WHY THEY DO IT

As an author, I am a writer of fiction. I chose to write fiction because I want to have some control over the stories and their endings; something not possible in real life stories. But yet I want to have an air of authenticity to my stories. So, I choose real subjects, not fantasy, and I don’t wander off the path of reality. I have always wanted people to believe this really could have happened.

In 2011 I wrote a book called the “Last Trip Down The Mountain.” It was a fun book to write because, over the years, I have been amazed at the people who climb mountains. I have read most of the stories that have been written about them. For the rest of my life I will be an armchair enthusiast of mountain climbers, and regret that I never did it. There are always those who question the sanity of mountain climbers, and are continually asking that same old question, “Why do they do it?”

I, myself, have never climbed a mountain, but I think I understand why they do it. Don’t get me wrong, they are a breed unto themselves, but I think if there was a list of qualifications drawn up to be a climber, it would sound like this. Climbers must be lovers of the great outdoors, and particularly the mountains. They must be, at the same time, cautious and yet fearless. They see something up there most of us don’t see. Not just the peak and not just the challenge of getting to the top of it, but a desire to establish a relationship with the mountain. Sherpa’s in Nepal believe that you only get to the top because the mountain lets you. That it was the mountain that helped you find the right place to put your feet, and the right path up, and the mountain that kept the winds from blowing you off its slopes, and held off that avalanche until you had safely passed. That it was the mountain that kept your body from failing when you were breathing air one quarter enriched with the oxygen you breathe at sea level. That it was the mountain that calmed your fears and urged you on. But above all, it’s an addiction that, once acquired, never goes away. There are just too many peaks to climb in this world to ever feel fulfilled. Most climbers would rather die than quit, and a lot of them do die, but maybe, unconsciously, that was their goal when they compared it to quitting. To go as far as they could before fate said, “That’s enough.” The ones that do quit, and live, are usually too crippled to climb again—with missing digits, broken bodies, hearts and spirits. But they will always remember the day they stood on the summit with outstretched arms, looking down on the world beneath them, bursting with pride—three quarters spent and only halfway home.

Life is this great journey we take, and we are all as different as the fish in the sea and the birds of the air. There are other extreme sports that push people to the edges, too, and I don’t pretend to understand why they do it, either. We are inquisitive people, always looking for answers, always looking for new discoveries.  All I know is—anything you want that bad must be worth having. In mountain climbing circles there is an old saying, “It is better to live one day as a tiger, than a thousand years as a sheep.”