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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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