The Real Reason I Climb
This article originally appeared on Climbing
Only non-climbers ask climbers why we climb. From their perspective, even after you'd think they'd been properly educated by the documentaries Free Solo (maybe not the best example...) and The Dawn Wall, we're all just crazy people out there rolling the dice every time we touch rock. I can see why this would make sense: Mainstream news carries sensationalized stories about climber accidents and deaths; Hollywood makes climbing look stupid-dangerous (ahem, Vertical Limit, The Ledge, Cliffhanger, etc.), even as the films it features in are insipid and inaccurate; and until you've gone climbing yourself and seen how well the gear works, it all seems like madness.
So really, what people are asking when they ask, "Why do you climb?" is, "Why do you like risking your life?"--even if, to us as climbers, risk is often beside the point and is just something to be managed to pursue that which we love.
Lately, however, I've been thinking that the answer "I climb because I love it" isn't much of an answer. I mean, of course we love climbing, or we wouldn't do it. It's the same with any pasttime--video games, off-roading, crochet, team sports, writing your manifesto and sending out mail bombs from a backwoods shack, participating in torture-dungeon S&M orgies, going to Taylor Swift concerts. When you aren't working or seeing to life's responsibilities, you do the things you like best, because they satisfy you in some way.
It's pretty damned obvious.
***
However, I wanted to go beyond the obvious with the why of my own climbing. To go past the "I like the way it makes me feel" or "I like moving my body on the rock" or "I love being out in the mountains away from civilization," all of which are true but are also pretty generic, surface-level responses for someone who, after 36 years at it, is still so obsessed he'll stop in to pitch an evening gym session after bolting new climbs all day. Of course, George Mallory's famous quip to a reporter, "Because it's there," when asked why climb Mount Everest, also sums things up nicely, but plenty of things other than mountains are "there." For instance, "there" are hundred-foot mountains of trash at the regional landfill 15 miles east of my house. But I don't feel like climbing them, unless I find out someone accidentally threw away a hard drive with millions of dollars worth of Bitcoin and it ended up buried under the detritus.
This Big Up video of Chris Sharma making the first ascent of Realization/Biographie in 2001 popped up on my YouTube feed earlier this autumn, and despite having seen it at least a dozen times, I clicked on it again because it's an undeniable classic, stony reggae vibes and all. The 9a+ (5.15a), at Ceuse, France, was originally bolted by the late French climber JC Lafaille in 1989; in 1996, Arnaud Petit freed the first half at 8c+ (5.14c) but was unable to link it into the nearly-as-hard upper section. A young Chris Sharma came along and began trying the full line, pledging multiple seasons and falling at the upper crux countless times before he eventually did not. At 14:11 in the video, with a Sharma power scream for the ages, he finally sticks the jug hueco at the end of the upper crux. From there, it's "just" 7c (5.12d) to the anchors, and Sharma knows he's got it.
He climbs the upper section lightly, playfully, almost jubilantly, flowing over the perfect blue-gray rock and yanking for pockets like a little kid monkey-barring on jugs at the gym. At 15:30, Sharma grabs the final bucket and says, "Whooo! Fuck yeah!" The route is in the bag, and Sharma's infectious grin says it all.
It was then, watching that 1:20 snippet of footage, that it hit me why I climb: not necessarily for the process (though it's always interesting and rewarding) or to log the tick (which can be toxic), but to experience, even if only fleetingly, that precious victory run to the chains. It is then that your body is flooded with endorphins, from the physical effort, and with calming neurotransmitters released by your parasympathetic nervous system, which has kicked in now that the sending pressure is off. It is then that all of life's fear and anxiety and existential dread drop away, and you simply exist in flow. It then that you climb your absolute freest, in unfettered communion with the rock.
That feeling is one of the most powerful drugs in the world.
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The more I've thought about it, the more I've also realized that the victory run needs to be of a certain Golilocks difficulty to put you in that euphoric state.
If the climbing is too easy, your mind starts to drift, and Boom, you're back in the real world, thinking, "Which route should I do next?" or "Did I put soap in the dishwasher before I turned it on?" or "I wonder if my semi-abandoned non-climbing spouse back home dealing with our out-of-control children all day while I'm screwing around at the cliffs hates me?" For example, I did a route at a granite crag in the foothills west of Golden, Colorado, a few summers back that was 10 or so bolts long and rated 5.13b. On paper, this might sound like a great climb; however, the 5.13 section was only three bolts long, followed by 60 feet of slabby 5.7--climbing so much easier than the crux section that it felt pointless. And, on that upper section, my mind did wander as much as the moderate climbing.
On the flip side, if a route stays "too difficult" after the technical crux, with redpoint cruxes and/or sustained resistance climbing to blow it on, you're going to need to stay revved up and in battle mode to the end. This describes pretty much every route at the Red River Gorge, which is why you so often hear desperate, semi-orgasmic screaming echoing around the backs of the hollers. A great example would be Tuna Town on the Undertow Wall at the Motherlode, which is hard and pumpy all the way, with a finishing crux on crimps.
No, the correct difficulty for the victory run occupies a narrow window, and routes that deliver it are few and far between--perhaps their rarity informs their popularity. For me, the sweet spot seems to be terrain, after a good rest, that is at least a full number grade/four letter grades less than that of the overall route. So, for instance, a 5.12+ that has a four-bolt 5.11c finish on incut pockets after six bolts of crux 5.12 crimping would be the perfect climb. The outro climbing is not so easy you can ignore it, but not so difficult you can't relax and savor the moment either. You're somewhere in the middle, chill but engaged, trying not redlining.
Knowing that it's this feeling I've been chasing all these years, I'll keep seeking it out, keep looking for climbs with that ideal blend. Yes, clipping chains is great, but those precious minutes of climbing before you clip them are even better, perhaps because they are so ephemeral. But they are so damned good--better even, I'd warrant, than sex. And better, for sure, than drugs. Hell, maybe I'll even open a rock gym where we set all the routes in this vein. We can call it "Joe Crackheads," and our motto can be, "Come on down to Joe Crackheads and get your next fix."
Matt Samet is a freelance writer and editor based in Boulder, Colorado. He is the author of the Climbing Dictionary and the memoir Death Grip.
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