Chris Weidner finally succeeds on Horse Latitudes.
When I finally climbed Horse Latitudes -- on my 49th try -- I was just relieved I'd never have to touch its holds again.I'd worked harder for this 115-foot sport route in Arizona's Virgin River Gorge than any other in my life. It was March 2008, and after the high had worn off (a paltry day or two later), I calculated my devotion to that particular chunk of rock: It took me 49 tries over 22 days; four trips to Arizona over 14 months; a total of 5,520 miles on my van.
Horse Latitudes cost me more than $800 in gas alone.Objectively, the ascent was nothing special. Not even close. At least two dozen people had successfully climbed the route, which was first done in the mid-1990s. And it took most of them far fewer than a whopping 14 months.I belayed my friend and frequent partner Justen Sjong, also of Boulder, on his redpoint of Horse Latitudes. It took him just four tries........I hate him for that.
At least I finished the rig. Only two other times in 22 years have I invested more than 40 attempts into a sport route, and I still haven't finished either of them. So what's the point of this struggle toward such an unremarkable goal? Especially when, as climbers, we often accept an abnormally high level of risk (no wonder some people think we're crazy).
The point is that our chosen struggle -- whatever it is -- is really about the striving. Purpose is found in the process; they're one and the same. Once we accept this, something remarkable happens: We realize that the goal itself doesn't matter. Of the thousands of sport routes I could have tried, I chose Horse Latitudes as a worthy project. Instantly, that climb assumed a special, personal meaning.
That's not to say there aren't far more noble goals than climbing -- there certainly are! But within the context of personal discovery and meaning, it doesn't matter whether our goals are related to finances, family or seemingly frivolous pursuits like climbing.They're all a means of surpassing oneself.
Boulder native and renowned author David Roberts was a cutting-edge alpinist in his youth, most famous for his necky first ascents in Alaska in the 1960s and 1970s. In his latest book, "On the Ridge Between Life and Death," Roberts says, "For me, climbing was always about transcendence. In the spell that risk and fear, barely tamed by skill and nerve, cast over me, I found a blissful escape from the petty pace of normal life."
Climbers, particularly in Boulder, have the luxury to self-impose the struggle of their choice: transcendence vis--vis ascension. I've had to remind myself of these things lately because I'm enduring a similar struggle on a sport route in the Flatirons called Rock Atrocity. So far, I've tried it 26 times over 14 days. And counting ... .
The process of climbing Horse Latitudes forced upon me a level of focus that I couldn't replicate otherwise. On at least half of my 49 attempts, I experienced brilliant clarity in each move and each moment; the rest of my life and its priorities somehow fell neatly into place. This super-awareness was both the process and my purpose.
Different climbers choose different paths, of course. Some seek little more than a workout indoors, while some place their head on the chopping block of dangerous alpine routes.
In his book "Starlight and Storm," Frenchman Gaston Rébuffat, one of the world's greatest alpinists in the 1940s and 1950s, wrote, "Now at last we were on the face together, and as we climbed I became aware of a special source of happiness. I could not define it; at first it seemed to come from the climb ... there were tinglings of the atmosphere and the earth around us, the taste of air and the gold of sunshine on our mountain; but all that could be no more than a fragrance. The real truth was that we were two men in a realm of rock, both climbing towards the same star."
Whatever the purpose, the truly blessed will recognize meaning -- and even joy -- in the process.
Chris Weidner: Daily Camera
When I finally climbed Horse Latitudes -- on my 49th try -- I was just relieved I'd never have to touch its holds again.I'd worked harder for this 115-foot sport route in Arizona's Virgin River Gorge than any other in my life. It was March 2008, and after the high had worn off (a paltry day or two later), I calculated my devotion to that particular chunk of rock: It took me 49 tries over 22 days; four trips to Arizona over 14 months; a total of 5,520 miles on my van.
Horse Latitudes cost me more than $800 in gas alone.Objectively, the ascent was nothing special. Not even close. At least two dozen people had successfully climbed the route, which was first done in the mid-1990s. And it took most of them far fewer than a whopping 14 months.I belayed my friend and frequent partner Justen Sjong, also of Boulder, on his redpoint of Horse Latitudes. It took him just four tries........I hate him for that.
At least I finished the rig. Only two other times in 22 years have I invested more than 40 attempts into a sport route, and I still haven't finished either of them. So what's the point of this struggle toward such an unremarkable goal? Especially when, as climbers, we often accept an abnormally high level of risk (no wonder some people think we're crazy).
The point is that our chosen struggle -- whatever it is -- is really about the striving. Purpose is found in the process; they're one and the same. Once we accept this, something remarkable happens: We realize that the goal itself doesn't matter. Of the thousands of sport routes I could have tried, I chose Horse Latitudes as a worthy project. Instantly, that climb assumed a special, personal meaning.
That's not to say there aren't far more noble goals than climbing -- there certainly are! But within the context of personal discovery and meaning, it doesn't matter whether our goals are related to finances, family or seemingly frivolous pursuits like climbing.They're all a means of surpassing oneself.
Boulder native and renowned author David Roberts was a cutting-edge alpinist in his youth, most famous for his necky first ascents in Alaska in the 1960s and 1970s. In his latest book, "On the Ridge Between Life and Death," Roberts says, "For me, climbing was always about transcendence. In the spell that risk and fear, barely tamed by skill and nerve, cast over me, I found a blissful escape from the petty pace of normal life."
Climbers, particularly in Boulder, have the luxury to self-impose the struggle of their choice: transcendence vis--vis ascension. I've had to remind myself of these things lately because I'm enduring a similar struggle on a sport route in the Flatirons called Rock Atrocity. So far, I've tried it 26 times over 14 days. And counting ... .
The process of climbing Horse Latitudes forced upon me a level of focus that I couldn't replicate otherwise. On at least half of my 49 attempts, I experienced brilliant clarity in each move and each moment; the rest of my life and its priorities somehow fell neatly into place. This super-awareness was both the process and my purpose.
Different climbers choose different paths, of course. Some seek little more than a workout indoors, while some place their head on the chopping block of dangerous alpine routes.
In his book "Starlight and Storm," Frenchman Gaston Rébuffat, one of the world's greatest alpinists in the 1940s and 1950s, wrote, "Now at last we were on the face together, and as we climbed I became aware of a special source of happiness. I could not define it; at first it seemed to come from the climb ... there were tinglings of the atmosphere and the earth around us, the taste of air and the gold of sunshine on our mountain; but all that could be no more than a fragrance. The real truth was that we were two men in a realm of rock, both climbing towards the same star."
Whatever the purpose, the truly blessed will recognize meaning -- and even joy -- in the process.
Chris Weidner: Daily Camera
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