Monica Joy Fara on “With the Chilean Climber in Puerto Tranquilo, Patagonia”

For as long as I can remember, I have always been drawn to the edge. Novelty, thrill, adventure—these were the themes of all my childhood fascinations. As I’ve continued to pursue these fascinations into adulthood, I’ve come to believe strongly in the value of intentionally pushing one’s own limits to expand those limits. This is one of the many reasons I adore living in my second language.

Spanish immersion pushes me to the outer boundaries of my comprehension and expression every single day. It casts an aura of adventure over all my interactions and friendships. In Spanish, even the most mundane, everyday experiences glow with the possibility of discovery. It’s a thrill I feel very intensely, but its abstract nature makes it difficult to write about in an engaging way. This is why, when writing about my life as a second language learner, I turn to other forms of adventure to help convey my experiences.

Given my disposition for thrill seeking, I also found myself drawn to the sport of rock climbing from a young age. The thought of dancing with the edge in such a tangible, literal way sent tingles of exhilaration down my spine. In college, I finally had the chance to pursue my curiosity, and I worked at a climbing gym for several years. However, even when I was in my best climbing shape, I always struggled with bouldering. Bouldering refers to low-level rock climbing using a crash pad instead of ropes and harnesses. It’s extremely technical—useful for drilling challenging movements to improve one’s overall climbing technique. It takes stubbornness, persistence, and lots of minute adjustments. It teaches you to get comfortable with failing over and over. In this way, solving a boulder problem bears a lot of resemblance to the often-frustrating processes of both language learning and poetry writing.

When I left for South America, I took my climbing shoes with me, but I was so busy hiking and exploring new cities that I rarely found opportunities to climb. I soon fell out of practice. However, deep in the heart of Chilean Patagonia, I met a climber at the local campground who told me about a nearby crag where he and the other climbers had been projecting new routes. I gratefully took him up on the offer to check it out.

 “With the Chilean Climber from Puerto Tranquilo, Patagonia” documents the very first time I went climbing in Spanish. During my travels through Patagonia, I hiked and hitched countless kilometers through stunning glacial landscapes, but there was something about this relaxed climbing session at a backwater crag that inspired me in a way even the most sparkling vistas did not. That afternoon, I felt as though I existed at the brilliant convergence of so many edges. Something in me came together. I felt the force of all the choices and curiosities that had influenced me towards that moment, and my love for language, climbing, and limit pushing renewed itself all at once. I was compelled to write.

I had tried many times before to write about rock climbing, but all of my poems dead ended. I just couldn’t seem to make it mean anything on the page. This poem, however, was one of those rare ones that came into existence almost effortlessly. I found that Spanish was my key to writing about climbing in the same way that climbing was my key to writing about Spanish.

I am continually grateful for the privilege of being able to explore language immersion voluntarily and on my own terms, and since that afternoon five years ago, I have continued to do so. Despite my vast improvements, the process is never ending. There is always more to be discovered, always a new edge to be pushed. Sometimes, I still stumble over the simplest sentences. But by now, I’m well-accustomed to the discomfort and frustration that are an inevitable part of the limit-pushing process. Writing “With the Chilean Climber in Puerto Tranquilo, Patagonia” was an important step in helping me understand and embrace this discomfort.