It's a sad day when a hold breaks. There's usually bucket, a box, or a bin that the now deemed useless hold gets carelessly tossed into. It may be alone or with others, left to compare war stories with fellow chipped feet, shattered incuts, and snapped jugs. Left to gather dust and take up space, uncertain of their future. It takes a long time for this waiting room to fill up, but eventually it does.
Today I harvested holds in the plastic purgatory. I picked through each hold looking for a logo that might still be around; something I could salvage and send back to the manufacturer for a replacement. Some were lucky, but brands like Lapis and old concrete shapes were beyond help. The evolution of climbing holds is something I never thought of until seeing all of the stages in one bin.
Most of these pieces were older than I am. It felt right to send them to a final resting place.