What the hell is wrong with us that makes us willing get out of a warm, cozy, soft bed at 3:30am on a Saturday and leave a beautiful, naked, pregnant wife behind to spend a day sweating, struggling, panting, bitching and complaining, to climb up through fields of scree and ice just to reach the top of some mountain?
Whenever my friends or family ask me such questions, I always have a hard time answering. Is it for the pictures of the beautiful vistas that only those who toil on foot to wild places can reach? Sometimes. Is it for that sense of accomplishment, the mental peace and calm you find in the mountains, and in sheer physical exhaustion at the end of the day? That's definitely part of it. Is it so you can enjoy that decadent cheeseburger with Caramelized bacon that the previously mentioned beautiful pregnant wife has waiting for you without any sense of guilt whatsoever? You're damn right!
But even deeper than all that... The mountains just become part of your identity. When you can't lose yourself in them, you start to lose yourself for real. The pain, sweat, and exhaustion are just part of the price you pay to claim your own soul.
Why do you climb?