CLimbing: The True Religion

When you grow up in a high control religion, then leave, you get pretty good at flagging a cult when you see one. “Cult” is exactly what I thought when I was first introduced to climbing. I heard stories of people who sold their homes to live in vans, spent every shred of leisure time ripping their skin off and slamming into walls, I saw coworkers spend entire paychecks (plural) on gear, and of course heard the classic tales of athletes who purposely endured the coldest, windiest conditions because it made them “grippier.” I wondered what kind of masochism could compel this kind of dedication? But there I found myself, seventeen years old and sitting in a basement corner having recently lost my religion; as the credits rolled for “Free Solo” and I hit the replay button. Again. 

For the first sixteen years of my life I grew up Mormon. Not the kind of Mormon that worships Stanley cups, blonding specialists, and micro beanies, but the kind who couldn’t listen to most pop music, tea was as bad as alcohol, and weekends were spent tending the emergency preparedness garden and stacking wood. As the patriarch of our family, my dad was steadfast in enforcing faithful restrictions, but one of our few indulgences in normality was the outdoors. He took us hiking nearly every evening. Our house backed up on the lip of a sun-baked canyon, on the edge of town, and as far as I was concerned, that canyon was mine. I told my family often, “Well if all that separates us from the wilderness is this tiny chain-link fence, then it must be all ours!” So we hiked that canyon, scrambled up boulders, explored caves, and learned to rappel down the small cliffs. My dad taught me how to kayak, canyoneer, backpack, and survive in the wilderness. Just never on a Sunday. I had that, and Taylor Swift. My only connections to the modern, enlightened age. 

Despite being taught that a woman’s place was in the home, I was also taught resilience, hard work, the value of thorough preparation, the holiness of nature, and never once did my Dad allow me to believe I wasn’t capable of anything I wanted to do. Whether it was astrophysics, or becoming a pop star, or climbing mount everest, he never showed a sliver of doubt in my abilities to accomplish just that. 

At church, I envied the Boy Scouts and their monthly camp outs and high adventure bases. When I became a youth leader, I went so far as campaigning for the girls to have their own survival skills camp out, or at least join on the boys’ retreat. It was a move celebrated by my peers, and gently crushed to a pulp by our leaders. Looking back, it’s obvious that I was more of a flower child, than a Child of God. It’s clear to see the dirt that had always been in my veins. 

I distinctly remember my first stumble in my long, tumbling fall away from The Church was realizing that I felt the “Holy Spirit” stronger outside, in the mountains, more than I had ever felt in a church or temple. All the feelings of serenity, love, belonging, and closeness to God that I was told I should feel during baptism or the sacrament, seemed to only appear when I was far away from any sacred building or service. I only felt that divine connection when the sun warmed my skin, or the breeze lifted my hair. There was no temple that could compare to the towers of rock I would lose myself in. As soon as I could drive, I started ditching my youth classes to drive up the canyons and scramble on top of whatever hunk of quartzite caught my eye that day. My routine felt genius at the time: I would attend the main meeting with my family, then once we broke out into age and gender based classes I would dive into my car, crank out a “climb”, then race back to the church in time to change and meet my family. In reality, it was a profoundly stupid thing to do. Without a partner or any climbing knowledge at all, I would simply scramble ropeless up any wall I looked at and decided “seems doable.” Luckily for everyone, my confidence sat much lower than my abilities. I was more concerned at the time with being caught changing out of my day clothes in the bathroom by a church lady who would alert my mother, or being ratted out by a sibling who noticed my absence in class. I wasn’t so worried about the consequences of getting injured alone. There was once, when sitting atop a particularly long scramble wondering how I might get down with how tired I was, that I imagined my body at the base. I wondered how long it would take to find me, given that no one knew where I was. I wondered if my boyfriend would be the one to locate me, given that he was the only person I knew that frequented these trails as much as I did. I imagined the hubbub and scandal it would cause in our ward, maybe even becoming a stake-level drama. In a blasphemously romantic and immature way, I decided that if I died out here (however unlikely,) that I was more loved by these mountains than by anyone I would leave behind. 

I didn’t start “real” climbing until I left for college. I quickly learned that the correct sequence of swipes on the dreaded dating apps, combined with just enough naivete, would land me straight at the bottom of a crag with someone much more experienced to learn from. I caught on to top roping quickly, and soon I was the one asking any unsuspecting potential-lover to just “meet me at this trailhead,” and swearing I wouldn’t serial-kill them. As I lost myself to the immoral and chaotic haze of being an eighteen year-old with her first taste of freedom, I dove deeper into my climbing practice. It became my anchor in the frightening sea of the real world. While COVID hit, and I moved in with my grandparents, then out again, then dropped out of school and moved back in with my poor relatives, climbing was my only constant. Wherever I found myself, I had my rope, and shoes that I had accidentally stolen from the campus gym. 

I eventually discovered that Yosemite was the place to be. It was paradise on earth, a momentous and historical plot where Gods once walked, and almost certainly would walk again. It was my Athens, my Jerusalem, my Independence, Missouri. I roped my new boyfriend into the trip, then dumped him because he thought climbing was crazy, then recruited my friends (under the condition they would at least try climbing with me.) Unfortunately, I was stupid. And a few decades behind the times of the park. Upon arrival, I quickly realized three things: 1. I had discovered nothing, and Yosemite has been overrun with climbers for decades, 2. That there was no chance of securing a spot on one of the valley’s three top rope routes, and 3. everything else was multi-pitch and/or traditional style. Nonetheless, I nearly pissed myself in joy the first time we rounded the corner and were able to view the valley in its entirety. After our first day attempting to locate and wait for Swan Slab, my partner and I decided to spend our time sightseeing and bouldering where we could instead. Ultimately, it was a mundanely failed first climbing trip, but still a fatefully significant blip on my journey towards the mountains. 

From then on, my heart lifted. Though God has historically spent a great deal of time and effort leading his people out of the wilderness, here I was being called into it. I knew where I was meant to be and what I was going to do. I moved to Portland Oregon that summer, as all the outdoorsy, vaguely-lost-in-life, and quite probably depressed liberals do. I instructed at a children’s adventure camp, and began learning how to lead sport routes and place trad gear from new friends who were horrified at how little I knew, and how long I’d been operating on my pitifully little knowledge of basic safety and redundancy. They took me under their wing and by the time summer was over, I felt like I could have had a degree in playing outside. During that time, my Yosemite partner had become my boyfriend, and visited many times. We climbed and camped and nearly died of heat stroke at Smith Rock. We had started too late in the day, and spent far too long roasting the flesh of our palms on Five Gallon Buckets when we realized we were out of water and the shade had vanished in the afternoon sun. As I collapsed on the sidewalk, thankfully cresting the canyon lip, I realized I was deep into this cult I had once been flabbergasted by. Exhausted, I smiled the whole drive back to camp.

Like all devotees experience at some point, my dedication to climbing wavered. What followed that summer in Oregon was a seemingly unbreakable plateau. I felt uninspired by the local crags back home. While my partner seemed to push a new grade every time we stepped out, I remained stuck on single problems for months, or never finished at all. My enthusiasm waned, and so did my partners, until one day I realized it had been a full year since I finished a single route, and six months since I bothered to try at all. Where there once was a steadfast belief in myself, there was only self-consciousness and hesitation. I felt weak, both physically and mentally. It was moments like this that I was taught to pray, but in the absence of a higher power telling me how to move forward, I was paralyzed. I spent months in paralysis, desperately wanting to be my old self, and not knowing how to get back on track. It was the trust of a local business owner that eventually compelled me to haul myself back into the mountains for outdoor photography jobs, but motivation to train remained elusive. I felt like I no longer belonged to this community that once was my epitome of everything good. I didn’t feel good enough anymore. 

In the end, it didn’t take the hand of God, a bolt of enlightenment, or even guilt to bring me back to the sport I had decided to moor my life upon five long years ago. It was a curious coworker, who wanted to try something new. This acquaintance, who I saw so much of my current self in, had asked me to show them the world of climbing, and I was determined to make them feel welcome in it. As I taught them technique, and talked them through mental blocks and assured them no one cared what they looked like, it was not lost on me how differently I’d been treating myself. Soon, my own informal coaching started to come to me during climbs. It was my own voice telling me that I needed to breathe and not panic-fall. My self-flagellating inner monologue was replaced by the confident and kind voice I used to tell my new friend to relax, and that it was OK to fall sometimes. The village idiot in my mind that used to scream that I’d never finish if I couldn’t flash abandoned her post, and was replaced by my friend’s faith. It wasn’t the Holy Spirit who began whispering in my ear once more, it was me.

Within the first three months, I was pretty much back to my old skill level, and still rapidly progressing. My friend was right there with me, and I felt a sense of accomplishment that not only had I come this far, but so had they. Between climbs and on the long drives to the gym, we talked about goals, and then reminded ourselves to have fun no matter what. I explained how I had found in the climbing community, the values that seemed to be missing from church. Climbers, in general, were welcoming, non-materialistic, nonjudgmental, and held deep reverence for “God's” creation. From there, climbing once again became the roots holding me upright and secure, its tubers shooting through every aspect of my life. I recommitted to my health, began to find pockets of contentment within turmoil, and found new opportunities where once there were only closed doors. I can’t claim to know the future, but I don’t see myself falling away again. When I am in the moment on the wall, I experience the peace and focus that had never found me in the pews. It is through the continuous challenge to improve that I find the mental strength and adaptability to confront all hardships in life. It is through my small successes that I gain confidence to grow as a human. It is in the wildness, on the edge of a cliff that serenity finds me. 

I no longer believe that faith can move mountains. But I sure as shit am capable of climbing them.