Connecting Passion to Pocketbook
By Teddy Dondanville
There are two ways to live one’s life. Either you make a living to do what you love, or you make a living doing what you love.
As a graduate student studying sociology in preparation for a career in academia, I assumed I belonged in the first category. I wanted a profession separate from my passions. Little did I know that while learning to rock climb between coursework and writing essays, I was laying the foundation for a career shift that would blur the lines between passion and profession.
I first began rock climbing in 2016 after finishing college in Boulder, Colorado, and beginning graduate school in Normal, Illinois. (Yes, you read that correctly; the city was actually called Normal.) Ironically, despite having been born and raised in California and attending college in Colorado, it wasn’t until I settled in the flatlands of Illinois that I began rock climbing.
I tied my first figure-eight knots and learned to belay not surrounded by mountains but in a climbing gym amid cornfields and soybeans. In true midwestern fashion, the gym consisted of three 60-foot-tall grain silos with hundreds of climbing holds drilled into its concave walls.
I also frequently began rock climbing outside on the weekends. In southern Illinois, deep within a small pocket of the Shawnee National Forest, there is a collection of sandstone cliffs known as Jackson Falls. It’s amongst the cliffs of Jackson that I properly learned to climb. I loved the enigmatic process of linking together improbable-looking rock features to create a sequence of corporal maneuvers (or dance moves, if you will) that provide safe passage to the top of the cliff.
It wasn’t just the climbing activity that was extraordinary. It was also the people—the people who were bonded to me by belay device and rope—and the experiences before and after climbing that created an all-encompassing experience. Atop the cliffs of Jackon Falls, I camped with newfound friends (one of which would later become my wife), burned harvested wood from downed trees, gulped cheap beer, and ate canned chili.
On one such night, after a solid amount of PBRs, we hiked down to the cliffs to try our hands at night time rock climbing. The spontaneity of our brash adventure and the invincibility we felt navigating a dangerous, potentially life-threatening activity was addicting.
Looking back, I know that disappearing into the forests of the Shawnee was extremely formative. I was exploring the beginnings of a lifestyle that included rock climbing at its core. Each climbing trip—whether in springtime rain, summer sunshine, or brutal midwestern humidity, amongst the copperheads, mosquitos, and poison ivy—was better than the next.
Utterly enthralled, I brazenly searched for more climbing. The following year, in 2017, I carried that momentum to South America. I was on my way to live and work in Peru as a Peace Corps Volunteer, all while carrying out a research project and finishing my master’s program from abroad.
La Esfinge (The Sphinx) a 2,000-foot granite face in Peru’s Cordillera Blanca
The research plan was to conduct a historical analysis of the development of a Peruvian law that supposedly banned the usage of genetically modified organisms (GMOs) in agriculture. In addition, I conducted an ethnographic investigation of local Peruvian farmers to get a first-hand understanding of what they thought of the law and GMOs in general.
Like all overtly obsessed rock climbers, I packed a little extra climbing gear down to Peru, just in case. I knew there would be mountains there, and perhaps the opportunity to rock climb. I thought, at the very least, I could go on a climbing trip while on vacation. However, what I surmised would be a fun activity I did on vacation became a weekly occurrence.
As luck would have it, I was stationed a mere two hours from a city called Huaraz—the heart and soul of Peruvian mountaineering and rock climbing. The small community I lived in, Matacoto, was located up the valley from Huaraz, within the Cordillera Blanca range, at the foot of Peru’s largest mountain, Nevado Huascarán (6,768m).
When my responsibilities as a volunteer and student were taken care of, I rock climbed. I explored the alpine volcanic rock forests of Hatun Machay, I climbed within the various glacial cirques of the Blanca, and sport climbed at the local crag, Los Olivos, in the foothills of Huaraz. Then, when my legs wouldn’t carry me deep into the backcountry to chase down another climbing objective, I climbed on nearby boulders.
While rock climbing throughout the Blanca, I embedded myself in the local climbing community. Over time, I became a trusted partner at the crag during the day and a familiar face at the local climber’s bar at night. Eventually, my “belaytionships” became real friendships with Peruvian climbers.
Many of my friends were passionate mountain guides. Through these friendships, I developed a fascination with climbing guides. Everything about them inspired me: their deep connection to mountains, physical fitness, climbing prowess, and courage. Most of all, I admired how they seemed to have crafted a lifestyle that gratified their passions and their pocketbooks.
Like my first forays into rock climbing in Illinois, my adventures in Peru were life-changing. Think of any nature-related cliche, and it would be true for me during this time of my life. The freedom of the hills seduced me. The mountains called, so I went. The absolute wanderlust I felt exploring the mountains of Peru and learning to rock climb was, I’ll say it, immensely spiritually gratifying.
The culmination of my climbing in Peru was an ascent of La Esfinge, a 2,000-foot granite wall. Despite what some would describe as overwhelming naivety—attempting to tackle such an objective so soon after learning to climb—the passion I possessed for climbing pushed me forward.
My partner for the expedition was the first gym employee I met back in Illinois, Zach. He showed me around the gym and taught me how to belay. He was also the one who belayed me up the nocturnal drunken rock climb some years prior in Jackson Falls.
After Zach’s arrival in Peru, his first international trip, we spent a week acclimatizing for our climb up La Esfinge. The base camp we prepared to establish hovered around 14,000 feet, and after the 2,000-foot climb, we’d need to efficiently-operate at an altitude of over 16,000 feet to get down safely. So to prepare, I guided Zach around all the climbing zones I explored during my first year in the Blanca.
Toward the end of Zach’s visit, we left Huaraz to attempt our climb. After a wildly bumpy car ride, we finally made it to the trailhead. Navigational issues on the way to base camp quickly resulted in us getting lost. Eventually, after completely resetting our approach and hiking an additional four hours, we got our first glimpses of the gigantic wall we planned to climb the following morning as the sun set and nightfall enveloped us.
The author (left) and his partner, Zach, after their ascent of La Esfinge.
The following morning, after a horrendous night's sleep, wondering if our shortness of breath would eventually peter out completely, we hiked off in the direction of La Esfinge. We were one of two parties on the wall, the other being a pair from Chile. The climbing consisted of fantastic granite crack climbing. Besides the physicality of the high-quality climbing itself, we struggled with altitude sickness. Headaches, bouts of nausea, and shortness of breath accompanied us the entire way. Nonetheless, our climbing ability and fitness, combined with a string of good decision-making, led us upwards.
We topped out our route as the sunset dipped below the mountains. We enjoyed the view while simultaneously worrying about the upcoming darkness. Eventually, we donned our headlamps and began the descent, which included three rappels, each carrying us further into the dark abyss and closer to the ground, and a seemingly endless amount of hiking and scrambling. 18 hours later we were back at our tent, having successfully climbed the proudest route either of us had ever attempted.
My Peace Corps service ended in 2018. As my short two years in Peru came to a close, I prepared myself to leave the Cordillera Blanca and return to the United States. Upon my arrival, I reconnected with my family in California. Then I returned to Illinois to be with my partner; the woman I’d met two years prior while climbing in Jackson Falls.
While I was still rock climbing during this time of my life, it was not anywhere close to the intensity with which I had pursued the sport in Peru. As a result, I yearned for the gratification I felt high off the ground with my fingertips and toes welded to the stone beneath my body.
So I transitioned. Despite coming home with a graduate degree, an impressive resume, and freshly published Master’s research, I decided not to continue with academia. I decided I didn’t want to work in an office, perform research, or educate students. Instead, I focused, once again, on my passion for rock climbing.
I took my first professional guide course with the American Mountain Guide Association (AMGA) in 2019. A year later, I completed my first exam and became certified with the AMGA. With my introductory certification, I quickly took a job as a rock climbing guide.
The author enjoying some rock climbing in Hatun Machay, Peru.
My first year of working as a climbing guide deposited me back into the mountains, but this time, in Estes Park, Colorado. I lived in a tent, which I called my “nylon apartment,” with views of Rocky Mountain National Park on the skyline. From my tent, I could see Longs Peak, one of Colorado’s most notorious 14,000-foot mountains, towering in the distance.
While in Colorado, I surrounded myself with other crusty, climbing-obsessed friends and guides. We lived and worked together, prepared meals together, and enjoyed the thousands of acres and craggy clifftops of Rocky Mountain National Park as our very own playground. Once again, like the sandstone cliffs of the Shawnee and the massive granite mountains of the Blanca, I was home.
My rock climbing in Colorado lasted for two seasons. During that time, I took another course with the AMGA to continue enhancing my skills and professionalizing my guiding. Over that time, I gained countless hours of instructional experience as a climbing guide.
The climbing I was doing for work and the climbing I was doing for fun melded in such a perfect way that nothing else mattered but climbing more, taking more courses, and advancing my career. To continue with the cliches, I was having my cake and eating it too, and there was no other way I’d rather have it.
Now, in 2024, I’m in my fourth season of guiding. Although the Rocky Mountains are no longer my home and altar, I continue to encircle my life and career with climbing guiding. Currently, the Shawaungunk Ridge in upstate New York (or “the Gunks,” as climbers call it) is my home base of operation.
The walls are not nearly as big, and the climbing is vastly different from anything else I’ve experienced. Thanks to its relatively small size, the extreme volume of individual rock climbs, and exceptional accessibility, the Gunks has become the perfect workshop for me to continue improving my craft and classroom for my clientele to learn.
With the megacity of New York only a handful of hours away, there’s no shortage of clientele. In addition, since the displays of blockbuster movies like Free Solo and Dawn Wall, and the induction of rock climbing into the Olympic games, the sport that was and is my passion, my profession, has transformed from a once counter-culture activity of dirtbag vagabonds into a newfound form of recreation for all-comers.
Despite the potentially grim outlook some seasoned climbers may have, I tend to look at the sport’s growth with an optimistic perspective: the passion I felt and still feel about rock climbing is slowly instilling itself into a brand new generation of climbers. These climbers are in search of something, whether it be a social activity to do with friends or an adventure on some far-flung cliffs hours away from civilization, and climbing has become their search method.
As a guide and fellow climber—who has been to the summit and survived, warmed their skin in the rays of alpine glow, let their mind wander through the oddly terrifying tunnel vision of the headlamps' glow, and felt entirely empowered by body and mind—I like to think I understand what they’re searching for.
I understand that maybe they yearn for an adventurous break from their mundane routine. To see the springtime blooms of Columbines, smell a pitch pine’s pollen, and feel the burn in their thighs from hiking all day or the pulsating pump from lactic acid billowing out into their forearms from gripping the rock. To sit around a starlit campfire after returning to camp and taste the uncharacteristic deliciousness of beer after a long day’s climb.
I understand that maybe they’re too scared to go by themselves. Or that they don’t know where to begin. I understand that they seek a professional to guide them not only up a towering wall of rock but also ask them how they are doing, to take care of them if they become injured, to encourage them to be brave, to coach them to reach their highest potential and bring them home safely, envirograted, gratified, yearning to return.
On a recent phone call with my dad, I explained that I was driving home from work and that I just had a solid run of wonderful weather and guiding work. I described how the physicality of climbing every day during a good weather window taxes my body.
The author at his new home crag: the Shawangunk Ridge of New York
At this moment, sitting in the car, I could feel my lethargic body begging to be laid down horizontally. We talked about the physical therapy I performed on my shoulder over the winter to treat a nagging injury. (Not to mention my dad’s worry about the potentially lethal nature of the work that I do.)
I went on to mention a frustrating interaction with a client, during which I felt like I couldn’t speak my mind. Instead, I held my tongue to avoid further broaching a controversial topic that might drive a wedge between myself and them. After all, I’m mainly here to keep them alive, not to assess their worldview, narrow-minded as it may be. I also complained that I felt jaded from a meager tip I received. I felt like the gratuity did not reflect the effort I poured into curating an exceptional climbing experience for the frugal client.
My reflections, along with my tired, somewhat unmotivated tone of voice, made my dad worry that I was unsatisfied with my line of work. I could see where he was coming from. My profession—which was once purely passion, something I did for fun and in pursuit of worldly and self-exploration—was now just a job I complained about.
I sensed that just maybe, in the back of his mind, he’d feel more comfortable if I complained about the disadvantages of being a Ph.D faculty member in a sociology department somewhere, instead of complaining about being a climbing guide.
“That's good,” he said, referring to the busyness of my schedule. “I’m sorry to hear about your frustrations. But you still enjoy what you do, right?”
I responded quickly, “Absolutely.”
Teddy Dondanville is a freelance writer focused on the outdoor industry and adventure sports. When not enjoying the cerebral and caffeine-fueled pursuits of writing, he works as a rock climbing guide in upstate New York. You can learn more about Teddy on his website.
