We drive into the desert on a moonless night, Christa's sedan sending a beam of light out into the inky blackness. The road is dusty, the occasional shape of a joshua tree leers at us from the shadows. We get to Hidden Valley campground in the dead of night, disoriented by the long drive from Yosemite. Head-torches struggle to penetrate the darkness, we hastily construct our tent and promptly fall asleep.

The next day we wake to the piercing blue skies of Joshua Tree National Park, surrounded by granite monoliths seemingly deposited by accident by some careless deity.

​I began my initiation into the world of the climbing dirtbag at the age of 20. Long days spent scurrying between cracks and boulders, hands bloodier by the pitch. Cold nights were made warmer by laughter and wine, stories traded over campfires until we could bare the bite of night no longer - each day bringing moments of exhilaration, beauty, fear and suffering, all culminating together into some intoxicating concoction of life, leaving me both hungry for more, yet fearful of what is next.

​This passionate fling with life was brief, even if the trip was seemingly endless. But, the desert dust left a taste in my mouth for something that felt infinite, inexplicable, and I was burning for more.

The granite monoliths of Joshua Tree National Park, California. (Photo Credit: Stefani Dawn)

The author, Nick Ducker, finding focus before entering a steep roof crux in Margalef, Spain. (Photo Credit: Jojo Yee)

Since then I've spent the better part of 10 year's crimping, snatching, slapping, flowing and flailing on rocks all around the world, and if I think about it a bit harder, probably through life itself also.

​This utterly arbitrary pursuit of getting one's physical being from point A to point B, in maybe the most difficult manner possible, has continued to have a profound impact on how I perceive my experience in this world. It has also accompanied me through and contributed directly to some of the most definitive moments of my life.
 
The beautiful thing is that this isn't an uncommon story.

Any climber can tell you that climbing isn't just a sport, or a hobby you enjoy when you have time for it. To the climber, climbing is a state of being, a way of living, a lens through which we move and interact with the world. Climbing inevitably shapes the contours of who we are as people, colouring the canvas of our lives with moments of timelessness mixed equally with beauty and pain.
 
Climbing can lift us up to the most ecstatic heights of joy and bring brightness into even the darkest corners of our being. It can also push us down into the deepest pits of sorrow and despair, barely letting us up to breathe.

​Climbing can bring us community and family, in exchanges of trust and closeness that break down cultural differences, and can rob us of some of our dearest friends and partners.

Nick Ducker in Freycinet, Tasmania. (Photo Credit: Josh Bergemann)

Friends near and far, finding community in Northern Ireland - the author is on the right. (Photo Credit: Nick Ducker)

Climbing can show us the ugliest parts of ourselves in stark contrast to our proudest moments and achievements.
 
Climbing can facilitate beautiful connection and love, and can catalyse brutal heartbreaks.
 
My relationship with this way of being has continued to change as much as I have over the last decade. The raging bonfire has been mostly replaced by something a little slower burning. My hunger to find the bleeding edge of every experience has been superseded by something a little more sustainable. My self-worth has become a little more detached from my perceived climbing performance.
 
I'm not sure If I'll climb forever, but I'm not sure I'll ever stop either. In a world full of polarisation and opinion, of money and politics, of war and peace, I'm not surprised climbing persists for many of us as a relatively simple world, where the rules are basic, the consequences real, and the present moment commanding every ounce of our attention.

The Adelaide Red Cliff crowd cheer on Rob Watson through the fingery crux of "Slinkin Leopard." (Photo Credit: Ena LeMieux)