In reply to spacecadetjake:
I used to climb.
I went to the climbing gym the other day for the first time after a long while.
And again I felt out of place. I was struck by the dark depression and smell of testosterone that lingered over the place eveloping the strugglers on the coloured holds.
Very few people were having real fun there. Only traces of the wide-eyed joy here and there, mostly on faces of people who weren't taking it seriously at all.
The select few were having fun while the others were pulling hard, grunting, doing pull-ups, flexing muscles trying hard to make the impression that they really understood what climbing was about but without a clue really.
I used to climb.
I was once strong and free. I remember walking through autumn forests, knee deep in fallen leaves with the sun on my face and anticipation in the air.
Anticipation of the freedom of movement, soaring up the rock face reading and understanding all it's stories, knowing it's history and being in the flow of life.
In the days without internet, hardcore magazines and the attitude of “Go big or go home” we lived
simple, respectful and most importantly stress-free lives. Climbing was about beauty, being part of something and the gloomy darkness of a climbing gym would have been a nightmare to evaporate with the morning dew.
Trying too hard has never made anyone happy.
One can train all their life and he may never come close to the level of difficulty some talented people warm up on.
Like many things in life, climbing these days is measured in units, grades are compared, idols crushed into the ground and most of it is done by miserable unhappy people, too busy training to see what climbing is really about.
They can't see that the essence of climbing is to tap into the universal flow of energy surrounding us. We should open our souls to understand the harmonies of the environment we're in and “style” things instead of “sending” them.
Back in the day my greatest joy was when I managed -even just for a moment- to get into a flawless rhythm soaring up the rock, every move perfect. Those were the days when I climbed things way harder that anybody thought I could. To do this is a real art. To pull hard, push down, grunt, lean, dyno and crimp is just the surface of things.
Only people who look beyond the physical struggle, recognise the complex patterns, read the rock and reach into hidden corners of their souls will ever become real climbers.
Others are just hanging on.
I feel sorry for the hangers-on. They are the ones with perpetual injuries, relationship difficulties, buried deep in their depression, training hard whilst being blind as a bat to all the beauty around them. These people walk through the beautiful valleys with brisk steps to get to the rock quickly so they can squeeze a few more problems into the day.
Problems.
We used to call them climbs. Respected, even feared them but they were never our problems.
They welcomed us back every time like old friends and we knew that we had somewhere to go when the world seemingly conspired against us and we'd lost our way.
Some idiot started calling them problems, blind to everything climbing was about and we followed suit.
I used to climb.
I may come back to my old friends one day. It will be a respectful and quiet affair. I know that I will be welcomed back by the rocks and the marks we'd put on them even if the strong young lads fresh from the gym will raise an eyebrow seeing the old man walking towards the cliff.