Injury and Enlightenment: The Motivationless Year

At 27 I’ve been climbing almost ten years and in that time I’ve made an astounding number of life decisions based on my desire to be near rocks and mountains. I chose my college based almost solely on its location in Southwest Colorado at a place where the high desert meets the mountains. When I moved to NYC for grad school the first thing I did was go to Central Park to find the bouldering and spent as much time there as I could. I didn’t last long in New York before the dearth of mountains got to me and I landed in Portland.

I finished a graduate degree in teaching, as much for the potential time off as for anything else. I discovered substitute teaching as the ultimate dirtbag job. Flexible, yet well paying, it was easy to extend vacations or make your own when conditions seemed good. Summers off. Europe, Alaska, Mexico, I traveled to just about every major climbing area in the West and some in the East. I thought about climbing constantly and when I wasn’t away climbing I was training for it or making plans to do it. The pattern went on for years. Through relationships and breakups, the deaths of friends and family members, jobs and living situations, climbing was always a comfortable constant.

And then something happened. Inexplicably I started to lose my motivation. I started questioning why I was spending so much time doing something so seemingly irrelevant. I was giving so much to climbing, what was I getting in return? It was in the midst of this existential examination that I injured myself. The pain in my wrist started out small. I took it easy for a while hoping that it would start to heal. I couldn’t help but think that my mental malaise was manifesting itself in some physical form. Perhaps there was no wrist injury, but some unseen force trying to teach me a lesson.

If there was any lesson I was too stubborn to pay attention. In May I had a difficult trip to Yosemite. I couldn’t find a partner, the weather sucked, my attitude was terrible. I ripped off one of my index finger pads the first day climbing. This trip was supposed to be a warm up for the Alaska range a month later, and my big ambitions collapsed along with my motivation. In three weeks I had climbed four pitches and done a handful of bouldering problems.

As soon as I got home I called my Alaska partner. I had never bailed on a big climbing trip before, especially the week before traveling. He was upset but ultimately somewhat understanding. He had given up a lot to go on the trip and I felt terrible, but I also knew that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend all that time and money only to sit on a glacier for three weeks unable to climb, my brain and my wrist telling me, “I told you so.” I launched a campaign of self pity and wasted the rare sunny days of a Portland summer on the couch feeling sorry for myself.

Six months later and I haven’t climbed since, but I have rediscovered really nice parts of my life that I had forgotten existed. I’ve lived without thinking about climbing constantly , I moved in with my girlfriend, I’ve done a lot of beer drinking and fly fishing. I’ve seen my friends more (although still not enough)…

I finally had an MRI on my wrist. The doctor discovered a cyst in the joint and some ligament damage. I have an appointment with a surgeon next month. We’ll see how it goes, but regardless it feels good to have some solid evidence of what’s wrong and know that there’s something that can be done to fix it.

It wasn’t long ago that I flirted with the idea of giving up on climbing entirely. But, as it does every year, fall slowly fades into winter and I remember what it feels like to swing an ice tool. I miss the feeling of early morning starts and late, exhausted finishes. I miss being scared shitless. I know that I won’t stop climbing, probably for as long as I can keep it up. I also know that climbing isn’t the only path, and that an unwavering, fundamentalist belief in anything ultimately leads to disappointment for all parties involved. Climbing is an amazing, unique pursuit, but for all it teaches us it can’t make a life whole. I’m glad I’ve gained the wisdom to see that.

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