Take!

I once heard a scary story about miscommunication from a French guy I was teaching to climb big walls. He was on a sea cliff, out of sight of his belayer, and found himself off route. He spotted a shiny bolt off to one side and lower down. So he shouted “take in” and downclimbed to where he thought he could traverse across.

Because he’d climbed down, his last runner was now higher. It felt bold. Almost like a top rope. So he crimped and slapped sideways, air yawning beneath his feet.

Then he fell.

Not the swing he expected. Not a gentle arc. But a long fall. Down and down. The sort where you know you’re about to take the biggest whip of your life.

Eventually he stopped. He looked up. Miles above, his belayer stared down, white-faced and confused.

“I thought you said take me off,” he said.

Communication is rarely smooth on a climb. No mountain day is complete without confused shouting and that irrational anger you feel when the person at the other end of the rope seems wilfully deaf.

In Britain, I like to imagine we invented climbing commands. Tweed-clad men shouting across Lakeland crags. But back then pitches were short. Ropes were short. Protection was whatever you could wedge into a crack. And people enunciated.

So we inherited a strange mix of commands. Victorian relics like “Climbing” and “Safe”. Later additions like “Watch me here” once it became acceptable to fall. Borrowed words like “Allez”. And improvised gems like Warren Harding shouting “Slack on Big Red!” and “Tight on Little Harry!” to distinguish identical ropes.

But we’ve also inherited confusion.

I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve heard someone shout “Take!” and the belayer has replied, “Are you at the belay?” Or someone has yelled “Take me off!” only to be told they’ve been off for ages. “I’m almost there” morphs into “I’m there.”

Like firing ranges that skip the number four because it sounds like “fire” through ear defenders, we have a similar issue with the word take. We’ve got “take in”, “take” and “take me off”. Three commands. One muddled word.

Maybe it’s time to change.

First, scrap “take in.” Borrow from the Americans and Canadians and use “Up rope.” It cannot be confused with anything else. If that sticks in your throat, just say “Rope” for less rope and “Slack” for more.

Next, delete “take me off.” If the leader has built a belay and secured themselves, they should simply shout “Safe.” That translates perfectly well as: take me off and start untangling the ropes.

Then there’s the sporty chestnut “Take.” On a trad lead it’s often meaningless. With rope out, any “taking” might still mean you land ten metres below your last gear. Usually it translates as: “I’ve grabbed the quickdraw, so wind in the rope while I fanny about.”

If you’re actually about to come off, the better command is “Falling!” It prepares the belayer. It avoids the awkward moment when they say, “I didn’t think you were going to fall.” It also prevents the far worse scenario where they think you said “take in” and are busy hauling slack just as you peel off, potentially yanking rope through a device that isn’t fully locked.

And as for shouting “Take!” after every move on a bolt ladder? You’re probably already hanging on the rope or quickdraw. A decent belayer will have you tight anyway.

So here’s my modest proposal: ban the word take from climbing vocabulary.

Keep it for post-match analysis. Keep it for boy bands. Keep it for your mates when they dissect your latest epic.

But on a cliff edge, with space beneath your heels, clarity matters more than tradition.