Lost & Found
By Alben Osaki
With a 20-pound backpack weighing me down, I crank the treadmill’s incline to ‘15’, the highest it’ll go, and set the pace at a leisurely 3.5 miles per hour as I shuffle in place, continuously upwards towards nothing. This is stupid, I think to myself, as each of my steps drives forward only to be pushed back down. I play a YouTube video on my phone in a desperate attempt to distract myself from this inane activity.
Living in the small coastal town of Port Aransas, with no climbing gym, outdoor climbing, or even small hills, and with an elevation of 7 feet, this was my version of “altitude” training. I’ve been training for a mountaineering course for months, going to the gym four to six days a week. I was trying to get as strong as possible to perform at elevation when I lived 24/7 at sea level.
The author (right) and friend Sean Bingham had a goal to climb Mount Baker (10,786 ft). It took a few years and a lot of planning before they ticked it off the list.
All this, in a hopeless attempt to cling to one part of my identity that I didn’t want to fade away: climber.
When I lived in San Luis Obispo, California, The Pad, the local climbing gym, was a near-daily ritual. The climbing gym on the weekdays, then climbing at the local crag, Bishop Peak, on the weekends. All in preparation for one climbing trip or another. Maybe Red Rock in Nevada, Joshua Tree down south, or a weekend trip to Yosemite National Park.
There’s nothing of the sort in or near Port Aransas. Just drive-thru margarita bars and golf cart-filled roads.
We’ll do trips to Austin or some other climbing locale once every few months or so. Or perhaps I’ll visit a climbing gym while on vacation somewhere if there’s some time to burn. Plans are made with friends via Instagram chat or text messages to summit peaks or send classic routes one day. Vague plans for the future. But it’s disheartening to see how much weaker I’ve gotten whenever I do get that rare opportunity to jump on rock or pull on plastic. Routes that I would have been able to do in the past now seem impossibly far out of reach.
Is a climber with nothing to climb still a climber? One of the all-time classic philosophical discussions (probably).
A metaphorical hole developed in me when I moved to Port Aransas. That part of my personality slowly withered away, like a neglected house plant. I began to wonder who I was outside of the sport.
I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining too much. After all, I did choose to come here of my own volition. My girlfriend is getting her PhD from the University of Texas Marine Science Institute just a few blocks away from our apartment. She asked if I wanted to come here with her and I said yes. This is simply my new reality for the time being. An obstacle that I have to adapt and overcome until we can leave.
Like Sisyphus, with each step I take on the inclined treadmill, I can’t help but wonder how pointless this all is; my attempt at filling this hole in me. I trudge along, trying to get into shape for this one trip. All the while knowing that as soon as the trip is over, I won’t have a goal to train for. That I’ll fall back into a rut. Nothing to look forward to but those vague plans for the future.
I realize how dramatic this all sounds, but I can’t say enough how transformative climbing was in my life. It pulled me out of dark and scary places. More than once, when I could feel the anxiety and depression of life creeping into my skull, spending time with my friends Gurpreet, Bodin, and Nick at the climbing gym until midnight would be the antidote. Solo trips to Alabama Hills, California, sleeping out of my car, and climbing with strangers I met along the way would be the remedy.
“I’ve come to accept it,” my friend and neighbor Phil tells me when talking about life in Port Aransas. “But it’s like a depressing sort of acceptance.”
We’re partaking in one of the local pastimes, having a beer at one of the more popular dive bars in town. The two of us are on the same page. I nod knowingly.
The author discovered a love for roleplaying game Dungeons & Dragons in Port Aransas. Credit: Unsplash.
A golf cart with waving flags that say “LET’S GO BRANDON” and “TRUMP 2024” drives down the adjacent street. One of many similarly decorated golf carts that congest the roads in the tiny coastal community.
I’ve come to accept it too. And, as much as I may hate to admit it, I sometimes even enjoy it. Interestingly, the lack of diversity in the coastal town brings the Marine Science Institute community even closer. We go to happy hour. We go to the movies. We plan game nights. I never played Dungeons & Dragons until I lived here in Port Aransas. Now I play almost every week. I haven’t had a group of friends this large in years.
I’ve also rediscovered old hobbies. Pickup soccer is now a weekly ritual. I haven’t played soccer since 2015. I forgot how fun (and exhausting) it is. I also forgot how bad I am. It also doesn’t help when you play against a Brazilian and Columbian who grew up on soccer. I digress.
And, funnily enough, in some ways, I’ve been more connected to the climbing community while living here than I ever have been before. I got my first publication in Climbing magazine while living in this tiny town. I’ve worked on a video project for the American Alpine Club. I had photos published in their annual “Guidebook.” Despite being far away from the sport on a physical level, I’ve still been very much connected to the community digitally.
It took a while, but I’m slowly figuring out that maybe it doesn’t matter how I define myself, so much as how I feel about myself. Climbing consumed my world for so long that I forgot that there are other interesting and fun aspects to my life that got shoved to the wayside. As challenging as it might have been to have to move to this small Texas town, it’s been a bit of a blessing. I forgot what it was like to be a little more well-rounded.
Still can’t wait to leave though.
Alben Osaki is a photojournalist and filmmaker residing in South Texas, with a focus on the outdoors. You can find more of his work on his website.
