My friends call me “No Tips”. Not because I stiff restaurant help or know something that you don’t, and won’t share. Nah, it’s much worse than that. It’s because my damn fingertips bleed so much it warrants a nickname.

Flappers suck. There’s really no other way to put it. Having chunks of flesh pulled from the digits in meaty proportions just doesn’t seem natural. Crimson red blood contrasting with chalky white hands makes even the smallest flapper appear heinous. And the torn skin always hangs on by a thread, leaving one to marvel at the “quarter sized” peeler. Bend the finger - it oozes. Straighten it - it opens. Tape, chalk, willpower and, some say, super glue are the only things that could stop a nasty flapper from ruining the rest of a climbing day.

Sure this is our “Travel Issue”, and you’re probably wondering what the hell flappers have to do with traveling anyway. The truth is they could mean nothing or, well, just about everything. Let’s say you’re going to pull down on some well- traveled sandstone slopers. Flappers will probably just stay out of the equation and take a backseat to the dreaded “cheese graters” and swollen hands of fire.

But, maybe you’re going to explore some not-so-forgiving granite, limestone or volcanic rock. At some point in time you’re almost guaranteed to have a stopper moment and leave a few fingerprints, literally, behind. Nail that dyno wrong in J-Tree or blow that razor crimp in Hueco and you might come down with a little unwanted friend. And that friend, like one of those bad catchy tunes on the radio, will stay with you a few days.

There’s really no rhyme or reason why some people get flappers more frequently than others. I suppose it’s fair to say that calloused hands hold up better on rock than baby smooth mittens. But, then again, my fingers have nutshells for skin and they get torn up constantly. Punctured or peeled, my hands will see blood by day’s end. Flapper’s gonna happen - no matter how I slice it.

There are definitely precautions that can be taken, but one can never really prevent flappers from happening altogether. Flappers are to a climber what burns are to a chef. They represent getting hit in the shins by a wild pitch. They’re the equivalent of getting a lousy haircut from a friend (out of your hands, too late, it’s gone). Flappers are as unpredictable as W’s mouth. They’re as ruthless as a kid without cash in a candy store. And they’re about as subtle as a punch in the face.

This all sinkin’ in? Cool. Now, hear me out.

Before you zip up those bags destined for Venezuela, Spain, Thailand, Australia, Greece or France make sure you pack this issue nice and tight - for two very good reasons:

a) First off, the issue is fueled up and bursting with energy. Abbey Smith and Lev Pinter take you on a wild ride through the heaven and hell that is Koh

Tao. You get an exclusive sneak peek behind the scenes of Big Up Productions’ latest global adventure with Chris Sharma, King Lines. Jason Kehl tells all about his hush-highball mission in Albarracin, Spain. And Matt Samet and The Outlaws pay a special homage to the late Michael Reardon, a man of rare passion and nobility, whose talent earned him worldwide recognition as one of the greatest free soloists of our time.

b) Here’s the second reason. When you get to your destination and unpack this magazine you’ll probably be reminded that flappers might happen. And why is this important? Simply put, you’ll prepare yourself. Tape, Crazy Glue, finger puppets, whatever your bag is – you’ll be ready for a patch up instead of squirting around like the oily, half naked dudes in 300. Remember, flappers are inevitable and flappers suck. There’s really no other way to put it. Just get out there and go hard.

See you out there,
Joe “No Tips” Iurato

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