A Deadline in the Dark
📷 James Lucas
Precision, pressure, and the quiet work of showing up
It’s early afternoon and the sun has stretched as far into the cave as it ever will. The warm-up felt good, but the cold reminds me that if I hesitate too long, I’ll have to start over. I pull on and let muscle memory take over. My attention narrows to execution and my breath. Seconds later, my right hand settles onto the crimp. I stick the left hand move. I paste my feet on dark smears, trusting precision over urgency. My eyes lift to the right hand jug, the final separation between me and the goal. Staring back at me isn’t doubt or fear. It’s a deadline.
When most people hear the word deadline, they think of unfinished office work or a half-typed report. But deadlines govern everyday life. They’re getting the kids to school, making it to the gym, and sitting down to dinner on time. In athletics, deadlines are even more pervasive and often more insidious. Whether self-imposed or externally defined, deadlines become tools of evaluation. They force a simple question: was the time invested before the moment enough to justify what comes after? Success allows us to frame the process as thoughtful and well executed. Failure does the opposite, recasting the same effort as mismanaged or undisciplined. As an athlete—and more specifically, a rock climber—I’m no stranger to that thin line. Seasons arrive and disappear with ruthless clarity.
Going into the 2025 season, I was coming off the best year of my climbing career. As a father of two who obsesses over the limestone in Rifle, Colorado, goals came easily. The plan was simple—double down on spring momentum and build toward establishing a new personal grade in the wonderful land of Rifle 13d. Spring’s energy gave way to the grind of summer. I checked meaningful boxes along the way, sending The Anti-Phil, Daydream Nation, and The Path. The heat, conditions, and mental weight accumulated. Early in the year, safely behind my keyboard, I’d confidently mulled over which 13d I wanted to climb. There were obvious candidates—too obvious such as Huge or Gay Science. As strong as I felt holding my coffee mug, those routes felt like low-hanging fruit. I wanted a meaningful goal, one that would demand more than strength. I wanted a climb that reflected how far I’d come—and how far I still wanted to go.
Ten years ago, during one of my first visits to Skull Cave, I remember straining to see holds through dirt, lichen, and dripping rock. The place felt more dungeon than destination. But tucked away in the far reaches of the cave was a clean panel leading to a natural break and a steep, perfect exit. The name, the style, and the grade all felt unattainable, reserved for another lifetime. Cracked Open Sky, established by Jim Surrette in 1992, became my 2025 season’s anchor. The low crux boulder, a good rest, a radically different redpoint crux, and a long, resisting exit to daylight. It was everything I wanted—demanding, honest, and unforgiving.
📷 James Lucas
Progress in climbing is fickle. It’s most often judged by a single outcome: did you send or not? As fall deepened, that question drowned out everything else. The patience of summer, the discipline of training, the quiet wins along the way—all faded behind one looming evaluation. If I don’t send this route, did I fail? For six weeks, from early October to mid-November, I committed fully to that route.
And still, I fell short.
On November 13th, I pulled on for the last time that season and walked out of Rifle without the send.
The power of a meaningful goal lies in the process it demands: focus on details, the ability to block out noise, the resilience to work through poor conditions. I never had a session where I felt I didn’t belong. I managed recovery, my body, pivoted when my fingers needed rest, and showed up smiling through numbing warm-ups as winter pushed back. Was the time spent before the deadline enough to validate what came after? There’s no clean answer. But what I know—and what I hope other athletes take from this—is that progress lives in the process. If you can stay consistent, cultivate intrinsic motivation, and be kind to yourself, results become a byproduct of intention. Sometimes you succeed. Sometimes you learn. But you don’t lose. As I decompress from the season and turn toward shoulder-season training, I’m filled with pride. Goals shift. Deadlines pass. The road forward never stops.
📷 James Lucas
Dillon is the founder of Ascend, where he and fellow coach Dan Mirsky coach climbers to train with purpose, build lasting strength, and keep making real progress toward the goals that matter most. If you’re ready for clear direction and authentic support, Ascend is here to help you level up.
