Rock Worrier's Way

Independence Pass, summer 2015

You've felt it. A change in the air. A turn in the tide. A dramatic decrease in the posts about rock climbing. 

It began in 2018. Josh and I had just returned from the Red River Gorge when he got the phone call. His friend, Savannah, fell and died at Devil's Lake. Her death sent shockwaves through the climbing community. They say if you climb long enough, someone you know will die in the mountains. I barely knew Savannah, I bouldered with her once or twice, and we followed each other on Instagram, but that was enough for me. I didn't realize it at the time, but my relationship with rock climbing had just begun to change. 

It wasn't instantaneous. Shortly after Josh and I got off the phone, I called up my buddy Andrew to climb at the Tennessee Wall. I needed to climb a parallel-sided crack to remind myself I still could. I did. But, in the weeks and months after, my head game slowly deteriorated. I got nervous driving to the crag. I second-guessed my gear placements. I let my partner lead, or I backed off routes more than I used to. I used to enjoy whipping -- even on gear -- but not anymore. Instead of stoke, climbing filled me with worry, dread, and anxiety. I was scared. And yet, I kept doing it. 

A year later, almost exactly, Russ and I were headed off to climb 3,000 ft. for our 30th birthday. As we loaded up the truck, my then-fiance/now-wife kissed me goodbye and somewhat jokingly said, "don't die!" She probably didn't think anything about it, but those words lived rent-free in my head for the rest of the trip. 

I wasn't just some untethered school teacher who moonlighted as a dirtbag climber anymore. My life intertwined itself with another's. (The truth is, all our lives intertwine themselves with others' -- we only so often consider it in romantic or partnered relationships). This realization made death a tangible reality. What if I had slipped while free-soloing in the Flatirons? What if I had decked on that R-rated route? What if I made a careless but common mistake on rappel? These thoughts still wake me up at night. 

Russ and I were about 2/3 through our objective to climb 3,000 ft. when I stood at the bottom of a route I had done before. It was well within my on-sight ability, all the routes we had done were. But looking at its base, I felt nervous. I could not remember the sequence of moves or the path of least resistance up the first pitch of the blank slab, so I passed the lead over to Russ. He ran it out without hesitation. 

The second pitch begins with a blind "trust fall" "boulder problem" across a deep chasm. I once led this pitch while simul-climbing but my head game had deteriorated since then. It felt like vertigo. I thought it was dehydration, but I could feel Becca's words, "Don't die," swirling around in my head. I told Russ some lie about how "you got to lead this pitch, dude, it's wild!" I was trying to sell it as some requisite experience instead of being honest and saying, "Hey, I'm too afraid to do this thing." Russ led it, got off route after the "peek-a-boo move," and struggled to on-sight a much harder variation, which I then followed. By the time I got to the anchors, I had tunnel vision. I felt dizzy, and I even forgot how to tie a clove hitch. Russ tied me into the anchor and led every technical pitch for the rest of the day. God bless him. 

3,000 ft. for 30 years, 2019

I don't know what happened that day in North Carolina, but that was it. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I thought, for a while, that maybe I'm just getting older, and I'm getting more conservative in my risk assessment. But if that was the case, shouldn't I, at least, be enjoying the fun parts? The well-protected routes with classic moves and four-star peer-reviews? I wasn't. Something changed. I continued to climb, but I never enjoyed it in the same way. I spent the rest of 2019 focusing on ultra-running, which was a good distraction and a good excuse not to go to the crag with your friends. When the pandemic hit in March 2020, I basically quit climbing altogether. 

Many climbers used the pandemic to get stronger, I used the forced hiatus to rethink my relationship with the sport. I spent a decade building an identity around being a climber. To stop cold turkey on March 7, 2020, is almost impossible to describe. On the one hand, it feels like a large part of me has died. Rock climbing means so much to me. It gave me friends, memories, and disproportionally sized latissimus dorsi muscles. I took a lot of pride in being a "climber." I miss my bulging forearms and noticeably stronger ab muscles. I miss climbing trips with Josh or grabbing a pint after a day at the crag. 

Horse Shoe Canyon Ranch, 2014

On the other hand, I don't miss climbing at all. I don't particularly miss the act of climbing. If I did, I'd still be interested in sport climbing but heel hooks just don't make me grin the way they used to. I don't miss the "always-have-to-be-training" grade chasing bravado of the Chattanooga climbing scene. And I certainly do not miss calculating the length of my fall relative to the size of gear protecting me. Or having to do breathing exercises in the middle of the route just to slow my heart rate enough to reach the anchors. Rock climbing is supposed to be fun, but the last two years of climbing contained more dread than stoke. It's also an inherently unnecessary activity. So why did I feel compelled to do something I wasn't enjoying? 

For me, rock climbing was always about being outside with one or two close friends. It combined my life-long love of the outdoors with the try-hard/risk-management of skateboarding in my adolescence. But now, I managed risk differently, and I needed a new way to be outside. 

Like many Americans in 2020, I bought a bicycle in quarantine. It was a bike a lot like the bike I sold to help fund a climbing trip several years ago: a no-frills singlespeed track bike. It took one lap around a parking garage to fall in love all over again. I have built or bought four bikes since, and I found that the joy I get from cycling is longer-lasting and more easily achieved than from climbing. I might even love riding bikes more than I ever loved rock climbing, and for ten years, I LIVED for climbing. 

 

Maybe "living for climbing" is why I'm still not willing to sell my trad rack quite yet (feel free to make me an offer). Rock climbing still is a large part of my life. I will probably continue to coach the school's climbing club. "5.fun" multi-pitch still sounds appealing to me. And sometimes, I daydream about concocting some Type II fun bike-to-climb adventure objective. But for now, rock climbing and I are taking a break. And that's okay.

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On Hiking, Bruce Springsteen, and the Eschaton

hiking to Marymere Falls, Olympic National Park

Hiking isn't sexy. Except for a few Lululemon-clad Instagram influencers, hiking conjures up images of wide brim bug catcher hats and weird convertible pants that zip off at the knees. Attire aside, hiking is definitely at the bottom of the outdoor hobby hierarchy.

Chris Kalous, the host of the Enormocast, deridingly calls hiking "the long approach to nowhere;" suggesting that the only reason to walk in the woods is to approach something sexier (like rock climbing or backcountry skiing). So for a long time, hiking was something I only did on my way to rock climb, or with everything I needed for a week in the mountains on my back. I remember working as a backpacking guide and telling kids I don't actually like hiking, "I just do it for them."

Hiking on in its own merits was boring. Anybody could do it. It's not "sexy."

Now I see that these are the things that make hiking beautiful. 

Hiking is like going to a baseball game. It isn't always exciting but the monotony creates space for talking. These conversations have the potential to be deep and meaningful but they also allow for the spontaneity of noticing a wildflower, an elk, or a scenic view just as you would a stolen base or a home run. You revel at the moment, soak it in, and then go back to talking about whatever it was you were talking about. 

Rebecca and I hiked our way around Olympic National Park having our own conversations and as we did, everyone we passed was doing the same. Each unique person brought with them their peculiar set of experiences and emotions that run the gamut of human existence and shared them with family, friends, and partners while they inhabited this amazing place. 

Rock climbing and backcountry skiing (or, to keep the metaphor going, a basketball game) are fun and exhilarating but there's no substitute for creating a good, deep conversation like a long walk in the woods.

 

on the way to Sol Duc Falls, Olympic National Park

We spent a week walking in the woods around Olympic National Park. If you do not like the color green in all of its vast and sundry shades, then this isn't the national park for you. Green is the color of life, renewal, and growth and it is bursting forth from every log, rock, inch of dirt, and body of water there. As Becca and I hiked around the park, my mind kept coming back to the lyrics of The Band's "Atlantic City:" Everything dies, baby, that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back. 

*put your flame-retardant suits on because this next paragraph is hot* 

I know this song is originally by Bruce Springsteen but The Band's cover is far superior. Levon Helm's mandolin and whiskey-soaked Arkansas draw, Rick Danko's harmonies, and Garth Hudson burning the barn down with that cajun accordion? Come on. And I know that this is going to piss off a lot of music nerds but, Bruce Springsteen kind of sucks. If I wanted to listen to a guy sing like he had marbles in his mouth, I'd listen to Weird Al parody Kurt Cobain by singing with actual marbles in his mouth. And don't tell me that I don't get it. I have given The Boss his fair shake. My friend once said Bruce was "just a dude being cool when it was still cool to be cool." Which is just it. It's boring jock rock and I hate it.  That's just God's honest truth. 

Still reading? Let's get back to Olympic...

a nurse log in Hoh Rainforest, Olympic National Park

In Olympic NP, everything that is dead is coming back. This is particularly visible in dramatic form in the Hoh Rainforest, where colossal trees -- Sitka Spruce, Douglas Fir, Western Hemlock -- grow from the trunks of fallen ones. The dead trunk is hauntingly wrapped in the healthy, living roots of the growing tree. These "nurse logs" turn life out of death. The decaying log offers nutrients, shade, and protection, nursing the young seedlings to grow to their towering heights.  

I don't want to get too biblical here, but there is this text in First Corinthians where the Apostle Paul is writing about the life of the world to come and the resurrection of the dead. I know some of you are already rolling your eyes but stick with me. Paul couches the entire conversation in the context of the natural world. In fact, Paul reserves the word "fool" (which is Second Temple Judaism speak for "dumb-ass") for the person who does not think creationally about the world to come. For Paul, as in the Hoh Rainforest, there is always life after death. Drawing on the natural world, Paul basically poo-poos on the idea that our souls leave our bodies and float to some incorporeal cloudland in the sky. Instead, the act of new creation is a lot more like a Sitka Spruce being made new from the body of fallen Sitka Spruce. 

What is sewn weak shall be raised strong and so on. And, according to Paul, so shall we, when all things are made new. Whatever your thoughts on all that, Paul's vision in I Corinthians 15 is a lot different than the American evangelical "I'll Fly Away" or Left Behind neo-platonic perversion of the gospel I was force-fed in my Baptist high school. Like Paul, I'd rather look to the field and forest for my eschatology. And I'd rather hear Levon Helm sing, 

Everything dies, baby, that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back. Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City. 

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