We were nearly halfway up the longest, most intimidating climb either of us had attempted back then: the 4,000-foot Northeast Buttress of Howse Peak in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. Formidable walls of steep, shattered limestone loomed above us and to our left, offering no feasible passage. For every ropelength of progress we made, the possibility of retreat grew slimmer.

My partner, Bill Serantoni, followed the pitch I had just led and joined me at the belay ledge. “Nice anchor,” he joked nervously, eyeing the equalized junk to which we were clipped. The best belay I could arrange consisted of three halfway-driven pitons, each of which widened the rotten cracks I pounded them into. I didn’t dare lean back on the anchor for fear that my weight alone would shear the pitons out.

The only way up involved a 200-foot horizontal traverse on rock so loose it had the consistency of stacked library books. It was Bill’s lead, and there appeared to be few, if any, opportunities for gear that would safeguard a fall. I watched intently as he tiptoed rightward, taking his time, trying not to put too much weight on any single handhold or foothold. The rope slowly snaked through my belay device forming a growing arc suspended above the abyss. It slithered straight to his harness, uninterrupted by any protection between us.

I willed every positive vibe I could muster toward him as we shared this unusual closeness: if Bill had fallen, he would have ripped us both from the wall. The strange thing is, I barely knew the guy; this was our very first climb together.

Every time we climb, whether on a multi-day alpine climb in the middle of nowhere or an après-work session in Boulder Canyon, we engage in a calculated risk that depends largely on the person holding our rope. A mistake by either party tends to produce grave results. On the bright side, both partners (hopefully) understand, accept and embrace not only the challenge and risk of climbing itself, but the absolute trust in one another. This intense vulnerability is part of what makes climbing unique and it satisfies something we all innately crave: meaningful bonds with others.

Most first experiences with climbing partners aren’t as dramatic as that day on Howse Peak in August 1998, yet they can be just as promising. Last month I met a friendly, 30-something guy (I’ll call him “Sam”) while out bouldering. He and I were trying adjacent boulder problems, so we got to talking while working out moves. Soon, we started spotting each other — making sure to guide any unexpected fall safely onto our crash pads. We shared some laughs, exchanged phone numbers and planned to climb together again.

Ever since, we’ve swapped texts with our climbing plans and have made a point of meeting up at least once a week. Our conversations at the crag have evolved from surface stuff, initially, to surprisingly open heart-to-hearts. Between burns on our projects, Sam tells me about his six-year sobriety, his business aspirations and his sometimes tumultuous love life. I relay the joys and frustrations of being a dad, anecdotes from past romantic failures and personal ambitions and fears I’ve shared with few others.

It’s as if we’re long-time friends bantering at a coffee shop, only our friendship is brand new and our venue revolves around pushing ourselves and supporting each other on the rock. Of course, our dialogue and camaraderie prove far more memorable than the boulders we’re trying to climb.

Not every climbing partner will become a bestie, but the extraordinary level of trust required in climbing tends to forge lasting friendships.

Over the past 27 years, Bill and I have shivered together during unplanned bivouacs, rappelled frozen waterfalls by headlamp and stretched two days of food and water into five. We’ve climbed sunny desert cracks, European sport routes and huge north faces in the Alps.

We’ve also mourned friends lost to climbing, starred in each other’s weddings and supported one another through life’s haphazard twists and turns. Throughout it all, climbing has provided the framework for two acquaintances with a common goal to one day grow closer than brothers.

Contact Chris Weidner at cweidner8@gmail.com. Follow him on Instagram @christopherweidner and X @cweidner8.