So the World Can See You

This story has been published in the 2024 Pathfinder Issue of Hidden Compass. While every story has a single byline, storyteller proceeds from patronage campaigns in this issue will go collectively to Team Beyond the False Summit on top of their article pay.

Wispy afternoon clouds surrounded the peaks of Switzerland to the north and Italy to the east. The Mer de Glace glacier swept into the forest below. I could see the tree line high above the town of Chamonix, France, and felt the sun burn into my neck. A few moments ago, expedition leader Lance Garland and I had been focused on the last pitch of our climb, the difficult Knubel Crack, unable to see farther than the rock in front of us. Now we stood on the summit of the Aiguille du Grépon — a picnic table-sized block of granite — next to a statue of the Virgin Mary. I felt a sense of pride in our team as I scanned the horizon.

As the two gay climbers on our team of four, Lance and I climbed the Mer de Glace to be seen, to make homosexual climbers visible in alpinism. Lance, who had once interviewed me for a profile story, invited me to join the project. But I had mixed feelings about the importance of visibility. I recalled one of my favorite adages: “Climb so that you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” I looked past Mont Blanc, the Aiguille du Dru, and the Aiguille du Midi and took in a deeper view.

~~

Charleston, South Carolina, 2008-2012

In high school, a boy named Ted and I were in homeroom together. He had a successful YouTube account about his Call of Duty obsession. After class ended and before soccer practice, we’d play video games in his basement. I intuitively knew Ted was gay, but he confirmed it when he admitted to having feelings for me. 

I already knew I was different, too. In my Maine elementary school, I’d experimented with other boys, but as I got older I realized I shouldn’t talk about it, explore it, or act on it. In 8th grade, as my peers made gay jokes, I reeled in my behavior. I worried about being outed. When I was in high school, I listened as my dad made homophobic comments about men’s lisps, describing flamboyantly gay men as “too much.” Though I felt distinctly aware of my sexuality, I was unsure of what to do about it. Our Christian community made me want to “pray the gay away.” 

Ted’s affection, though unreciprocated, flattered me. More than that though, he was the first gay person I’d met. He maintained a relationship with the Lord but was also forthcoming about his sexuality. We talked about his homosexuality over Facebook Messenger. I opened up about questioning my sexual identity and he provided a companion as I found myself. 

Then my parents found the messages. They outed Ted to his parents and sent me to therapy.  

~~

Our Christian community made me want to “pray the gay away.”

Hikers and climbers packed the Montenvers train, which would take us to the foot of the Mer de Glace glacier. Once we left the train, everyone seemed to be aiming for the Mer de Glace, but as our team approached the glacier, we broke off the main trail. Suddenly, we were alone, hiking on ice and moving over talus — piled up rock fragments. We slogged on for four hours, talking about the intimacy of climbing partnerships and how the mountains intensify relationships. Eventually, we reached a series of rungs placed into the mountain. Decades ago, the metal steps that brought us to the hut hadn’t existed, but the receding glacier necessitated the via ferrata. The landscape around the mountain had changed.

That afternoon, we tested our skills as a team, seeing how well we could climb together by ascending Le Piège, a six-pitch intermediate-to-advanced route. Lance got a refresher on belaying, how to clean cams, how to crack climb, and how to fight through the technical climbing sections. Even then, it was clear that this expedition would be about more than our original objective of reaching the summit. It would also be about forming a deep partnership with a fellow climber. I felt nervous, but not for myself. As the stronger climber, I’d be responsible for our team’s safety. We prepared as best as we could for the climb ahead.

~~

San Diego, California, 2013-2016

When I graduated from high school, I tried to stay in Charleston, but soon moved away to attend the University of Saint Katherine near San Diego, California. I stopped talking to my family and immersed myself in my studies. Therapy didn’t last long, but the egg-shaped boulders around Mount Woodson, the sharp rock of Joshua Tree, and the smooth granite of Idyllwild gave me comfort. Unsure of what to do, I poured myself into my newfound passion: rock climbing. 

I lacked gay role models. I downloaded Grindr sporadically, exploring and meeting other men. But after a few days, I would delete the app, afraid someone would see it on my phone. I felt pressured to turn myself straight, but dating women felt forced. So I rock climbed. 

~~

We woke at 3 a.m. the morning of our ascent and set out beneath a full moon. The first hour we spent crossing crevasses before we reached the rock. By the time we took our crampons off at the base of the route, it was light enough to see without our headlamps. Lance climbed behind me as I led the route, short roping, and belaying. I managed loose rock and scant protection. The amount of terrain demanded a fast, but safe, pace. I felt a heavy sense of responsibility for Lance, who was struggling. On most climbing trips, I push myself physically, but climbing the Mer de Glace was about spending time with Lance, making sure he was safe, and that we moved well as a team. 

The sun beat us down and we huffed the thin air. The tricky route-finding made the slog up the mountain slow. A few hundred feet up, we stopped for lunch at a refuge, a structure originally built into the mountainside in 1930. For the next 10 hours, we continued up the mountain: first to a drainage, a trough of slabs and loose rock, that required some navigating. Then we climbed a red tower and descended its far side, to reach the long, final buttress that took us to the summit of the wall. Lance fought up the last pitch of the climb, the difficult Knubel Crack, falling a couple of times and hanging on the end of the rope before pulling and pushing his way onto the summit ledge. 

We made it.

~~

He was the first gay person I’d met.

Bishop, California, 2021

On May 1, I crafted an Instagram post for my 27th birthday. I sat with my draft overnight. When I woke up, I posted it. Then I headed to Owens River Gorge and climbed 27 pitches. When I returned to cell reception, I received notes congratulating me both for my birthday and for coming out. It’d been a long process of telling friends, gathering courage, and then, finally, announcing it to the world.

First ascents in climbing show other climbers what’s possible. It then becomes easier for subsequent parties to make ascents. Visibility is important. Coming out was similar. It was easier for me to do so knowing a few gay climbers had already come out. And by coming out myself, I could encourage others to express themselves as well. Life’s a lot easier when you have people to look up to, people who have broken the trail ahead. Out gay men on top of the Alps would be a huge step toward queer visibility in climbing. We’re here. But we’re not only here: We’re also in places that criminalize who we are.

~~

Trango Tower, Pakistan, 2023

In August of 2023, I climbed the Cowboy Direct route on Trango Tower in Pakistan. While jamming the granite cracks at 20,500 feet, I wondered how many other gay climbers were out there doing this type of climbing. I had thought that the thin air, the difficult climbing, the mountains, and the politics of being gay in an Islamic country would be too dangerous for me. I recalled the narrative of my youth: that gay men can’t do strong things, that we are unfit for these environments, and that we are “too much.” But there I was, overcoming those stories. 

Therapy didn’t last long, but the egg-shaped boulders around Mount Woodson, the sharp rock of Joshua Tree, and the smooth granite of Idyllwild gave me comfort.

Throughout my climbing career, I’d struggled to meet other queer climbers. I’d been to Gay Ski Week in Aspen, Colorado, an event that brought together gay skiers, and I’d been to numerous climbing events. But I wanted to combine the two ideas, to meet and spend time with other climbers from the queer community. Feeling acknowledged and validated would help queer climbers feel welcomed. I wanted other people to be empowered to be themselves. I realized the importance of my role as a professional climber and what I could do for the community. When I returned from Pakistan, I felt emboldened. So I created Queer Ascent.

~~

From the Aiguille du Grépon summit, we started our descent down the other side, rappelling the face to reach the glacier below. From there, we moved down the glacier until we reached another cliff at a buttress and began rappelling again. That’s when Lance started vomiting. He dry heaved and spat up nothing. 

“Where’s this coming from?” I asked.

“I haven’t felt good since half way up the climb,” Lance responded. I was surprised. He’d pushed well through the day. As he spat on the rock, I saw myself in Lance, digging deep to climb a huge objective. But we still had farther to go. 

As the stronger climber, I’d be responsible for our team’s safety.

On the final glacier, we saw the tree line and only needed to glissade down another few hundred yards. I sighed, feeling a huge sense of relief. After hiking and climbing for 17 hours, our big day was almost done. I started glissading down, leading with one foot, riding on my heel, and keeping my toes up as I skied in my boots. I cut turns through the snow, happy to be closing in on food, a shower, and a bed. 

I stopped to look back at Lance. His attempt to glissade hadn’t gone nearly as well. He led with one foot, rode on his heels, and then he moved his weight too far forward. That’s when he flipped and started tomahawking down the glacier.

He tried to self arrest, but he kept tumbling over and over down the mountain. A large outcropping of rock stuck out from the snow and Lance was hurtling straight at it, headfirst. A few inches from smashing his face in, he stopped. I sighed again but this time with more meaning. He could have died. 

Even though Lance was uninjured, suddenly our objective became getting him down the mountain safely. He wasn’t just sick; he was utterly exhausted. 

We’d missed the last train back to Chamonix, so we began the long walk, descending another 4,000 feet down the trail and back to town. No matter how much farther we walked, the town didn’t get any closer. 

As we trudged down the trail, we had more time to think. We wondered what it would have been like to be gay mountaineers in 1911 when Geoffrey Winthrop Young and his team made the first ascent of the Mer de Glace route. With our modern gear and knowledge, the climb had been difficult but relatively safe. We could only imagine what an ascent a hundred years ago would have been like — not only with the different gear but also amid the more treacherous social norms. Lance and I both faced difficulty in coming out, but at least we’d had some support in our community. A century ago, there had been nothing like that. There had been a far greater level of boldness.

~~

As the two gay climbers on our team of four, Lance and I climbed the Mer de Glace to be seen, to make homosexual climbers visible in alpinism.

At the trailhead, Lance’s husband took us back to Chamonix and to burgers. We spent the following day soaking our bodies in hot water, reflecting on our experience and that of other gay mountaineers. I’d seen Lance’s determination, to tackle a huge objective and overcome — to accomplish not just the climb but to shed light on the queer climbers who came before. 

But learning about the existence of other gay climbers, including Mer de Glace first ascensionist Geoffery Winthrop Young, felt lackluster: Of course there had been queer climbers back then. There are gay people, and gay people climb mountains. Their sexuality just hadn’t been visible. Social norms kept historic mountaineers closeted.

Times have changed, and today more of us are free to be ourselves at the highest points on earth. But still, not all of us feel comfortable or safe being open about who we are. Visibility is still necessary and so is community, which is why Lance and I came to the Alps and why I founded Queer Ascent.

I return to the adage: “Climb so that you can see the world, not so the world can see you.” I wish it were that simple. Maybe someday it will be. For now, Lance and I are off the mountain, but there’s still work to be done.