Being an arborist is in many ways like being a motorcycle mechanic. This has been my current philosophical fixation as I find myself in the depths of Robert M. Pirsig’s classic book ‘Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’.

I’d like to focus on a recurring theme from the book, which is this attempt by the narrator at reconciling a classical understanding of the world with the romantic.

“A classical understanding sees the world primarily as underlying form itself. A romantic understanding sees it primarily in terms of immediate appearance…A romantic mode is primarily inspirational, imaginative, creative, intuitive. Feelings rather than facts predominate…The classic mode, by contrast, proceeds by reasons and by laws-which are themselves underlying forms of thought and behavior. Although motorcycle riding is romantic, motorcycle maintenance is purely classic.” (Pirsig, 70).

If this isn’t a perfect metaphor to tree climbing and the progression of techniques and tools, nothing is.

On the romantic surface of tree climbing is the climb, the hustle and flow, pulling and flicking line and rope, the ease of ascent, cams clicking quickly upwards, the swing and the smooth swipe of a handsaw and the flip of dead stub downward towards a world we’re constantly running from and floating over. It’s the glowing heat from a friction bollard that has been warmed up not like a microwave, but like a charcoal fire.

At the classical core of working at height in the canopy is a reminder of the undoubted consequences that await for unlawful citizens: injury, sadness, and death. Without the lights on, it can be-and is for many-a long hallway of darkness. There are solemn pages of facts and cases and tests and reports. And the worst numbers and getting worse.

These two perceptions of the world, or of the art and maintenance of tree climbing specifically, are completely dependent upon one another. One perception immediately creates inspiration and mass for the other. People pushing the envelope; and then customs, searching the envelope for any illegal paraphernalia.

And what better example to further the discussion of mechanics, than the rope wrench. A simple tool with a storied and passionate past, and not quite yet even an adolescent.

In my eyes, the rope wrench has created a very clean perforation in my climbing career. It marks a point where production tree climbing became a reality. It allowed me to move easier. I’m sure there are many people that can relate to this. And I’m sure there are those that won’t. Fair enough. And maybe it was a little mix of luck and timing and arrival of skill. As a tool though, that’s really how it’s affected my climbing career.

Romantically, it made climbing fun, not so intimidating, it gave me a confidence in my form of expression. Classically, it kept me safer, less fatigued and worked over and cramped, more ergonomic; but it also made me more aware of safety ratings and what they are because of the conversation that was being had about the rope wrench and its design progression, and how this stringent cross examination is quite necessary. I have such a fascination of the rope wrench, because I truly believe its whole story to be a great source of inspiration. For me the rope wrench is the embodiment of the reconciliation between classical and romantic ideology in modern tree climbing. It’s a small love story of art and science, of freedom of expression before the eyes of the high court judge.

To quote Pirsig directly, “this wrench-has a certain romantic beauty to it, but its purpose is always purely classical. It’s designed to change the underlying form of the machine.”