My wife Jen once told me a story about climbing with her friend at the Red River Gorge. She left her rope at one cliff, walked to a different cliff to belay, and upon returning found a clueless guy climbing on her rope.

“Oh, is this your rope?” he said, acting innocently confused. “I didn’t know this was your rope…”

“But you knew it wasn’t your rope, right?” she replied.

For some reason, that story came to mind while writing “Poaching on Tengkangpoche: A ‘Slimy’ First Ascent.” It caused a stir, as you know, and it’s been interesting to see disparate responses among people I respect. It may be worth teasing out a few strands of this story, as well as responding to Tom Livingstone’s explanation on his website.

Before getting to Tom’s response, I want to address a few of the complaints that have been directed at me personally. People have accused me of being a “slimy journalist” who is only interested to “getting clicks,” and who didn’t do due diligence in “getting the other side of the story,” and—worst of all—is an utter hypocrite who has unleashed the kind of online mob that I’ve vociferously denounced.

Let’s begin by acknowledging that there is in fact a difference between making a fair criticism—especially in the context of one’s climbing style, actions, or ethics—and leveling unfalsifiable accusations toward someone’s character, e.g., calling them a “racist,” “sexist,” or “bully,” etc. and demanding that they become a persona non grata in our community. There’s a difference between being critical of someone’s climbing actions and actively calling for someone to lose their job or be banished from the climbing world. These are opinions I’ve always held, and these distinctions inform the kind of opinion journalism I like to do on this website. This means that I try to make careful, considered critiques that are “fair”—and “fair,” by the way, doesn’t mean “not harsh.”

Of course that doesn’t mean I always get everything right. I’m happy to admit when I’m wrong. I’m also happy to defend my positions.

That I believe there is an obvious distinction between fair criticism and online attacks that go after someone’s character or professional ability to make money is the reason I went out of my way several times yesterday to urge people not to attack Tom, to understand that I don’t think he’s a “bad” person, and not to try to get him fired from his sponsors.

Yeah, but surely you knew THIS would happen!

If by “this” you mean that climbers would be discussing this everywhere on the Internet, often emotionally, then, yes, I did suspect that “this” would happen. So what? There has been a lot of good and interesting discourse—including a great post by Colin Haley on Facebook.

If you think the topic of whether climbers owe it to each other to respect each other’s first ascent projects in the mountains is a topic that could only ever be discussed in the pure abstract, in which no individual is invoked by name or even gently critiqued with words like “entitled” because to do so crosses some kind of moral boundary, then I suggest you stick to upvoting photos of home woodies on Reddit forums. My opinion is that many climbers are mature enough to have intelligent discussions in which they criticize each other’s actions, and can remain friends at the end of the day.

The people accusing me of “knowing THIS would happen!” seem to be suggesting a premise that no controversial topics can actually be written about any longer because apparently people online just can’t handle it. This is ridiculous. Of course we should be able to debate climbing issues, even if they get heated. And we should be able to do it without people such as myself having to make several pleas on social media to remind people to behave civilly and not try to get people fired or banished from our community. And if you are the kind of person who reads this story and it turns you into the kind of frothing lunatic who wants to try to destroy someone’s life on the internet, then you need help.

To respond to the accusations that my pleas for online comity were disingenuous, a cynical trick to cover my own ass, I am at a loss of what else I can say or do to convince you otherwise. If you read my posts and still believe that they were written in bad faith or somehow undermine my anti-cancel-culture position, I can’t imagine what new, magical words I would need to create out of thin air to change your mind.

Moving on to the complaints that this article didn’t “get the other side.” I admit this is a tougher position to defend given that I didn’t speak directly to Tom before publishing my story. It is something I certainly considered.

I had actually known about this incident for at least a day before publishing yesterday’s piece. So why didn’t I jump on this story and write something on Tuesday? After all, that’s what a rage-bait sociopath only interested in clicks and controversy would’ve done. I had seen Tom’s message. I had heard Jesse’s complaints privately. Why did I wait till Wednesday given a risk that other websites could’ve gotten the scoop?

The crucial detail was that, on Tuesday, Tom had not yet announced the news of his and Matt’s ascent. How would they talk about it? Would Tom, knowing that Quentin and Jesse were bummed, feel obligated to address the fact that he used Jesse and Quentin’s gear or that Quentin hadn’t exactly given his blessing to try the route, but that Tom felt it was worth a little bit of blowback anyway to do it? How would he talk about it? That seemed to be important.

The punchline is that he didn’t talk about it. If he had, there is a 100 percent chance that I wouldn’t have bothered writing my article. To prove that this is the case, I can share with you a similar situation if you’ll allow me a moment of digression. I had heard a story about a famous professional climber doing a much-hyped-up big-wall ascent, and learned through the grapevine that on one of the crux pitches, the professional climber’s partner had fallen on lead but continued to the anchor, while the pro then climbed the pitch on TR without a fall. In other words, neither climber had technically led the crux pitch. To some, this detail might mean the ascent doesn’t count; others may disagree. Either way, there is an interesting and worthwhile style debate to be had. I steeled myself for the possibility that I might need to be the one to report this piece of information to the public because it was a notable climb by a famous climber, and was therefore worth talking about. Happily, the pro climber openly shared this detail in an Instagram post, which meant that there was no pressing need to talk about it further–so I didn’t write anything.

It was precisely because Tom didn’t disclose information that seemed important not only to Jesse and Quentin, but also potentially to a greater question of what constitutes “good style” in the mountains, that I thought it was worth sharing their side of the story. What people fail to understand is that my article is actually the thing that gave the other side of the story.

It’s true that I could’ve reached out to Tom as a courtesy to let him know that I was going to publish this piece on my site, and perhaps if I had spoken to him I could’ve gotten a few more clarifying details, but in regards to the core grievance being litigated by this discourse, I’m not sure what would’ve fundamentally changed. I had more than enough information to write a story: I had Tom’s Instagram post announcing the news, I had Tom’s private message to Quentin, which provided details that Tom later revised in his own post, and I had the accounts of Jesse and Quentin who were bummed that their side of the story wasn’t out there, and they didn’t know how to share it.

There are other small details that my story got “wrong” according to Tom’s post, which I can address in more detail below, but in my view those details aren’t really relevant to the central moral question about whether Tom’s “dick move,” to use his own description, should have been made public, or if it is relevant at all.

And once again, can we please try to keep some perspective on these critiques? Quentin used the word “slimy,” I used the word “entitled,” and Tom called his own act a “bit of a dick move.” These are not exactly the serious accusations that people seem to think. My story in no way called for Tom and Matt’s ascent to be called into question. In fact, I wrote, “This is a great achievement and a beautiful climb.” I ended that sentence with, “but their tactics behind the scenes beg a question about style, ethics, and integrity”—I did not write that I think we should call into question the validity of their ascent or anyone’s ability to make a living as a professional climber.

Of course, you may think that Jesse and Quentin don’t have a legitimate grievance. You may think that gear stashed in the mountains is totally unethical and therefore it becomes abandoned booty that anyone can use. You may believe that Tom was under no obligation to disclose his plans for Tengkangpoche with Jesse and Quentin. I think those are legitimate arguments that can be honestly made, and a lot of people whom I deeply respect are doing a good job of stating these positions.

But what you can’t dispute is that Jesse and Quentin didn’t feel that way. What you can’t dispute is that their grievance is the other side of the story. Even if you vehemently disagree with it, you can’t just wave away their feelings. This is the side of the story that hadn’t been aired before my piece was published.

Lastly, to address the critique that I’m just doing this for clicks: People who “write for clicks” don’t just publish one or two articles a month to their website. I write when I feel like I have something to say, and that’s it. I don’t have advertisers supporting this site, and I’m not sending CPMs and impressions to grease up marketing people who don’t even climb. I am grateful to all of the people who appreciate my work have chosen to support this site through subscriptions, which has become the only way forward for writers and opinion journalists to be able to say what they think without self-censoring or having a fear of losing their abilities to do so.

On to Tom’s post …

I wrote this sentence:

If you consider how much seven days worth of food, fuel, and climbing gear weighs, it’s the difference between climbing with 50-pound packs and 20-pound packs.

Tom replies to this by writing:

We saved weight on the second and third days by using 10 bars and energy gels in addition to our own. This is about 1 kilo. 50 pounds roughly equates to 22 kilos, and 20 pounds equates to 9 kilos. The article is about 11 kilos off.

Jesse was the one who told me his pack was 50 pounds en route to create this stash of supplies. He felt he would’ve arrived much fresher at the base of the wall had he not had to carry such a heavy load. I should have attributed that sentence to him, instead of writing it as if it were my own observation.

Also, I didn’t mean to suggest that Tom took 50 (or 20) pounds of Jesse and Quentin’s gear, but I concede that the way it was written was not clear and could be construed that way. This is one area I think it would’ve been valuable to reach out to Tom to ask specifically how many bars he took. (More on this in a second).

Tom’s piece begins by explaining that he was under the impression that his intentions were clearly communicated and that Quentin openly giving him such detailed beta about the route could only be interpreted as an endorsement of their effort. Fair enough! It’s hard to square why Quentin would ever give beta to someone whom he didn’t want to try his project without him.

Quentin says he didn’t know Tom was actually going to try the route when he gave Tom the beta, and only found out that Tom had secured a permit for Tengkangpoche when he read a since-deleted Instagram post made by Tom’s agent. When Quentin saw that post, he says he tried to make it clear to Tom that he and Jesse were bummed about the possibility that Tom might climb the line without them.

Tom confirms the fact that he was aware that Quentin had “reservations” about their objective in his post.

He only mentioned his reservations of another team trying the TKP pillar line when we were already in Nepal.

What issue is being litigated here? Do climbers have the right to claim a “redtag” for a potential first ascent in the mountains that they have invested time into? Everyone seems to agree that there is no “rule” here, and that you can’t actually tell climbers what to climb or, rather, what not to climb. To my knowledge, no one—certainly not Jesse and Quentin—are asserting otherwise.

The issue comes back to whether or not this was a “dick move.” It’s about whether or not “good style” in the mountains extends beyond conversations of how light and fast you climb to whether it might include being respectful of another climber’s wish. To my mind, when you know that someone who you have climbed with and with whom you have had “great experiences” (Tom’s words about Quentin) isn’t that psyched on your intentions, and then you decide to do it anyway, that’s kind of the dictionary definition of a “dick move.”

Yesterday, Quentin spoke with Tom and Matt on the phone. According to Quentin, Matt did a “phenomenal job of mediating the conversation” when things got a little heated, and kept things civil. “Matt’s a stand-up guy,” says Quentin. Both Matt and Tom expressed the idea to Quentin that had he been clearer, they probably would’ve stayed away from Tengkangpoche.

Ultimately, Quentin says they came to a half-conclusion, though not quite a full one, and Quentin wrote a post on Instagram to try to calm the storm.

Back to Tom’s blog, he writes:

The first time Matt and I attempted TKP we had everything we needed: we had our own etriers, jumars and traxions, pegs, plus all the food and gas we could possibly need. We neither used nor intended to use Quentin and Jesse’s gear. We left their equipment completely alone. Their bag was placed on the wall at the first (of six) bivies, which is not high on the mountain and is relatively easy to access in one moderate day of mostly scrambling.

On our second attempt, Matt and I only used the food (about 10 bars and gels, plus two freeze dried meals), two gas canisters, two pitons and an etrier belonging to Quentin and Jesse because we knew it was there – discarded on the wall. If we borrowed their equipment (instead of taking it up from our base camp) it would save us a little energy and perhaps a couple of kilos in our bags during our very first day of climbing. We could certainly have completed the route without touching their equipment (as we had intended in the first attempt), but we thought we would borrow some of it since we were passing it.

However, his original message to Jesse and Quentin said this:

…we ate the bars, gels and a couple of the freeze dried meals.

“We ate the bars,” to me, makes it sound like they ate all the bars—which according to Jesse’s notes, were 28 bars. Tom’s post, however, clarifies that “we ate about 10 energy bars and gels.”

This detail, once again, might have been confirmed had I spoken to Tom and asked him to explain his message to Quentin in more detail. But what does this fundamentally change? Whether it was 10, 12, or all 28 bars, I’m not really sure what the difference is when we consider the greater question: was this or was this not a “dick move”?

Tom’s message to Quentin also stated:

We didn’t have loads of food or gas to start with, so although we knew it was a bit if a dick move we decided to use some of your stuff on our second attempt.

Again, this seems to come into contradiction with the claim in Tom’s blog post that they had everything that they needed, that climbing with their own stuff on the mountain wouldn’t have been hard, and that it was obviously just abandoned junk that Quentin and Jesse didn’t need and wouldn’t miss.

But if that was truly the case, then why did they bother using equipment that had been hanging on a route for 6 months at all? Wouldn’t you rather use your own presumably newer gear and eat your own presumably less stale food, especially if carrying it up to the first bivy wasn’t hard and wouldn’t have, in any way, affected their success?

That question, however, is far less important in my mind than this one: Why didn’t Tom just ask? Why didn’t Tom shoot a message from base camp, where there is perfect cell reception, to Quentin or Jesse and just ask them if they can eat their crappy stale food and use their old gear?

The answer, of course, is self-evident: he knew what kind of answer he’d get. He knew it was a “bit of a dick move.” And you know what? I think that’s all there is to say about that. A dick move. Nothing more, nothing less.