From Medals to Mountains

What lengths would you go to to achieve first place? To beat all other competitors and know that in that moment, you are the best. Elite athletes are immortalised in our culture and are likened to gladiatorial warriors fighting for life and death. Throughout my adolescence and early adulthood, it was a world that I relished and loved for all its ups and downs, its soul-crushing grinds and defeats and the ecstasy of its wins and successes.

At the age of 17, on a hot and dry summer Sunday, I nock my arrow to the waxy horsehair bowstring. Deep breath. Focus. This is the one. As I draw up and take aim at the centre of my target, I think of nothing but hitting it. I release and thwack it hits. But wait, from my scope I can see I've missed the centre by mere millimetres. I try again and again. 144 times over 8 hours of the day and frustration saturates my body and mind, knowing I haven't done enough to win today. What a waste of time I think.

But by the age of 22, and after 10 years of competitive sport at regional and national level, I retired. I turned my efforts away from the sole purpose of beating others and being ‘the best’, and towards adventure instead. From my anecdotal experience in the sports of archery and rowing, the objective is to be faster, better and stronger than the other individuals or teams. By the nature of competitions, if you don’t win then you are the loser and therefore, you are not as good as someone else. Of course, competition can be fun and it can be good. Good for your mind and body, to exercise and feel a sense of purpose, but nonetheless, that purpose is to defeat another person.

Throughout the time I was competing, I never considered these things could be affecting me and my own happiness. However, when I found myself exploring the world of rock climbing, and adventures of all kinds really, it opened up an entirely new dimension. Instead of proving that I was better than someone else, in this new paradigm I found that I could be as competitive as I wanted to be and it was with only myself that I was battling. Myself and nature.

Have you ever experienced the feeling of winter's grip closing in around you? The chilling touch of the air. The howling winds. It has no obligation to let you off easy, but sometimes, it does. When making an ascent of Carnedd Dafydd, this winter just passed, I found myself in a similar situation. I'd been following the broken snow trail up its steep southern arête for most of the morning. But as it got later into the day the weather began to turn foul. The strengthening winds kicked spindrift into my face like swarms of icy flies, whilst also disguising the footprints up ahead. From this point on I would have to rely on my own skills of direction, and hope that my crampons manage to bite with each upward step. Though clad in synthetic fibres, to protect me from its true harshness, I'd never felt as surrounded by this force of nature before.

The weather, like the mountain I was on, cared not if I was there. The conditions would have been the same if I'd instead been sat at home in front of the TV. Yet the fact that here I was. All alone. In the midst of the sublime. Is a feeling that I could never trade.

When comparing the experiences of a long day out trying to win first place, with all the pressure of a year's worth of training and time hinging on a few moments, to long days out on the hill or on the rock; I now know which I’d rather have. On the one hand I may be battling cold and difficult conditions, but worrying about whether I’d trained enough in the off-season to a level that will mean I won’t face disappointment and a feeling of wasted time. Whereas on the other, I may be facing similar conditions but instead of my worries corrupting my sense of self-worth, they’re more likely to be focused on how to navigate safely through beautifully terrifying landscapes or deciphering the vertical puzzle of a rock route.

The point here is that when my motivations changed, I became happier. When I train for expeditions these days it comforts me to know that the effort I’m putting in will only result in a more tangible link to nature and life’s experiences. Instead of a medal or trophy, my goals are experiential. Despite the challenges, now personally, there’s no better feeling than sinking into the relative safety of my sleeping bag feeling absolutely worked from a hard day in the mountains.