Alpine Ethos #2: My process (not to be confused with the process)

e·thos- noun. the characteristic spirit of a culture, era, or community as manifested in its beliefs and aspirations.

The truth will find you when you’re ready.

My first trip to Alaska didn’t go as planned. But not for lack of trying. I trained harder than I had for anything in my life. And that was part of the problem. Weekly incline four-peats with a sixty-pound pack, projecting hard routes in the ghetto tunnels in the evenings after work, and of course, twelve-hour-plus days in the mountains every Saturday. Not to mention the short runs and climbing gym sessions in between for a “rest.” I caught the plane out of DIA with the biggest cold of my life, and hacked up my lungs the entire trip. My body was a sluggish heap.

We were also overly ambitious, psyched to fire a new line on the 5000-foot Father and Sons wall of Denali. However, “The Range” was having the warmest June on record (to that point), and the wall was falling apart. We stood at the edge, toeing the drop into the valley, watching massive seracs rip from the hanging glacier (affectionately called the howitzer) between us and the wall, sweeping our approach. We listened to big rocks calve off and rake our intended line. If we somehow survived the slog to the base, we would surely meet our end on the wall.

As a consolation prize, we charged up Denali on the West Buttress route, intent on a three-day push. My body fatigued from overtraining and taxed from fighting the virus. Every step hurt, but I made it to 19,000 feet. Coughing hard, my head splitting. I pulled the plug and retreated while my partner tagged the summit.

Despite the ass kicking, I knew I wanted more.

A year later, I returned with a couple of hard-charging friends and had a better experience. We blasted up the north buttress of Mount Hunter to the top of the wall. We started the climb already a day in the hole, having flown out of Denver the evening before after work, and flew right back to Colorado when we were down. It was a vision quest, for sure, with plenty of pain, but we made it. 

In between those two experiences, and what made all the difference in the outcome (and many outcomes since), was that I started to embrace something that has always eluded me— patience. My mistake was that I had wanted too much, too soon. You have to listen to what the mountains tell you.

Writing is no different. The small steps you take today will better prepare you to be incrementally better tomorrow, and those increments add up in the long term. That is, of course, if you take those small steps. Every. Single. Day. There is no shortcut, and results are slow to come.

One memory from that first miserable trip to the North stuck with me, nagging me ever since. More than a hundred climbers share Denali’s camps at any given time during the season, and the lack of cell service provides an opportunity to hang out and discuss topics of all sorts. Kind of like the way things were in the ’90s and before. Jon Krakauer was there with the The North Face team. One evening, a big group of us assembled in the vast dome kitchen tent, shooting the shit, and the topic of writing came up. Jon puzzled us by arguing that he was not, in fact, a great writer. But he was a great editor. Said he’d rewritten every page of his books at least fifty times.

I’ve contrasted that memory with one from my first creative writing class in college. After turning in my final story and receiving an A-, my professor (an excellent teacher by the way) told me that I could be a good writer if I worked at it. To my 23-year-old, testosterone-clouded brain, it was a slap in the face. In my immaturity, I assumed that only natural talent was admirable. I had not yet learned that inspiration is nothing without perspiration. Climbing teaches us, if nothing else, that we can start out as a noob getting our ass kicked on the blue 5.6 at the gym, but after decades of devotion, we can get… slightly better. Mediocre even.

I also had the suspicion that I hadn’t lived enough yet. I needed more miles. What the hell does a 23-year-old kid have to say about the world anyway?

My 30-day plan.

The idea of writing a novel was overwhelming. If you search online, you’ll find hundreds of sure-fire, proven guides on how to do it. But, just like climbing training plans, the only reasonable plan is the one that fits you and your life.

Starting March 1st, 2024, I aimed to write 1000 words a day for thirty days. With absolutely no editing. I didn’t even let myself look at where I left off, for fear of giving up once I discovered all the mistakes I had made. Some days were tough, and I only managed 600-700 words, but other days I’d knock out over 2,000. An hour or two of typing away after my boy went to bed at night. By the end of the month, I had a nearly complete 33,000-word rough draft.

And honestly, it was garbage. I mean, bad. But it was something I could work with. A big, blocky foundation upon which to build this new house of themes. I put up walls and hung drywall. Eventually, crown molding and granite countertops. And every time I went back to the beginning and rewrote and edited, I became a better writer, picking up new tricks. After seven or eight rewrites, the ends started to meet up. My characters had skin, as well as scars. 

Knife cuts are never painless. 

Writing stories changes the brain. Every challenging scene you create forces the neurons to adapt and grow. Like learning a new instrument or language. Or sport, for that matter.

Just like in climbing, ego is the enemy. Self-doubt is crippling and must be overcome. You have to give those doubts a face. Let them exist as someone to disprove and fight against. Throw all skepticism into the furnace and let it burn hot.

Style is only achieved by cutting away the excess. Anyone can get up a route with a triple rack. But what about with a handful of stoppers. Or without a partner. Jimmy Dunn putting up Cosmos on El Cap, solo. That’s style.

Mistakes are more essential to the process than the victories. Years ago, I missed an obvious turn on a fifty-mile race course and added three or four miles to my day. It was devastating. While writing my book, I wrote dead ends for multiple chapters before ultimately, and painfully, deleting them. Knife cuts are never painless.

Long bouts in the mountains, whether running or climbing, are a form of editing. You start out as a whole person, with fresh legs and a full belly. But the miles and the pitches whittle away every part of you that is unnecessary, until the only thing you’re left with... is two choices.

And your answer speaks to the core of who you are.

Quit or finish. 

Maybe truth doesn’t find us, after all. Maybe we find it.

coming soon-

Alpine Ethos #3: The Future Colorado Springs Ice Park