People ask me "Why do you do this?"
I have asked this question of many high-altitude climbers and generally found they are no better at answering it than non-climbers. They will start off talking about having a goal, then wander away from that notion sensing it's much more than that. What seems tangible and clear at first becomes sand passing through their fingers. As there are numerous excellent reasons to not participate in this type of activity, it would seem one should at least know what over-riding consideration shifts the balance of rationale.
I've often told my boys that it is more important to know when you are on your path, than to know where it is going. It's like a gravel trail winding through a meadow. If you were blindfolded you would have to trust your senses, listen to the sound beneath your feet. This is part of my answer. I believe I am suppose to do this. It is on my path. It will make perfect sense somewhere down the trail. In the mean time I am committed to my path. The other part of my answer deals with how that gravel sounds beneath my feet.
I want to first differentiate between visual and experiential beauty. People talk about how beautiful child birth is. But anyone who has ever been there knows they aren't talking about visual beauty. There's a screaming sweaty woman, body fluids... You get the idea. So, clearly we are talking about experiential beauty here, which I believe is on a higher order than visual beauty. The memory of one Hawaiian beach eventually fades into the next. But ask a woman about when she gave birth and she has no difficulty taking herself back to that moment and even seems, in the retelling, to relive some measure of the joy that came with it.
There is little question the mountains can be visually beautiful, but the beauty of a snow-covered slope tends to fade after ten or more days of living on it. Under the trying conditions of mountain climbing such a place becomes a cold and featureless landscape devoid of smell and stingy of comfort. Yet we still find ourselves talking about the "beauty" of it. We may trek through vast landscapes of dusty lava rock and camp in winds that claw at our tents all night. In the morning we will still find ourselves using the word beauty. At some point, it seems, visual beauty may evolve into the higher order of experiential beauty.
The man-made world is designed to make beauty available at no risk. We have guardrails, nets, and walls of one fashion or another which allow us to take without risking. But it's not that way in the natural world. I believe nature rewards us with experiential beauty on a scale commensurate with the risk taken, the offering made. It is the tender received in a fair transaction. It is abundant and accessible, and, I believe, in its highest state takes the form of Love. I believe that love comes from the source of your spiritual faith.
You don't have to climb high mountains to experience this. And you don't have to put your life on the line either. When I say "risk", I mean that in many different forms. For some it might be confronting your fear of public speaking.
To me this is the sound of gravel beneath my feet. It is how I choose to live.
It is why I climb.
I have asked this question of many high-altitude climbers and generally found they are no better at answering it than non-climbers. They will start off talking about having a goal, then wander away from that notion sensing it's much more than that. What seems tangible and clear at first becomes sand passing through their fingers. As there are numerous excellent reasons to not participate in this type of activity, it would seem one should at least know what over-riding consideration shifts the balance of rationale.
I've often told my boys that it is more important to know when you are on your path, than to know where it is going. It's like a gravel trail winding through a meadow. If you were blindfolded you would have to trust your senses, listen to the sound beneath your feet. This is part of my answer. I believe I am suppose to do this. It is on my path. It will make perfect sense somewhere down the trail. In the mean time I am committed to my path. The other part of my answer deals with how that gravel sounds beneath my feet.
I want to first differentiate between visual and experiential beauty. People talk about how beautiful child birth is. But anyone who has ever been there knows they aren't talking about visual beauty. There's a screaming sweaty woman, body fluids... You get the idea. So, clearly we are talking about experiential beauty here, which I believe is on a higher order than visual beauty. The memory of one Hawaiian beach eventually fades into the next. But ask a woman about when she gave birth and she has no difficulty taking herself back to that moment and even seems, in the retelling, to relive some measure of the joy that came with it.
There is little question the mountains can be visually beautiful, but the beauty of a snow-covered slope tends to fade after ten or more days of living on it. Under the trying conditions of mountain climbing such a place becomes a cold and featureless landscape devoid of smell and stingy of comfort. Yet we still find ourselves talking about the "beauty" of it. We may trek through vast landscapes of dusty lava rock and camp in winds that claw at our tents all night. In the morning we will still find ourselves using the word beauty. At some point, it seems, visual beauty may evolve into the higher order of experiential beauty.
The man-made world is designed to make beauty available at no risk. We have guardrails, nets, and walls of one fashion or another which allow us to take without risking. But it's not that way in the natural world. I believe nature rewards us with experiential beauty on a scale commensurate with the risk taken, the offering made. It is the tender received in a fair transaction. It is abundant and accessible, and, I believe, in its highest state takes the form of Love. I believe that love comes from the source of your spiritual faith.
You don't have to climb high mountains to experience this. And you don't have to put your life on the line either. When I say "risk", I mean that in many different forms. For some it might be confronting your fear of public speaking.
To me this is the sound of gravel beneath my feet. It is how I choose to live.
It is why I climb.
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