Thick chunks of quartz, fallen from spheres of monzonite, crunched under the weight of our movement. B and I ran between Joshua Trees and toward the sun racing with us toward the desert horizon. Step by step, we moved through the beauty surrounding us as lightly as the wind itself. Yucca and cacti tried to hold us back by grasping our dirty shirts and bare legs, but we continued through the discomfort with only a few minor cuts on the surface.
To the Mojave desert, we journeyed to test the motion we’d practiced in the Northern Rockies. As mostly a boulderer and sport-climber, B was new to traditional climbing. There were boulders, but few bolts in the Park. We were mostly here to do some crack.
In previous visits to this ethereal land, I found comfort in scrambling up the huge rock piles, following more experienced climbers up moderate crack climbs, and leading the few sport climbs/top-ropes in the Park—yelling, “take” if the climbing got too difficult or the beta too obscure. In my comfort-zone I stayed, dwelling in the known, often making up excuses to avoid discomfort.
“I’m not strong enough.”
“My fingers hurt.”
“I can’t reach it.”
“My shoes are dull.”
One thing that living in Montana has taught me, is that these can all be translated to: “I am scared to push through the comfort zone.” The climbing pioneers never relied on excuses to get them anywhere. Instead, they moved through beautiful routes with prototype gear (or no gear at all), often wearing hiking boots and tattered clothing. They worked with the strengths they did have and carried the sport to where it is today.
Exploring new areas, leading routes, and experimenting with our abilities, requires a shift—and this shift doesn’t always require a physical push. Moving through mental discomfort might be the most difficult move we make on a climb—but it’s a shift that will allow our bodies to reach their potential and gain from new experiences. The familiar old foe, comfort, will only bring stagnation.
The more comforts we keep with us when we move, the more that weighs us down. So, why is it so difficult to leave them behind? We know comfort will still be there when we return. To take that first step into the unknown—to climb outside, above your gear, or above your usual grade—is scary, especially the first time. But when we make the decision to leave behind the familiar, we awaken the potential that sits still within, awaiting our attention. And we can enjoy life’s comforts, even more, when we return from our adventures.
The climb Coarse and Buggy called me out of my comfort zone. This beautiful climb once covered in coarse, chossy rock, stood clean and noble near the other roadside rocks. This was the last JTree climb I did before I moved to Bozeman, and I did it on top-rope because it seemed beyond my limit. A year later, it still felt beyond what I was comfortable with, but I knew I could do the moves and I knew the gear placements were good. This time on the sharp-end, I knew the crux would be my own mind.
We began our day climbing nearby on Hemingway Buttress where we were shaded from the sun’s fever. The climbs Overseer, Poodles are People Too, the Importance of Being Ernest, and White Lightning left smiles on our faces that could not be removed like the obliterated skin on our knuckles. But since we had many days of climbing before us, we decided to greet Coarse and Buggy first thing in the morning.
After shedding our harnesses and the weight of the day, we ran from Hemingway to Atlantis Wall and returned to camp with hungry bellies and hearts full of gratitude. Under the clear desert sky, a distant howl of coyotes told me that comfort is a privilege many can’t afford. I fell asleep, thankful to be pursuing strength and beauty in this land.
Before the sunshine and other campers arose, we packed our gear and dashed back over to the roadside rocks. There was no reason to delay our day—no time to sit still and cozy when our goal was right around the corner. We could always return to hot coffee and breakfast, but we could not lose momentum.
The sun shined behind the face, creating an alluring glow around our climb. I attached tiny stoppers to some quickdraws, clipped the gear on my harness, and tied a figure-eight below my waist. With a safety check and a little dance, I dipped my hands into a bag of chalk and took my first step into the corner.
Right toe in. Right-hand pinch. Left-hand jam. Right-hand jam. Left-hand crimp. High foot. Left-hand gaston. Lean left. Reach the jug. Rock over. One step after the other until I entered the big ledge just before the blank dihedral.
I placed a purple TCU and a number 3 nut to protect myself on the low angle dihedral above me. There I was, on the climb I had visualized for the past month—staring at the tiny feet, a crimp just beyond my reach, and a fingertip-seam that rested on the crack like a mischievous smirk, taunting me.
Moving from the comfortable ledge and into the dihedral, I gave the moves at least a half-dozen semi-tries. But after each time, I returned to my comfortable ledge. I fumbled for another nut and tried to wedge it in the crack, but it was too big and I was losing energy fast. The protection was there already, but my commitment to the moves was not.
In a moment of fear to move beyond, I hesitated. In a few seconds of idleness, my legs began to shake. My mind wouldn’t let me move up, even though I knew a fall would be well-protected. I considered climbing down to my beloved ledge—willing to fall into old habits of comfort, rather than do what I needed to: trust my feet, stem, and move. Either way, I had to move. Commit to that first step. One foot and then the other. The movement calmed my muscles and I was able to climb past the thin seam and into great hands and larger gear.
When we’re given a choice, we can trust our feet, stay balanced, and move through the unknown—or we can let our doubts take hold, and return to the comfort we know. We must consider whether our challenge requires a physical movement, a mental shift, or both. Once we understand what has a grip on us, we can take the first step to overcoming it.
When B and I returned to Bozeman, a mess of rope laid still like a discarded snake skin, as tangled as my uncombed hair. Clothing stained with dirt and blood piled up and the smell of stale smoke lingered in the air. Nylon, aluminum, and steel littered the floor.
Dropping my body beside my belongings, I did not know where to begin. I picked up my phone. Wait. I hesitated before swiping my battered pointer finger right over a photo of a Joshua Tree sunset. An exhausted voice in my mind asked, “is checking your email now the right move?” We must try to understand which moves will bring us closer to where we need to be. I put my phone down and switched the light off, soon falling sound asleep. This time staying still was the best move to get where I needed.
Taking the first step to achieving goals doesn’t always require pushing our physical limits. There’s a time to try hard and a time to rest, and both of these actions have the ability to help us enjoy the comfortably uncomfortable motion of life.