My Climbing Journey

When I was a boy, summers meant Rocky Mountain National Park. My grandparents would load us up and take us to Colorado, where the mountains felt impossibly big compared to the flat lands of Oklahoma. Longs Peak was the crown jewel, and I remember being told as a kid that if I wanted to stand on its summit, I needed to be a rock climber. That wasn’t strictly true, of course—but in a way, it set a seed in me.

By 1994, that seed had sprouted. I started climbing, even though Oklahoma wasn’t exactly known for its crags. We made the most of Chandler Park, setting up top ropes and doing a little bouldering. My “education” came from John Long’s How to Rock Climb. I wasn’t wealthy, so I built my gear piece by piece—one hex, one nut, one carabiner at a time—until I had a modest rack. That little collection of gear was what I used to learn how to trad lead climb.

My first trad lead came in July of 1994 at the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge near Lawton, Oklahoma. The route was Great Expectations (5.5 YDS), a slab with a big crack running through it. The name couldn’t have been more fitting. The climb hooked me for life.

That same month, I got married and moved to Fort Collins, Colorado. There, I met Rob Kelman, a guidebook author for Vedauwoo. Together we spent a few autumn days climbing, even putting up two first ascents. In early 1995, we climbed in Eldorado Canyon and the Flatirons, places that felt like the heart of American climbing. Through the late ’90s and into the early 2000s, I climbed all around Boulder and Fort Collins—mountaineering, ice climbing, and even free soloing the first three Flatirons in one day with my partner, Michael Sharp.

But life has a way of demanding more of you. I was working full-time, going to school full-time, and the space for climbing began to shrink. By 2003, the rope was fraying on my climbing life. I returned briefly in 2008 to climb part of the Second Flatiron with my son, but by then, climbing had become part of my past.

Michael, though, remained part of my life. He was one of those rare climbing partners who becomes more than just someone you share a rope with. Our friendship had a permanence to it. Even if months or years went by, when we reconnected, it was as if no time had passed. He eventually moved on—to Washington, Alaska, and marriage—but our bond, forged in the mountains, held strong.

Climbing partnerships are unique. After enough days spent in the vertical world, after trusting each other with your life again and again, you forge a bond that’s nearly indestructible. Some of mine were brief. A few have lasted a lifetime.

In 2018, Michael told me he had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. They gave him two years. I can’t pretend to know what he went through, but I know he wanted to climb again. His goal was Mount Shuksan. And of course, I said yes. That’s what you do for a partner.

I hadn’t climbed in years, but I bought a harness and shoes at the Black Diamond store, and I walked into the climbing gym, out of shape and unsure of myself. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Michael, and the chance for one last adventure together.

But fate was cruel. One of his tumors ruptured, and his two years became just days. Before he passed, I promised him I would climb Mount Shuksan for him. He died at the end of 2019.

In 2021, I kept my promise as best I could. I made it to the base of the summit pyramid, but something wasn’t right with my lungs. My cousin, climbing alongside me, carried Michael’s photo to the summit in my place. I think Michael would’ve laughed, in his way—because even in death, he had managed to get me back into climbing.

That was his gift to me. He reignited the fire I thought had burned out. His inspiration, his friendship, his presence in my life—they’ll never leave me.

Now, I share climbing through the videos I create, hoping to pass on that same spark. I want people to know the joy of the outdoors, the pull of the rock, and the lessons of resilience it teaches. If even one person walks away inspired to “Never Give Up,” then Michael’s legacy—and mine—live on.

Please note: This article was edited with assistance from an AI writing tool.