From the Ground Up
Words, photos, and film by Alben Osaki
Marine Corps veteran Matt Palma climbing at Descanso wall, outside San Diego, California.
The summer heat beamed down as I crimped on a granite crystal, pulling myself upward toward the next bolt. After clipping it, I scanned for the next hold. “Nice!” my belay partner, Steve, shouted up to me. It was June 2019, and I was on an impromptu climbing trip in the Eastern Sierra—my first time in the Alabama Hills. A few days earlier, I’d decided to pack my car and make the four-hour drive from Guadalupe, California, to spend a long weekend climbing. I had no real plan, just a hope to explore, get out of my head a bit, and maybe make some new friends.
On my first day out there, I met Steve and his wife. They were camping with their dog near Shark’s Fin, a popular crag. When I saw them arrive with a pack and rope, I struck up a conversation. We traded belays and got to chatting. I learned that, like me, Steve was a Navy veteran.
“What brings you out here?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just wanted to explore and climb for a bit,” I replied simply.
The truth was a little more complicated and personal. I was struggling with anxiety and depression. After spending most of my life in Hawaii, I’d moved to California on a whim, alone and untethered. The transition had left me unsteady, but climbing was my constant. Like many others, escaping to the mountains gave me a mental and physical break from the weight of my daily life. I had been fighting a particularly bad bout of depression at the time, feeling especially anxious and isolated. I told my roommate that I was going to head to the Alabama Hills for a couple of days, packed my stuff, and drove off.
I climbed with Steve and his wife again the next morning. Not for too long, just a couple of easy sport routes before they left to explore the nearby Whitney Portal. By the end of the session, we’d swapped Instagram handles and gone our separate ways—a fleeting connection, like so many others formed at the crag.
Months later, in the depths of the COVID-19 lockdowns, as I was practicing my daily ritual of doomscrolling, Instagram’s algorithm suggested an account: Crux Wilderness Therapy. Curiously, I tapped on it, and saw that Steve already followed them.
Crux Wilderness Therapy is a San Diego-based nonprofit that provides veterans and their families with sustainable, long-term strategies for physical and mental health through outdoor activities, primarily rock climbing (one of their board members, Tanner Wanish, along with climber Mike Vaill, set a new speed record for the Yosemite Triple Crown just last year, beating the previous record held by Brad Gobright and Jim Reynolds). As a veteran, I immediately resonated with their mission. Climbing has been a lifeline for me, helping me navigate tough times. Crux’s work felt like a natural extension of what climbing had done for my own well-being.
In 2023, I decided to reach out to Crux to see if they’d be interested in me creating a mini-documentary about the organization. I messaged them on Instagram, and soon I was on the phone with one of the co-founders, Dana Stricevic, hashing out ideas and what this project might look like. After finding a killer deal with Southwest Airlines, I flew to San Diego in January 2024. Over the course of three days, I spent time with the founders, one of their guides, and attended one of their clinics. The experience was as inspiring as it was humbling. I witnessed firsthand how Crux creates a space for veterans to reconnect with themselves, their community, and the natural world. It’s one thing to know the power of climbing personally; it’s another to see it transform other lives in real time.
Luke and Dana Stricevic, the founders of Crux Wilderness, were both extremely kind and welcoming to me. They live in Joshua Tree but made the trip down to San Diego to support the project. Luke, a Marine Corps veteran, and Dana, whose background is in social work, combined their expertise to form Crux Wilderness in 2019. During our conversations, Luke and I realized that we were actually on the same deployment in 2009—a small-world moment that underscored the connection veterans often share.
Descending from Descanso wall in the rain.
One of the most impactful moments of the trip was when Luke explained his philosophy on using climbing as a tool to help veterans transition to civilian life. He stressed the importance of moving beyond the insular world of veteran organizations and associations. "If your life is a book, the military only has to be one chapter," he said. "Climbing can add way more chapters to your book and give more meat to your story."
“Why do you think veterans are so attracted to climbing?” I asked him. “What’s the allure for us?”
“In the beginning, the reason why veterans join is that we’re most likely looking for an adventure,” he replied. “They wanted something in their life that was exciting and different. And climbing is exciting and definitely different, and if you really take it on it can give you some purpose.”
The clinic I attended was held at Descanso Wall, just outside San Diego. There was a mix of returning and first-time attendees. Joan Jennings, a veteran who’d been attending Crux clinics for over a year, shared that what kept her coming back was the sense of community. “It doesn’t feel transactional,” she said. “It’s not just about taking someone climbing one time. It’s about building real connections.”
What struck me most during the clinic was how little the conversation revolved around the military. In groups of veterans, it’s common for discussions to gravitate toward service-related stories. But here, the focus was on climbing—trading beta, planning trips, and celebrating one another’s progress. Luke’s metaphor about the book wasn’t just an idea; it was tangible, it was happening right in front of me.
For veterans, the mountains offer more than just a physical challenge—they’re a place to heal, to process, and to grow. So many veterans feel lost and isolated after leaving the structure of the military. Organizations like Crux Wilderness Therapy remind us that climbing isn’t just about bagging peaks or sending projects; it’s about finding our footing when life feels unstable. They provide a lifeline when we need it most, helping us build toward new chapters in our lives.
