The Climb
For years, climbing was my gospel. My hands learned to memorize the texture of granite, my body learned to trust itself on precarious holds, and my mind found a kind of quiet in the chaos of exposure. On a good day, the rock was steady, and I could breathe without thinking. On a bad day, I climbed anyway, because I needed the reprieve from school and creative pressures. The feeling became familiar: lacing up my shoes, adjusting my harness, chalking my hands. The approach itself was a meditation before the wall.
The Shift
But before each session, I never held the summit at the top of my mind. Instead, I started romanticizing the journey to the climbs themselves. On the days I didn’t bike to the climbing gym, I began road-running through the bustling streets of New York City. The city moved around me, taxis honking, early commuters spilling onto sidewalks, skyscrapers stretching into the sky. Somehow, I found rhythm even in the chaos.
The Move
When the pandemic hit, I moved from Brooklyn to San Francisco, trading pavement for dirt and city lights for sunrise. The mornings brought a different kind of quiet: fog drifting low across the horizon, an ocean breeze stirring the air, and trails curling up grassy slopes.
Climbing, though, came to a halt, the logistics of touching the same holds or spotting someone seemed strangely perilous in our distanced reality. So, instead, I doubled down on my running routine; that consistency elevated me. I found myself slipping into a rhythm, moving without feeling anything. I’d learned to fly.
The Community
After months of porch hellos, running past friends’ houses, and exchanging texts about individual outdoor trots, we developed a plan to start running together. There was comfort in the shared movement, even when miles passed without words and only the sound of our steady breath and feet meeting dirt.
In practice, I realized that my reasons for running had changed. Instead of personal bests, I ran for refuge, for a community in a foreign place.
The Rhythm
Somewhere in this shift, Yerba Madre became part of the ritual. I like things that come from the earth, things that know what it’s like to grow under pressure and through tradition.
At the same time, my adventure career took off. I got sponsored and began traveling the world to photograph, explore, and direct. Flight to flight, I trained for climbing and alpine adventures, sipping on a Yerba to keep the energy up as I moved between sets and expeditions. I found the time to run whenever possible to train and keep my joy. The can was always there, a quiet ritual before long travel days or early summits.
The Becoming
This journey, from climber to ultrarunner, isn’t about conquering. It’s about becoming. Running teaches you steadiness. It’s different from climbing, with its trademark flashes of adrenaline and bursts of fear. Trail woes are quieter, creeping into your joints, flaring in your arches, whispering doubts in your ears when you’re only halfway through.
But it teaches you to keep going, you find patience in the stride, moving one foot and another. I show up thankful for nature, sunshine, and even the fallen leaves caught in my tight curls. It’s about saying yes to the terrain of my life, even when it blisters.
