Since when?

james girouard
Aug 4
3 min read

For over two decades, I’ve been making rugs—mostly through primitive hooking. But for a while, I was using something a little more unexpected: climbing ropes. This is the story of how discarded gear became a surprising artistic outlet for me.

The Rope Pile Begins

Years ago, I worked in the warranty department of an outdoor gear retail co-op. Part of that job meant dealing with worn-out and returned climbing ropes. Officially, they were supposed to be destroyed to prevent any chance of reuse. It was a necessary safety rule to protect climbers—but the wastefulness gnawed at me. What could I do with these materials?

These ropes were beautiful: durable nylon, often with striking colour patterns, and some treated with water-repellent coatings. I started wondering if repurposing them could still honour the safety intent. They couldn’t go back to the mountain—but maybe they could find new life somehow.

Building the First Rug

I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to make at first. I considered knotting, sewing, melting, gluing—trying to figure out how to join the ropes together. But join them into what?

Having been a climber myself, I knew that walking on ropes in use was pretty taboo. Yet these ropes were already condemned—maybe walking on them was exactly the point. I think the first prototype came together right at the warranty desk. And just like that, it clicked. These would be rugs.

Solving the Construction Puzzle

Once I committed to the idea, I began collecting ropes in all kinds of colours. I washed them in a regular washing machine and hung them to dry. My first construction method involved sewing bights together using a curved needle and nylon thread. It worked for a few stitches—but it was brutal on the fingers. If I kept that up, I’d need robot hands.

Next, I tried glue. Would silicone work? A quick test bight fell apart the next day. I remember thinking, Okay, I’m building these. How are other things built? That led me to construction adhesives—specifically PL.

With a tube and a caulking gun, I glued up my first bight. The process was simple and surprisingly clean. After a few days, I tested the bond—it held strong, stayed flexible, and barely smelled at all. I found it!

Letting the Stories Show

At the same time, I was experimenting with transitions—melting and folding the ends to make the ropes lie flat. I definitely scorched a few fingertips in the process. Maybe that’s where my “asbestos fingers” came from; I can grab hot things without much fuss these days.

As I spun the ropes into shape, I started to lean into their existing colour combinations and flaws. At first, I wanted them to look perfect, cutting out damaged sections—core shots, ledge abrasions, the signs of wear that had led to their return. But those marks were part of each rope’s story. It felt wrong to erase them. So I left them in.

Where the Rugs Went

I made over fifty of these spun rope rugs in total. Some sold at art bazaars, and some were gifted. My neighbour Scott has a few and he wants some more. I hung onto six or seven that have been in daily use in my home for decades.