The Zen of Belaying

Belaying has a PR problem. For most climbers, it’s a necessary chore—rarely fun, often tedious, and occasionally the source of chronic neck issues. Non-climbers might imagine it as an exciting, high-stakes role. Sometimes it is. But more often—especially in trad climbing—belaying involves long stretches of standing still, waiting, and trying not to daydream too hard.

Sure, it demands attention: feeding out slack, giving encouragement, and, most importantly, never letting go of the rope. But even on the most gripping climbs, your partner might spend ten minutes hanging at a rest or twenty minutes building an anchor at the top. Unlike other dull moments in life, you can’t check your phone or take a toilet break—you’re tied to a rock, as immobile as a dog waiting outside a shop.

Not long ago, I was sat on a cliff chatting with a group of climbers. One young man volunteered to belay a friend on a long project. The climber was hesitant—it might take over an hour. But his belayer shrugged and said, “It’s good for me. Belaying is the only time I can be still.” We ended up in a discussion about how the tedium of belaying might actually be its most valuable quality.

We all know that nature is good for our mental health. Lockdowns made that clear—those separated from green spaces often suffered the most. Studies have since shown that nature acts as a buffer against stress and poor mental health. But what is it about the outdoors that helps us feel better?

Physical exercise matters, of course, but that doesn’t explain the added benefit of being in nature. We could get the same workout indoors. Maybe it’s the awe, the silence, or simply the break from city life. Or maybe it’s something else—something to do with presence.

Outdoor people are doers. I live in Llanberis, a hub for these kinds of humans. They get up early, work outside, squeeze in training between shifts, and somehow still have energy to learn new sports. We’ve nailed the doing part—but what about the being part? Can we notice the murmuration of starlings on a trail run, or are we too busy trying to beat a Strava time? When we reach a summit, do we take it in—or pull out our phones to post a picture?

Which brings me back to belaying. It’s a rare moment in climbing where we aren’t doing very much. It’s a pause. An invitation to be present. To really look at the landscape. To sit with our thoughts. To notice the wind, the rock, the sea. I’ve had some of my most peaceful moments belaying on sea cliffs, gazing at the vastness of the ocean. What starts as frustration can become contentment—if I let it.

The older I get, the more I realise how deeply my wellbeing depends on my ability to be OK in the moment, without distraction. Meditation teaches this skill, but you don’t need a cushion or incense. You just need a stuck clove hitch, a long belay, and an open mind.

From now on, I’m treating belay time as a gift. Will you join me?

One of the wildest climbs and belays. Hallucinogen Wall in the Black Canyon captured by Christian Adams