Climbing has been a constant in my life, though it’s threaded through a lot of chaos. I’ve weathered marriages, battled alcoholism, and cared for my mother through her final days as she succumbed to dementia. When she passed, my then-wife and I came to Arapiles to decompress from everything.
For years, I fit climbing around my life, but after fate had thrown its hardest punches—the death of my parents, upheaval of COVID, and trying to rebuild myself through a 12-step program—I found myself at a crossroads. I came to Arapiles because, frankly, nowhere else felt safe or even appealing anymore.
One rainy day, I arrived at The Pines. It was practically deserted—just a few campers huddled under a big gypsy tent. The rain was torrential, so we stayed put and…
