Why do this to myself? Why, why, why?! Why suffer the weight on my back, still bent on standing on the highest point of the mountain, conquering it, though neither man nor beast would be present to bear witness to my accomplishment? I’ve heard many climbers answer this question with the classic response, “because it was there,” echoing George Mallory’s comment regarding his climb up Mt. Everest. But this doesn’t cut it. It’s a cute reply for those that don’t want to really explain themselves. It doesn’t help anybody. “Because it was there” suggests that climbing is a mindless activity, comparable to eating or sleeping or relieving oneself. The physical and intellectual challenge for the common caveman. Man eat. Man go bathroom. Man go climb. Left foot, right foot, left foot, uh, right foot. Man tired. Man go sleep now!
Are there times on a climb when these physiological needs take over? Certainly. Are there times when you are so tired that your thoughts diminish to step counting? Absolutely. But what drives us to the mountains and the thoughts that carry us up their slopes are complicated and varied. They are for me at least. But who knows, maybe I’m sharing the trails with a bunch of mountain zombies.
Perhaps what Mallory was alluding to is a spiritual connection we feel for the mountains, which can only be understood by those who feel the need to ascend, so it wasn’t worth answering more elaborately. Or perhaps he was tired from his climb and didn’t feel like answering questions. Or perhaps he wasn’t much of a talker and in fact a surprisingly quite literal guy. The appeal of his statement is not its accuracy, but its vagueness, allowing the speaker to suggest deeper reasons of his own making, without having to share what those are. When someone says “because it was there,” they may very well mean “because I was dealing with some serious shit I couldn’t work out back home, and figured trudging up this giant hill would help.”
Whatever leads you to the base of your mountain, the challenge before you shares similarities with regular life’s challenges, whether that’s getting a job, saving money for a house, or something else. When you set out to conquer your goal, you take the appropriate steps needed to get you where you want to go, and during the course of your quest, a variety of outcomes can occur. Sometimes you succeed without issue. Sometimes you get lost along the way and you have to double your efforts to reach your objective. Sometimes you fail completely.
But mountains are different and unique from anything else you will face in life, in that they are the truest, cleanest representative of life’s challenges in physical form. There is no mistaking the end goal, and there is no mistaking who got you there. You have to count on you, and your arrival at the summit is the most honest and simplest achievement for your soul that you can experience. No one else can lay claim to your accomplishment. No one else can soil it by saying they did it for you, or claim they did the same thing, unless they truly did the same thing, foot for foot, step for step. Others may help motivate you and encourage you along the way, but the two feet that actually did the lifting belong to you and you alone.
Climbing is a measurement of your physical and mental strength working together to take you into a tough area and then get yourself out. There are no shortcuts, except for the occasional butt sliding during a winter climb, but even that carries a risk/reward that is at its core, honest. Climbing is more honest than any human interaction you have ever had. The mountains have no hidden agendas, no lies to tell. They stand tall, daring you to take them on, making no apologies for being difficult or temperamental. This earns them your respect, and self-respect is what they give you in return for attempting their summits.
Excerpt from 4000s By 40, by Matt Larson
