Something About Climbing

Something About Climbing

Lucas P. Regard

Rock climbing is often viewed as a sport or a personal physical challenge. However, for many climbers, it evolved into something more profound—a struggle with one's own limitations, a perspective on the world, and even a way to find or validate meaning. I argue that rock climbing, when examined through the lens of existential and metaphysical philosophy, emerges not merely as a pastime, but as a deeply meaningful act. Climbing is a direct encounter with the world, embodies the existential condition of rebellion against absurdity, and is in tension with cultural conformity, as I will demonstrate. Not only that, but I also include a reflection on solipsism, inspired by a personal experience during a solo climb, to explore how climbing can momentarily blur the boundary between self and world. Even if I do not actively live by philosophy, the philosophies I discuss here happen to mirror and clarify what I have felt in practice. Climbing and the Absurd: The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus is one of the most important works in existentialism. It uses a striking metaphor of a man who is forced to roll a boulder up a hill only to see it fall back down again and again. Camus argues that life itself is absurd—devoid of inherent meaning—yet that we must live in full awareness of this absurdity and continue regardless. This is what he calls “revolt”: not despair, but defiant engagement. He writes, “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart."

Climbing parallels this myth with eerie precision. The act often feels grueling, pointless, and punishing. There is no external reward, no cosmic significance. Yet climbers return to it again and again, as if the repetition were itself sacred. The process of reaching the top is frequently more significant than the summit. One climbs not to escape absurdity but to embody it fully. Through this, climbers practice Camus’s rebellion: they create meaning in a meaningless world through effort, repetition, and presence. Unlike many hobbies, climbing doesn’t comfort or distract—it confronts. That confrontation, strangely, satisfies.

Climbing as Embodied Meaning (Merleau-Ponty) Maurice Merleau-Ponty, in Phenomenology of Perception, argues that we do not encounter the world first through thought, but through the body. The body is our “general medium for having a world.” That means our sense of reality is shaped not just by reflection, but by sensation, movement, and physical engagement. Climbing is one of the most direct ways of being fully in the world.

Every moment on the wall demands awareness: the feel of the rock, the shift in weight, the texture beneath fingers. Climbing doesn’t allow detachment. One does not float above the world as a spectator; one is immersed in it. In this way, climbing becomes a form of knowing. The rock is not a symbol or a backdrop; it is real, resistant, present. This embodied confrontation grounds the self in something undeniable.

This is where climbing brushes against solipsism. Solipsism is the view that only one’s own mind can be known to exist. Alone on a high, silent route, that idea can creep in: Am I the only consciousness here? Is all of this imagined? But the pain in your calves, the wind on your back, the risk of falling—these things resist imagination. Climbing reaffirms the world as something outside the self, something that pushes back. Through this pushback, the self is not dissolved but defined.

The Culture Industry and Climbing as Conformity (Adorno) Theodor Adorno, in The Culture Industry, presents a powerful critique of modern leisure. He argues that most entertainment and hobbies are not expressions of freedom, but tools of conformity. We think we are choosing freely, but we are selecting from pre-approved, commodified options designed to pacify us. This makes even rebellion feel safe and marketable.

This critique can be turned on climbing: Is it just another lifestyle brand? Is the idea of the “outdoorsy individualist” another product being sold? When gear companies market freedom, are they selling rebellion or obedience? These questions deserve to be asked. Climbing’s recent popularity on social media, with aestheticized selfies and curated adventure stories, can make it seem like just another cultural script.

However, this is precisely why existential and phenomenological readings of climbing matter. Climbing becomes meaningful not because it looks cool, but because it is hard. It is lonely, painful, and often humiliating. It strips away pretension. Adorno might argue that climbing can be passive escapism—but only if it’s done for show.

When done for no reason other than the climb itself, it becomes a form of personal revolt against the culture industry’s expectations.

Solipsism on the Wall During one solo climb, I reached a moment where everything felt eerily silent. No sound but my breath, no motion but my own. The world seemed suspended. I suddenly questioned whether I was the only real being in existence. This wasn’t an intellectual exercise—it was a physical, emotional wave of solipsism. It felt like the world was mine alone to perceive, and might not exist without me.

But then my foot slipped. A jolt of panic, followed by the sensation of catching the rock again. My fingers were raw, my back ached. The world answered. This moment shattered the solipsistic illusion. The rock was not an idea. It was stone. This moment was not imagined. It was real. In climbing, I found the ultimate proof against solipsism: resistance. The world doesn’t care whether you believe in it. It simply is. And when it hurts, or helps, or holds you up—you know you’re not alone.

The Vertical World as Philosophical Space There is something unique about vertical space. Unlike horizontal movement, where one can retreat, pause, or sit back, verticality demands commitment. To ascend is to take on gravity and to risk the consequences of failure more dramatically. This spatial orientation changes the kind of thought that arises while climbing. Philosophers like Gaston Bachelard have written about the poetics of space—how different spatial orientations affect our imagination. A wall is not neutral. It becomes a kind of mirror for the mind. Verticality creates urgency and focus, stripping away abstraction and forcing clarity.

When I climb, especially alone, my thoughts become sharper. Questions like “What is the meaning of life?” are not abstract. They manifest as, “Why am I doing this?” or “What does this matter?” The physical act of climbing, with its demand for presence, and it's invitation to reflect, turns the rock face into a site of philosophical experimentation. What begins as muscle and motion ends as thought.

A fair objection is that I am romanticizing something that is, at the end of the day, a privilege. Climbing requires time, money, gear, and access. Not everyone can do it. So how can I claim it offers deep meaning when it is inaccessible to many?

I agree that climbing is a privilege, but so is reading philosophy, or making art. The claim is not that climbing is the only way to find meaning, but that it can be one. What matters is not the activity itself, but the way it is done: consciously, painfully, reflectively.

Another objection is that I’m projecting philosophy onto climbing retroactively. I didn’t think about Camus or Merleau-Ponty when I first started climbing. That’s true. But that’s what makes these philosophies interesting to me now—they describe things I felt before I had the language to name them. That, to me, is what good philosophy does: it doesn’t create experience, it explains it.

One might also argue that existential philosophy is outdated in a time of urgent collective crises—climate collapse, political instability, economic recklessness. Who has time to explore the absurd when there is so much material suffering? But I would argue that existentialism becomes more important in such times, not less. In crisis, the need for grounded individual meaning becomes urgent. Climbing, for me, provides that grounding—not in abstraction, but in stone, in sweat, and in silence.

Climbing is not inherently philosophical. It does not require belief in a system or subscription to an ideology. But when experienced deeply, it touches on the very questions that philosophy asks: What does it mean to live? What is the self? How do we know the world is real? Through Camus, we see climbing as revolt against absurdity. Through Merleau-Ponty, we see it as embodiment of perception. Via Adorno, we are reminded to stay critical of its commodification. And through moments of silence on the wall, we come face to face with solipsism—and find that the world resists us in a way that proves its presence.

I do not live through philosophy. But somehow, philosophy lived through me, when I was clinging to a rock, alone, wondering if anything else existed.