. We munched on spoonfuls of Ovaltine spread and cold canned sardines in silence. But we had made it, and that was enough.

In the morning, my muscles screamed. Our plan had been zero rest days, but I was already sore—just from carrying the heavy, awkward pads. But we were determined to be tough, so we set out to boulder, chanting: “No pain, no gain.” We worked our way up the grades, trying 7A-7B (V6-V8) classics like Mörderballett, a confusing technical arete; Enterprise, an exciting heel hook traverse; and Grit de Luxe, the crimpy slab next to the creek. We set our sights on a few projects: Intermezzo, a steep sharp crimped 7C (V9) and Blown Away, a 7B (V8) highball traverse.

Throughout the week, we found our groove. On rest days, we walked to the nearby cafe, Bodhi’s lounge. It never seemed to be open, so we made a routine of hanging out in the parking lot instead. Once we acquired gas, we brewed our morning coffee on the concrete, being careful not to topple our tiny three-prong Decathlon stove … again.

We skipped showers and swam every afternoon instead. Our motto was: “A 7A a day keeps the doctor away.” We kept that doctor in check … until we didn’t. One strained knee ligament for me and one finger injury for Zof later, we decided to rest—by that I mean tape up and keep climbing, of course.

Despite our camping and climbing faux pas, that week provided some of the best climbing memories of my life. There was no one to answer to, no one to tell us what to try. Climbing had never felt so free. I didn’t care that I walked away with a swollen knee. It was the first time climbing didn’t feel like something I was passively partaking in—it was something I chose. Climbing became my own. And we did choose. We picked out our projects, got up late, stayed up even later, screamed on a send, and giggled as loud as we liked.

Looking back, I remember the tension in my shoulders and the murmurs of worry in my head before our trip. I didn’t know if we could handle it. But our mistakes turned into memories. Our mishaps ultimately left us empowered. Our blunders brought laughs. We were happy to have them, because those gaps of wisdom, now filled, inspired many independent adventures ahead. We were proud, not worried, to be the talk of camp. From then on, we did many trips solo and without the “boys.”

We made a lot of mistakes on our first solo bouldering trip, but we didn’t care. That’s what climbing—and life—is like. Making mistakes, taking ownership, and in so doing, making something of your own.