Scaling the Icy Wall of Recovery: How Ice Climbing Saved My Life by Mike L.
Hey, I’m Mike. I’m 34 years old, three years into my ice climbing obsession, and almost six years sober. If you met me at a party before I got sober, you probably thought one of two things: “This guy’s hilarious!” or “Wow, this guy needs to chill.” I was always the loudest one in the room, the guy cracking jokes, challenging people to arm wrestle for no reason, and somehow always ending up wearing a lampshade on my head by the end of the night.
I loved being the life of the party—or at least I thought I did. But if you looked a little closer, you’d see that all the chaos was really just a distraction. I drank because it made me feel invincible, like I could be anyone and do anything. But the truth was, I didn’t like myself very much when the party was over.
Sobriety didn’t just save my life—it flipped it upside down. It made me figure out who I was without the booze, and let me tell you, that was terrifying. I had no idea how to be “fun Mike” without a drink in my hand. But then, on a snowy day in Ouray, Colorado, I found ice climbing. And let me tell you, it didn’t just change my life—it gave me one worth living.
Life of the Party: Before Sobriety
Growing up in Chicago, the youngest of four loud, competitive Italian boys, meant you had to fight for attention. If you wanted to be heard at the dinner table, you had to shout louder than the spaghetti pot boiling on the stove. I figured out pretty early that making people laugh was the best way to get noticed. If I could get a laugh out of my dad, I knew I’d won the room. But as much as I thrived on being the funny one, there was always this tiny voice in my head asking, What happens when you’re not funny enough?
In high school, I was king of the one-liners. Teachers would roll their eyes when I cracked jokes, but you could tell they were trying not to laugh. My friends loved having me around because I could make the most boring math class feel like a stand-up special. But the thing about being the funny guy is, you can’t ever turn it off. Even when I felt like crap inside, I had to keep the jokes coming because that’s what people expected of me.
By the time I got to college, drinking became my co-star. It was the perfect sidekick—it loosened me up, made me feel invincible, and turned every story into an epic adventure. I’d start the night with a drink and end it with people chanting my name because I’d just done something ridiculous, like jumping off a roof into a pool. (Yes, I actually did that. No, it wasn’t a good idea.)
But here’s the thing no one tells you about being “that guy”: it’s exhausting. You start to feel like a caricature of yourself, like you’re playing a role you can’t escape. Every night, I drank to keep the act going, but the mornings got harder. I’d wake up with splitting headaches and a vague sense of dread about what I might have said or done. But instead of facing it, I’d laugh it off and do it all over again the next night.
The Downward Spiral
At first, I convinced myself it was all normal. Everyone drinks too much in their 20s, right? But while my friends were starting to grow up, I was still stuck in the same cycle: drink, recover, repeat. I started missing work because I was too hungover to show up. My boss called me out a few times, but I laughed it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Deep down, though, I knew I was skating on thin ice—pun intended.
There were so many moments that should’ve been wake-up calls. Like the time I got kicked out of a bar for trying to climb onto the DJ’s table because I thought it would be funny. Or the night I lost my wallet, my phone, and my shoes (don’t ask me how) and had to walk home barefoot in January. But I always found a way to justify it. I’m just having fun. I’ll get it together eventually.
Then came my 29th birthday. My friends threw me a party, and I went all out. Shots, beers, cocktails—you name it, I drank it. I blacked out somewhere around midnight and woke up on a park bench with a cop shining a flashlight in my face. My brother had to come pick me up, and the look on his face—like he didn’t even recognize me—was the worst part.
The next day, I sat on my couch, staring at the floor, and realized I couldn’t keep doing this. I wasn’t just embarrassing myself—I was hurting the people who cared about me. That’s when I called my friend Nate and told him I needed help. He told me about Recovery Dharma, and while I had no idea what it was, I decided to give it a shot.
Discovering Recovery Dharma
Walking into my first Recovery Dharma meeting felt like stepping into a foreign country. There were no chants or slogans, just a circle of people sitting quietly and a candle flickering in the middle of the room. I sat down, awkwardly fidgeting with my hands, and waited for someone to tell me what to do.
The meeting started with a guided meditation, and let me tell you, I was terrible at it. My brain was going a mile a minute: Am I doing this right? Is it weird that my foot’s asleep? Why does that guy look so calm? But by the end, something strange happened. I felt…okay. Not amazing, not enlightened, but okay. And for someone who’d been running from his own mind for years, that was a big deal.
What I love about Recovery Dharma is that it’s not about labels or judgment. No one’s asking you to call yourself an alcoholic or follow a strict set of rules. It’s about figuring out what works for you and learning to face your cravings with mindfulness instead of fear. The Buddhist principles—like compassion, non-attachment, and impermanence—helped me see that my struggles didn’t define me.
Over time, I started to notice changes. I wasn’t snapping at people as much. I could sit with uncomfortable emotions without immediately reaching for a distraction. And the best part? I was starting to feel like myself again—not the loud, over-the-top version, but the real me.
Hooked on the Ice
Let me tell you about the day I fell in love with ice climbing. My buddy Nate invited me to the Ouray Ice Climbing Festival, and I went in with exactly zero expectations. I’d never climbed anything in my life, let alone a frozen waterfall. Honestly, I thought I was going to fall flat on my face—or, worse, on someone else’s.
When we got to Ouray, I was blown away. The frozen walls of ice were massive, glistening in the sunlight like something out of a fantasy movie. Nate handed me a pair of crampons and ice axes, gave me a quick rundown of the basics, and said, “Alright, go for it.”
The first climb was a mess. My hands were shaking, my crampons kept slipping, and at one point, I accidentally hit myself in the knee with my ice axe. But when I finally reached the top and looked out at the snow-covered mountains, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: pride. Not the fake, alcohol-fueled kind of pride I used to feel when I did something dumb and people laughed, but real, genuine pride.
From that day on, I was hooked. Ice climbing became my therapy, my outlet, and my obsession. There’s something magical about the rhythm of it—swing, dig, step, repeat. It’s like a dance, but instead of music, you have the sound of your axe hitting the ice and your breath fogging up in the cold air.
I’ve climbed in some of the most incredible places over the past three years. In Hyalite Canyon, Montana, I tackled my first multi-pitch climb, and let me tell you, hanging off the side of a frozen wall with nothing but a rope holding you up is an adrenaline rush like no other. In Banff, Canada, I spent a day scaling a 200-foot wall of ice while the sun set, turning the frozen surface into a glowing sheet of gold. And in the Rockies, I found my favorite spot—a hidden waterfall near Estes Park that feels like it was carved out just for me.
Each climb is different, and that’s what keeps me coming back. Some days, the ice is brittle and unforgiving, cracking under the weight of your axe. Other days, it’s smooth and glassy, reflecting the sky like a mirror. But no matter what, every climb teaches me something new—about the ice, about my body, and about myself.
I love the mental focus it requires, the way it forces you to block out everything else and just be in the moment. When I’m climbing, there’s no room for self-doubt or overthinking. It’s just me, the ice, and the next move. And in those moments, I feel more alive than I ever did with a drink in my hand.
Scaling the Wall of Sobriety
Ice climbing didn’t just give me a hobby—it gave me a new perspective. Every climb is a lesson in patience, resilience, and trust. You have to trust your gear, trust your body, and trust the ice to hold you up, even when it feels like it might give way.
Sobriety is the same way. It’s not about rushing to the finish line—it’s about taking it one step at a time, even when the path feels impossible. Recovery Dharma taught me how to face my inner struggles with compassion, and ice climbing taught me how to face my outer ones with grit and determination. Together, they’ve helped me build a life I never thought I’d have.
Now, almost six years sober, I spend as much time as I can in the mountains. Whether I’m climbing, hiking, or just sitting by a fire with friends, the outdoors has become my sanctuary. Ice climbing taught me that it’s never too late to find yourself—or to become the person you’ve always wanted to be.
If you’re struggling, know this: it’s never too late to start over. Find something that lights you up, something that challenges you, and hold onto it with everything you’ve got. For me, it’s ice climbing. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
