The Winning Stories of the Dirtbag Love Contest

In February, we asked you to share your best climbing love stories—poignant, cringe, and hilarious alike. The climbing community totally delivered. Read on for the first, second, and third place stories from our 2025 Dirtbag Love Contest, plus a few runners-up we loved.

The Winner: “I Said ‘Yes’ to Type II Fun—Forever”

By Jocelyn Sahli

February 18, 2019. My second-ever outdoor climb. I barely knew what multipitch was, and anchors were still some mysterious climber sorcery. But I knew one thing: It would be tall. Really tall. Thankfully, I’d be on toprope the whole time and under the guidance of Matt and Al.

The route? Peacemaker in Cochise, Arizona. The day was long; the sun, relentless. Rookie mistakes: not enough water, a diet consisting entirely of dry granola bars, and trusting a “quick walk-off” to actually be quick.

As I choked down another bite of sawdust, Matt, my boyfriend, crouched on one knee. “I could do this forever,” he said. I laughed, “Well, you’re already on one knee—” Then I saw the ring. My first multipitch and a proposal?! Before I could celebrate, our friend Al, the wise old trad dad, warned us to hurry—sundown was closing in.

Then came the north side. Waist-deep snow concealed sheer drop-offs. The temperature nosedived. My sweat-soaked layers turned to ice. But soon, I was burning up—elated, flushed, and shedding my jacket despite the frigid air. I didn’t realize it then, but I was flirting with hypothermia. Worse, my $10 Walmart headlamp blinked out. I was still floating on engagement bliss … until Matt turned to me and said, “Let’s not die tonight.” That’s when it hit me.

After hours of rappelling off sketchy trees, we huddled under a rock. Our savior? One precious square of toilet paper—enough to light a fire and keep us alive. At sunrise, a helicopter flew overhead. We joked that it was for us. Turns out, it was. Search and Rescue met us at the trailhead, where our friends—convinced they’d be identifying bodies—burst into tears.

To their surprise, I still said “I do.”

And now? I always bring extra batteries for my headlamp.

About the author: Jocelyn Sahli is from Toronto, Ontario. Climbing has long been a big part of her life and the climbing community feels like her second family. She’s an avid photographer, capturing lifestyle, climbing, and outdoor adventures—she also previously worked as a climbing shoe resoler. After their epic engagement, Jocelyn and Matt tied the knot atop oSulphur Mountain in Banff after climbing Plutonian Shores. She is grateful to share her passion for the outdoors with her husband and son, and she’ll be welcoming her second son this August.

Second Place: The Climbing Love Story You’ve Felt, But Never Heard

By Jun Chou

It was love at first embrace. My cold, metallic body didn’t feel heat until it locked in with your smooth curves. The way I purred as we joined should have told you everything. I was never good at keeping secrets. The more your body glided against mine, the warmer I blushed. Your supple, stiff spirals slid and swerved with ease. As if you were made for me.

We traveled everywhere—from the gritty granite of El Cap to the cold sandstone of Czechia. Although the cliquey quickdraws or smelly shoes sometimes separated us, I always knew we’d reunite under the star-speckled sky.

On our third trip to the Red, you crumpled with shame when the vomit-colored sling called you thick and tattered. Even though you were stretched, you never snapped. My biggest regret is that I didn’t clack my teeth in your defense sooner.

Over the years, you frayed with use and darkened with dirt. You still fit with ease, but I felt how weary your body had become. When you were younger, your skin was rosy and taut. I was worried you’d mind how my shine dulled. But we loved each other the same, if not more. I admired how you softened with age, becoming more flexible. As you leaned against me, you still whispered secrets only I could hear, describing the surreal views from above. There was strength in your entire length.

When they finally amputated your weakened tendon, I screeched in protest. Even bifurcated, you were beautiful. We held off as long as we could, even as your inevitable retirement loomed. Although there will be others, you can never truly be replaced, my love. You will always be my first, my favorite. Our love may bend but it will never, ever brake.

About the author: Jun Chou is a Brooklyn-based writer and 2025 Margins Fellow. Her writing has previously appeared in Cake Zine, Teen Vogue, Electric Literature, and Hobart. During the day, she improves recipe discovery for The New York Times Cooking. She’s clipped draws in Kalymnos, EPC, and the Gunks, and will pick a rope over a crashpad any day. You can find her on Twitter & Instagram @junnotjune.

Third Place: Another Kind of Polar Circus

By Jennifer Tu

Polar Circus, an ice climb on Cirrus Mountain in the Canadian Rockies, is infamous for its avalanche hazard—it’s a climb of many close calls and fatalities. This beautiful waterfall is framed by rising rock walls, with ever present danger lurking above. There are almost 700m of avalanche start zones that funnel down onto it. The aura is eerie; the ice, cold and brittle. It’s also where my boyfriend Wren and I broke new ground.

The day started out at -20℃ (-4℉), Wren and I geared up for the climb. We celebrated my birthday the night before at the Rampart Hostel. We had a delicious homemade Biscoff cake with blue icing. This is foreshadowing.

We’ve made this commitment: To move fast and efficiently, and to bail if conditions deteriorate. But everybody knows you can’t prepare for the unexpected.

I turn the Pencil, and we begin to swap leads on the Upper Tiers. Somewhere up there, I’m leading a pitch and I’m running out my screws. Then it happens … the second most dreaded thing.

I trusted a fart and I s*** myself.

Maybe it was the Biscoff, maybe it was the beer. But I did it. There I was just s***ting myself on Polar Circus.

I look down at Wren, ever patient and attentive in his belay.

“I s*** myself.” He stares at me: “Are you scared, Jenn?”

On a route where time is of the essence, I need to just stop. “Should I take off my underwear?”  I blubbered at him.

“Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“Maybe.”

“Well honey, you’re an alpinist now.”

If love isn’t s***ting yourself 15 feet above your boyfriend in a semi-hanging belay on the sharp end, then I don’t know what it is. And I don’t want to know.

Jennifer Tu is a climber based in the Canadian Rockies. During the long winter months of ice climbing, she dreams of the moment she can rock climb choss again. Find her on Instagram @mountain_jenny

Dirtbag Love Story Runners-up

Below are the five runners-up from our Dirtbag Love Contest.

A Geologist and a Routesetter Walk Into a Beer Garden

By Chloe Marks

As a geologist, I didn’t think there was anyone in the world who could contest the amount of rock photos I had on my phone. But the head routesetter at my local gym gave me a run for my money. A by-chance encounter at the local beer garden led to a night of sharing rock photos, where I learned the rock climber’s guide to geology: sandstone, limestone, granite, and plastic.

Almost half a year went by before I ran into him again. I had been away, teaching a class in Utah for the summer; he had been sending V12 in Colorado. In all honesty, I didn’t remember his name at that moment, but we shared a smile and climbed on. I spent the following few weeks wondering what his name was, hoping by chance I’d stumble across a social media or dating profile or anything to clue me in.

By the time I’d found him, I was a week away from leaving for Nepal for a month. Our date was planned for Saturday and I left the country on Monday. We spent the next month talking everyday for the brief moments we were awake at the same time on opposite sides of the world.

Rocks are all over the world, but this rock climber was back home and I couldn’t wait to see him. I even found the perfect rock to bring him from the Himalayas (and some Nepali cigarettes, too…). We have been dating ever since; our dates have ranged from projecting at The Red to spending a night in the hospital after I dislocated my elbow on a route that he set. Every day, he reminds me that he loves me, and every day, I remind him of the true rock classifications: sedimentary, igneous, metamorphic … and sometimes plastic.

Love On and Off the Rocks

By Matthew Joel Farrelly

She was an aerobics instructor who could smile while talking and doing pushups. I was the wall rat who looked down on her from the climbing wall above.

She wore skin-tight colorful Lycra that showed her strength. I wore cut-off Adidas track pants that were worn too much and showed too much.

She was older than me. I was a dirtbag who didn’t own a car.

Our first adventure was a threesome ski trip. I was the unpopular third wheel who swore too much while fitting snow chains with frozen hands.

She said she liked how I looked when I climbed. I liked her because she was my first true love and I knew I had to be careful and keep her safe.

We ended up together somehow, living in her 12-foot caravan on a farm because rent was cheap.

We road-tripped and hitched almost every weekend we could spare for four years.

I brought all the climbing toys and she never received a present that wasn’t outdoor-related; shoes, harness, pack, clothing. She didn’t complain.

She saved my life when I fell off a cliff onto talus, rushing to get the heli because we were too cheap to have cellphones. Recovery involved her wiping my arse for six weeks because both arms were in full casts. She didn’t complain.

I asked her to marry me after six long years when I got a refund from my outdoor instructor’s course and could afford an engagement ring.

Those were the best days of our young selves.

I have a car now and it’s been 30 years together. We don’t bother with anniversaries.

I asked her to quit her job recently so we could head south to the beach with closer climbing. We’re starting to rediscover our former selves after raising a family.

“Cuter Than Russ”

By Al Diamond

One lazy Sunday afternoon in 2003, myself and my best buddy Russ Clune were heading down to the Workout Wall in the Near Trapps of the Gunks. We knew the “hordes” would be gone and we would most likely have the place to ourselves. We got to Slammin, one of our favorite routes,  and saw a rope hanging through the anchor chains with no one around at all. We called and called, but the place was as desolate as the Mojave. Russ finally looked over to me and said “Fu** it, dude—tie in.”

I did a lap and as I was belaying Russ up the route, all of a sudden this gorgeous brunette came walking down the trail. I had seen her at the cliff before and she was friends with some of my friends, but we had never officially met. Ironically, a few of my friends were recently scheming about how to fix us up.

She walked up to me and said, “Hi, you know this is my rope.” We got to talking and she was interested in some real estate in the area, so we exchanged contact information, as I knew some great realtors. That week, I contacted her and invited her out climbing that coming weekend. She asked me why I wanted to go climbing with her, since she knew I was many grades beyond her. I told her she was a lot cuter than Russ! LOL. We have been together ever since and Russ the “minister” wound up marrying us in 2008.

What Is Love if Not an Adventure?

By Tesla Mitchell

I met a boy at the Lander Climbing Festival. I should not say boy—he is five years older than me. It was time for me to date someone who acts older than the number of years I’ve been climbing (15). He’s a COVID climber (gumby), but also an alpinist (shit, he knows way more than me). He lives in a van (dirtbag), but he also works with underprivileged kids (driven).

My friends called him dreamy—he is. He called me different than other girls—I am. We got close. Really close. And before I knew it, we were doing a 10-mile walk into a four-day remote climbing trip in the Wind River Range to climb a 12-pitch 5.11a offwidth. The day after the walk-in, we didn’t climb. Instead, in a blissful meadow under the otherworldly goliaths of the cirque of the towers, I had the best sex of my life.

The next day (and a half), we climbed. We were on the wall for 28 hours. I grew up competition climbing. Physically, this was the hardest day I’ve ever had. After doing the last three pitches in the dark, the light of the moon led us as far as our very lost and food-sleep-water-deprived souls could physically walk. We settled in for the night in an exposed, but kind of flat area and prayed the rain wouldn’t come to us. “Take this,” he whispered. With thunder in the distance, I shivered, and he covered my toes with a foil blanket.

When the sun rose, we groggily found our path down. We live in different countries now. Whether this is the start or end of our love story, I do not know, but what is love if not an adventure?

Untidy Guidebook Exegesis

By Daniel Vanderpyl

I asked her out during the drive to the crag.

It was supposed to be a casual day of sport climbing in the Canadian Rockies and my crux of the outing was to find out if love was on the horizon.

We climbed a few 5.7s and 5.8s, spraying about life and blushing at the freshness of dating. After four or five routes, we planned to pack up and head for dinner. But I was determined to cool off on one last 5.6 around the corner.

I have a history of briskly scanning a guidebook and missing important beta before I rope up. Six bolts into my “cool off” route, I am cruxing above my last draw—five hours into dating my belayer. I somehow maintained a modest semblance (sans-hangdog) on what I thought was a clunky 5.6. I was actually on the neighboring 5.11.

My body positioning—and newfound relationship—was about to barn-door.

Had I ever sent a 5.11, or even close to that grade? Absolutely not.

Did I send that starry-eyed day? I had to.

One decade later, we are in a bomber marriage, have two crag toddlers, routinely make out at belay stations, and climb all over the world.

Thanks to all the climbers who shared their stories with us!