“Why didn’t you think of that three hours ago?” I said, a bit testily. It was just like Erick to overlook such a detail. He was the perfect philosophy student: able to remember countless useless facts and theories but forgetting more practical details. 

Filled with renewed energy, we attacked the car. Erick crammed the nut tool between the passenger door and the window. On the driver’s side, I worked the lock with our v-thread … but, nothing. Desperate, I grabbed the nut tool from Erick, wedged it against the top of the window, and cranked. 

The glass shattered with a sharp snap. “Oops,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing. I looked over at Erick, expecting anger, not the big smile on his face. “Nice work,” he said. 

One solid punch finished the job and spread a thin layer of crystals across the front seat and floor. We retrieved the key and hauled ass to an all-night diner, the cold winter air howling through the broken window. The greasy hash browns and watery coffee tasted divine. 

Ten years later, I still cherish this story. Odd, isn’t it? I remember nothing about the climbing itself. As a matter of fact, I can’t quite remember which route we climbed. What I do remember is suffering and friendship. That sounds cliché, I know, but to me this goes to the heart of why I love climbing. Climbing allows ordinary folks like Erick and me to step out of the routine, to taste raw adventure faster and more thoroughly than any other activity I can think of. In that parking lot, Erick and I were the equals of Messner and Twight. At least in our minds, and isn’t that what really matters? 

The physical movements of climbing are wonderful. They demand both creativity and brute strength. But the same can be said of the playing tennis. What makes climbing truly unique, then, is everything but the climbing itself. A little provocative, I know. In my case though, most of my favorite climbing moments have little to do with pulling my body up a cold piece of rock… 

Drinking whiskey with that whacky Polish guy in a snow cave on a remote Alaskan glacier. Watching the morning sun illuminate the granite slabs of the Grimmsel Pass in Switzerland. Sharing a PBR on the PBR Ledge on Epinepherine at Red Rocks. Rappelling through the night off a remote granite wall. Rocking out to that obnoxious Quebecois punk-pop on the snowy roads north of Montreal. Getting engaged on that ledge overlooking Chapel Pond in the Adirondacks. And, of course, freezing my butt off in that parking lot after my dumb-ass partner lost his car keys. Ahhh, I love climbing.

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