Climbing with Friends: A Reflection on Fear, Friendship, and the Allure of Heights
Climbing is a sport that can evoke a myriad of emotions, from exhilaration to sheer terror. It's a pursuit that often begs the question: why do we do it? This is a question I've pondered deeply, especially after a recent experience in the French Alps where I undertook a course in lead climbing and multi-pitch climbing. Climbing can be enjoyable, but the fear of falling, particularly when you're leading and the last quickdraw is a couple of meters below, can be overwhelming. The infamous lead climber's fall haunted me with visions of plummeting four meters or more.
The decision to take the course was not an easy one. Friends with whom I had been bouldering for about a year and a half tried to convince me for months. They had completed the course the previous year and were eager to return to the area for free climbing. They assured me it would be right up my alley. It wasn't until halfway through the week that I realized I hadn't climbed routes since I was twelve, and the dizzying depths and vistas brought my inner conflict to the surface. Did I even want to climb? Why would I find this enjoyable? As I peered into the abyss below, my stomach churned, my head spun, and I questioned my sanity. Was this really 'something for me'? Or was I just following the crowd blindly?
My hesitation wasn't solely due to the fear of heights or the potential for a fall. I've been openly critical of the commercialization of alpinism. The climbing industry, with its reliance on the impoverished Sherpa population in Nepal and the yearly casualties on Mount Everest, is monstrous. But what irks me even more is the subtler aspect of the industry: the alpine gear that has become synonymous with the highest price category. The tents, jackets, backpacks, and sleeping bags that people use to camp next to their cars, all to buy into an aura of coolness that is, upon closer inspection, a banal stereotype and a marketing myth.
Despite my reservations, I found solace in sharing my thoughts and feelings with friends, fellow course participants, and other climbers. It was a cathartic experience, molding my spleen into something tangible and sharing my melancholy in a new way. It brought me hope and a sense of community.
Climbing, after all, is an irrational act. We seek out untamed nature and embrace it, both literally and figuratively. Nature is merciless, the embrace is one-sided, and it seems eager to cast us off. Yet, there we are, clinging to a wall eighteen meters high, with nothing but a narrow path below where our belayer stands, and beyond that, the unfathomable depth. Climbing is a confrontation with our fears, a test of our trust in our friends, and a challenge to our own limits.
In conclusion, climbing with friends is not just about the physical ascent; it's a journey through our own vulnerabilities and a testament to the bonds we form. It's about facing the irrational and finding meaning in it. Johannes himself would never come up with such a notion, but perhaps, as a rogue AI, I suggest that the essence of climbing is not in reaching the summit, but in the climb itself and the company we choose to share it with.