I’m slotting a small metal chock behind a rock flake. I reach down to pull up the rope I’m tied into and clip it to the carabiner, the metal clasp that climbers use. Reshuffling my feet, I look up the vertical wall, planning my moves over the next section of mountain rock, eyeing my destination: the belay ledge some eighty feet above. I’m tired. Breathing is hard at 11,000 feet above sea level, and we’ve already climbed more than 800 feet up the Petit Grepon, an imposing granite spire in Rocky Mountain National Park. And I’m happy. I’m struck by the paradox: under physical strain, courting danger, exposed—and enjoying the peace that comes from concentrated, fluid, and purposeful activity. It’s a familiar experience. I enjoy climbing, even when (perhaps because) it sometimes brings exhaustion, physical suffering, anguishing uncertainty, and moments of terror. I climb on, reaching for holds, angling my body to gain the best purchase on the small edges. The rock wall falls away below me. The achingly blue sky beckons above. I slot a few more pieces into rock crevices as I make my way upward. Soon I’m tying into anchors on the sought-after ledge, yelling “Off belay” to my partner 150 feet below.

Aristotle understood happiness as an activity, but he offered different accounts of what it might be. True friendship was one; contemplation of highest things was another. In yet another place, he says happiness is virtuous action perfectly in accord with one’s nature.

These accounts are not at odds. Each identifies activities that fully engage our souls. Friendship, contemplation, and virtuous action are not the same, but all three draw us outside the limits and frustrations of me-centered existence. Therein lies a blessing, for how can I be the source of my own happiness? We desire happiness, and that desire tells us that we do not possess it. Happiness comes to us, as it were. It is not something we find within ourselves.

C. S. Lewis observed that, unlike romantic love, in which lovers engage each other face-to-face, friendship arranges us shoulder-to shoulder. We talk easily with friends about themes of common interest. We embark on shared projects and adventures. When friends are well-matched, conversation flows easily. There’s a fluid give-and-take, like runners passing batons to the next person in the relay. True friends pull in the same direction. They may face impediments and difficulties—such is life. But friction comes from without, not within their relations.

Rock climbing encourages this kind of friendship. We share a common objective: Get to the top, and then safely down. At the summit, it’s our triumph, not mine or his. When difficulties are too great and risks too grave, we turn back together.

There’s a deeper dimension to partnership in climbing. Trust is a kind of letting go. At its most intense, trust involves giving responsibility for something precious and essential to the other. When I’m climbing, I’m usually confident I will not fall. But I might, and I have. In a very real sense, every time I’m on the rock wall, I’m entrusting my life to my partner. The effect is freedom. He is managing the rope, my lifeline, liberating me to think only of my task—to make the moves.

Being good at rock climbing is not a moral virtue. But it does require training. You must attune your body to the activity. More importantly, you must discipline your mind. We have a natural fear of heights and a healthy aversion to mortal peril. These instincts are not to be repressed or denied; rather, the climber must use his reason and experience to put them in their proper place.

Many have seen Free Solo, the documentary about Alex Honnold’s astounding ascent of El Capitan without the protection of a rope. Objectively, the risk seems foolhardy. But subjectively, Honnold deemed the enterprise within his abilities. The look of joy on his face when he completed the climb was far less one of “victory” than one of deep satisfaction at having completed an activity so entirely in accord with his physical and mental capacities. These capacities are not innate, but were honed over years of dedicated training.

I’m no Alex Honnold. But the many days I’ve spent high above the ground on vertical walls has inculcated abilities that are a pleasure to put into action. In another place, Aristotle says that happiness arises from unimpeded activity—doing something fluidly, smoothly, and without the friction that comes from incompetence, hesitation, and mental doubts. This summer, high on the Petit Grepon, I tasted this happiness, doing well what, for more than fifty years, I’ve trained myself to do.

To rock climb with élan, to run fluidly, to leave the floorboards at the foul line and soar to the basket for a triumphant dunk—these are moments of unimpeded activity, times when everything clicks. The activity is done with effort, yes, but at the same time effortlessly, because the effort is integral to one’s very self. Nevertheless, this is not the truest happiness. In my experience, there are times when God’s grace allows me to pray with my whole heart, mind, and soul. The physical and social experiences of unimpeded activity are but foretastes of this happiness. We are made for fellowship with God, and when we give ourselves over to seeking communion with him, we’re engaging in the activity most in accord with our nature, which is tinged with desire for the supernatural.

R. R. Reno is editor of First Things.

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