The Artichoke

I remember having a conversation with a good friend of mine a year back about rock climbing and getting stronger. The topic at hand went something along the lines of “What does it matter how hard we can climb? Who the fuck cares?” At the time, she was at an existential crisis, a sort of precipice if you will (no pun intended). She was unsure what her motivation to keep climbing was. In her defense, she stated that becoming stronger is nice and being able to hold that intangible trophy over your head every time you break through to the next level can be sweet, but in the end, how does that better you as a person? She is one of the strongest climbers I know: diligent, determined. She seemed to have it going on for her. At the time, I simply did not understand why she felt so troubled by these thoughts.

When I first started climbing in the gym, it was simply a new hobby for me. I thoroughly enjoyed the activity, the community of people, and the newfound skill set that it entailed. Everything about it was leisure. All that changed, however, when I took my first climbing trip out to Joshua Tree National Park. The surroundings were so surreal, ethereal, lusciously baron, and beautiful. I felt the true beauty of nature the first time I laid hands on those rocks, and I saw for the first time what climbing could do for you. It could open you up to new experiences, take you out into the world and broaden your horizons exponentially. It could free your mind from mental stagnation. It could even heal long-harboured, self-inflicted wounds that may have festered over their seemingly incurable states. At the time, I hadn’t even realized how much I needed that kind of healing power until it was actually found. Rock climbing became less about the climbing and more about the rock. I needed that rock in my life. I needed that solidarity.

I took to the rocks like a bat out of hell, seizing every opportunity to venture out into nature whenever possible. I remember the first time revisiting Yosemite for a climbing trip. It had been years since my first trip there with my family as a young boy. Only then, as a climber, was I seeing it for the first time, through a new pair of eyes. The same went for Lake Tahoe, a place I frequented as a snowboarder during the winter seasons. Why I did not know there was so much more to Tahoe than the mountains of snow still baffles me today. There is a world of flora and fauna that I was severely missing out on all along and would continue to miss out on had I not ventured out there to climb the rocks unbeknownst. And then, of course, there is Joshua Tree: a desert haven, a safe retreat, and a new love of mine. Countless to say, climbing shed new light on this old life and revealed new life for my heart’s content.

At this point, I wanted nothing more than to become stronger and climb harder to prove myself worthy of those rocks. Climbing in the gym appeared to be the remedy for that dilemma. Gym sessions became a part of my daily routine, training around four to six hours a day, five days a week. Yoga found its way into my training regimen as well, becoming an everyday practice to condition my flexibility, balance, and core strength. [Yoga soon proved to be more than just a physical supplement to climbing, almost spiritual, but that’s a whole ‘nother story that we don’t need to get into right now.] Needless to say, I was in the gym everyday, training for those moments where I would be out in the presence of nature’s all-might glory.

As the months progressed, so did my training. I felt much stronger, less limited, and far more capable. I was able to climb those boulders with more ease and finesse. It was the most invigorated I had felt in a long time. I felt a sense of validity and direction in my life that I had not felt in quite a while. You see, my life prior to this was not going the way I had intended. While I was just becoming further-immersed in the world of climbing, I had just come out of college working towards a goal that I, in my heart, did not truly desire to pursue.  Simultaneously, I left a religion—which had been a part of my life for 22 years prior—that I didn’t believe in anymore, or should I say, didn’t believe in me. I had just cut difficult ties with two major institutions in my life, two grounding pillars of my foundation. Add to that the fact that I am exceptionally emotionally unstable in character and you can imagine the state of mind I was coming from. My life was lacking constitution and I was having serious trouble keeping the fabrics from tearing apart at the seams. The inception of my climbing came to fill that void created by my recent loss, but it was out in nature where I felt a true sense of belonging. I knew then that I wanted nothing more than to be among the rocks. I felt validity again; I had direction.

In recent times, after long and arduous sessions in the gym, I had just reached a new level in my bouldering, successfully sending my first V8 boulder problem. I was thrilled to reap harvest, the fruits of my labor. I was ecstatic to see that after putting in so much effort and hard work, my time was paying off. Many people have told me that I am getting stronger. I certainly feel stronger. And that was goal, was it not: to become stronger? For so long, it was. I went to the climbing gym everyday to become stronger for when I would go out into nature, which I did plentifully and have gotten used to. But lately, I haven’t been able to get out at all. The reality then was that I was working on becoming stronger simply to become stronger. This newfound strength suddenly became meaningless. It dawned on me, what my friend had said to me a year ago about climbing, about getting stronger. ”What does it matter how hard we can climb? Who the fuck cares?” Yes, I am strong now, but what does it matter. I’m not applying it to anything real. The physical strength that I desired to cultivate was not the goal; the goal was to get out into nature where I had first felt that sense of belonging, sense of purpose. I had lost sight of that in thinking all I wanted to do was get strong, pull hard moves and climb harder grades. I was suddenly standing at that very same precipice my friend stood upon not too long ago.

When I’m out in nature, I know who I am. I am simply a man who knows what he wants, and what he wants is to know who he is. It’s a circular reasoning that seems to make sense, to me at least. My mind is a vast space full of complicated, irrational thoughts that rule my emotions at every turn, but out there, I am a simple man who just “knows”, and “is.” Climbing was simply the means that enlightened me to nature. But when climbing is just climbing, I don’t know.. Lately, I’ve been longing for something more in my climbing, not something greater, just different. I do love climbing, I consider myself a climber above all else, but I don’t want it to lose meaning simply because it becomes based on a series of arduous tasks and mundane training regimens. I don’t want to lose that love, because in that life that I strive to achieve, that love stands as a pillar among the few remaining pillars that hold me up and keep me grounded. I know something needs to change in order for things to keep on the same track; I just haven’t figured that part out yet.

For now, I continue to train in the gym because it’s what I know. I may pull back a bit: focus less on the physical gain, more on the solidarity it brings to my life. The new climbing season is fast approaching and I will surely find myself back in the loving and accepting arms of nature. Ah nature.. I await the day my life ceases to be dictated by “ideal weather patterns” and “climbing seasons.” I know someday, I will simply exist on my own free will. Someday, I will fly free. For now, I climb.